If you’re new here, you may not know that my children have approximately 1000 food allergies between them. That means a lot of pre-made foods are, sadly, off-limits to us, and I am forced to make food from scratch like some sort of CAVE WOMAN. It’s as dreadful as it sounds, really.

Recently we made the very tough decision to eliminate all pre-packaged buns from our house. They are “may contain” products for several of our allergens – eggs, sesame, milk. For many allergy families, “may contain” is an automatic off-limits, but we have so few options available to us, it’s more of a “try it and see what happens” kind of strategy. Unfortunately, the bun situation hasn’t worked out too well lately.

And that means…it’s making your own hot dog bun time! I know. Why make your own when you can pick up a pack for less than $2 at the grocery store? Other than safety, there’s also the fact that these don’t split or fall apart when you slit them open, they don’t turn to mush when ketchup is applied, and they are pretty darn delicious. These are a hearty, chewy bun that would go really well with a big fat BBQ sausage. Mmmm. Masterchef Canada, here I come!

Egg-free Milk-free Bread Machine Hot Dog Buns

1 1/4 cup warm water
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 Tablespoon canola oil
1 1/4 teaspoon salt
3 1/2 cup flour
1 1/4 teaspoon bread machine yeast

Put the above ingredients in your bread maker the way your machine likes it. Mine is pushing 20 years old, and likes it added in the order listed above, with the yeast on top of the flour and separated from the liquid. I think newer machines want you to mix the yeast and water, though. I leave it in your hands.

Set the bread maker on the dough setting, and let it do its thing. Mine takes two hours on the dough setting to produce a nice, soft lump of dough.

Spill out the dough onto a floured surface; knead in a little flour if it is too sticky. Divide the dough into 8 equal pieces.

Press each piece with your fingers into a rectangle, around 5×4 inches. Roll up on the long side, like a jelly roll. Put the seam on the bottom and roll back and forth a couple of times to seal. Tuck the ends under – this creates tension across the top for a nice smooth look. Slightly flatten the tube with your hand.

Put the tubes on a parchment-lined cookie sheet, a few inches apart, like so:

Brush them with a little canola oil, cover with a tea towel, and let rise for 45 minutes. At about the half hour mark, preheat the oven to 350.

If you’re not allergic to oh, EVERYTHING, at this point you can brush with a little extra oil and sprinkle on sesame seeds or poppy seeds. Or go crazy, and add both!

Bake at 350 for around 20 minutes – buns should sound hollow when tapped at the bottom. Remove to a cooling rack immediately so they don’t get soggy.

Once cool, slice them down the side and pop in a hot dog – enjoy!

So, what does one do when one has finished watching a movie, or is enjoying a certain TV show, or has just read a particularly compelling book?

Why, one makes LEGO men of the main characters, of course, for re-enactment purposes.

Recently we caved and let the Captain read The Hunger Games (“But moooooooom, EVERYONE else has read it already!!”). As with everyone else in the world, he devoured it in about three days. The Captain is not big into reading, and although he is allowed to stay up late if he would like to read, he often chooses to just go to bed rather than crack open a book. The only exceptions to this rule so far have been a few books you possibly have heard of – the Harry Potter series, the Percy Jackson series, and now, The Hunger Games. What is it about some books that just have that page-turning, imagination-grabbing quality? If only they could bottle that and sell it.

Anyway, once The Hunger Games was finished, the LEGO version began.

Here is Peeta and Katniss, complete with victory medals:

Watch out, hero and heroine! Here comes Kato, sporting body armour and a bloodthirsty grimace!

What’s this? Thresh shows up to do battle with Kato. (SPOILER ALERT: not going to end well for one of them.)

Leaving the lovers free to do kissy stuff. (The Captain refused to allow me a more graphic pose. Hand holding LEGO minifigs is NOT COOL, MOM.)

Meanwhile, we have been watching the X-Men animated series from the early 90s on Netflix. Sir Monkeypants and I LOVED this series as fresh newlyweds. We’d get up every Saturday morning (um…it was TECHNICALLY still morning) and we’d make a fresh batch of oatmeal chocolate chip muffins, sit down with a half-dozen each and a huge coffee, and turn on X-Men. It was a serious ritual. His favourite was Cyclops. Mine was Rogue. (Top secret: also had a small crush on Gambit. WHAT, animated characters are TOTALLY FAIR GAME and NOT WEIRD AT ALL.)

Nerd alert: check out the awesome fonts in that opening! Someone likes typography.

Anyway, the older two kids are loving it (Little Miss Sunshine’s review: “I am tired of all these random people doing random things to random other people, and I am going upstairs now to play puppies.”). So you know what that means – Gal Smiley broke out the LEGO.

Here’s Jubilee, Rogue, and my personal favourite minifig creation, Storm.

Cyclops confers with Professor X and Beast. Bonus: Professor X’s “wheelchair” opens up for storage of extra faces, claws, and playing cards.

Watch out, Professor! Magneto is right behind you! Oh, didn’t realize you had actually invited him over for a game of whist. Carry on.

The Gal’s personal favourite, Colossus, chats it up with Wolverine (the white pieces are his claws) and Gambit.

I just knew our massive collection of minifigs had some purpose.**

** Already outnumbered at our house by a factor of about a thousand.

I recently joined a gym.

Those who know me probably just either a) went to lie down before the dead faint hits, or b) went to call their mother, for surely the apocalypse is at hand.

I so very much hate the gym. It’s a terrible smelly place, I have to leave my house to get there, then I feel totally self-conscious while I force my body to do things it does not want to do. The only thing worse than the gym is Satan’s Punishment, also known as Running, which is Evil. But going to the gym for a “workout” is only one small step down from that.

I joined this one because a) it’s attached to Sir Monkeypants’ work, so it was cheap, so if (ha! WHEN) I stop going, we won’t be out that much money, b) Mrs. Carl Sagan goes there, and she offered to email me weekly with a “Get your ass to the gym, and I will see you there” gentle threat, which is suprisingly effective, and c) I was close to turning into a human jellyfish.

So I’ve been three times now, and it’s as horrible as you might expect but I’m surviving. Today was my third visit and I was late, which is THE WORST. You have to go in there when the class is already in session, and get all your equipment and then struggle to find a free bit of floor space, while everyone stares at you and thinks MY GOD SHE IS SO FAT IN THOSE YOGA PANTS. (Possible projection on my part, brought on by GIANT MIRRORS that seriously, must be from a funhouse, yes?)

I was late because there is approximately 500 separate areas of construction between my house and the gym, and a drive that should have taken me 10 minutes actually took close to half an hour, including two detours, several complete stops in traffic jams, and three different locations where cops were directing people through. GAH. I thought a) summer was the construction season, and b) someone somewhere would have the sense not to book every single project for the exact same time.

And of course, I had left leaving to the absolute last possible second, even though I knew about (most of) the construction, because it’s sooooooo haaaaaard getting up off the couch to go to the gym, and really, there’s always time for just one more YouTube video, and also, how can I be expected to make it through the class without a little sugar-and-gluten-based snack, and I can’t possibly leave without my favourite water bottle, no not THAT ONE, the OTHER ONE.

So I was late, then I was cranky, then I worked out, and then I was more cranky. But Mrs. Carl Sagan was there, and she was cheerful, and the body pump instructor was also nice and did not single me out in any way (because that basically means CERTAIN AND IMMEDIATE DEATH), and after an epic half hour journey home I may, just may, have time for a quick hot shower and another round of tea and cookies (guilt-free!) before picking up my kids, and that’s all good.

So I shall stop whining, and embrace the lovely fall day, and celebrate my freedom from the dreaded gym for another week. Triumph!

Last night I got overtired and went on a big tirade to poor Sir Monkeypants about Lucy Liu’s shoes. On Elementary, she has quite a snappy wardrobe, all neutral tones in geometric blocks, comfy yet tailored and stylish at the same time. This season she is favouring short skirts and tights, and she always, always, has these little ankle boots on with these outfits, and I hate them. She has the boots in at least three different (neutral) colours, and they are all equally as hideous – super wide at the ankle, I guess so they can be pulled on and off, but they make it look like a) she has duck flippers at the end of her feet, and b) she is going to step right out of them the minute she has to hurry down the street in pursuit of a perp.

This led to a wider discussion (as poor, poor Sir Monkeypants eyed his iPod with wistful longing) of TV fashion in general, and how I am lacking a good TV clothing role model. My problem is that no one on any of the shows we watch wears stuff that I could possibly like and use in real life. Lucy Liu as Watson comes closest, which is probably why I am quite passionate about this shoe issue, but really, her thinness means her clothes would never work on me, plus her black-and-white-and-grey-and-tan colour scheme does not mesh with my love of the jewel tones, plus New York Casual is pretty far away from Suburban Ottawa Casual, not that I couldn’t aspire to something a little fancier now and then (at this, Sir Monkeypants NODS VIGOUROUSLY).

I watch Grey’s Anatomy, but it’s all blue scrubs over there; Alicia on The Good Wife does like some colour, but it’s all wool suits and sensible pumps, not exactly trip-to-the-park-wear. Kate Beckett on Castle has a lovely selection of mid-weight jackets that serve as good inspiration for the two weeks in October and April that they apply here; plus, I’m also very ranty about her footwear, as she’s always running down some alley chasing a bad guy wearing a bullet-proof vest and GIGANTIC HEELS. GAH.

How I Met Your Mother has potential, although Robin’s wardrobe is basically the same as Watson’s (ooh, crossover show potential where they both fight over the same sweater at Macy’s!), and Lily loves designer labels too much for my pocketbook to stand. Ming-na on Agents of SHIELD is too leathery (although, Simmons wears some cute ties) and everyone on The Amazing Race wears too much spandex. Over on The Big Bang Theory, I do like Bernadette’s cardigans and dresses, although I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to run out and buy something similar, while Penny wears plenty of colour but all her stuff is at least two or three times tighter than I’d feel comfortable wearing.

I really should go back to watching Parenthood and Modern Family. I don’t remember what anyone wore on that show, but at least they never inspired a late-night shoe rant. At this rate, all I have to look forward to, clothing-wise, is watching Good Luck Charlie with the kids (ROCK ON, Amy Duncan!).

Wanted: Female television character in her 30s or 40s, with stylish wardrobe, for inspiration. Must not be afraid of colour and must wear cool yet sensible footwear. Small-town casual style preferred.

Is that so hard?

I think it’s time to bite the bullet and become a coffee drinker. I used to brag about how I could live my life easily without caffeine, that even a cup of green tea would give me a buzz because it was so foreign to my body. UGH, I was so freakin’ insufferable in my thirties, don’t you think?

Lately however, I have had real trouble getting up in the morning, then by 2 p.m. I’m ready for a nap, and then by 8:30 p.m. I’m usually passed out on the couch while Sir Monkeypants is putting the last of the children to bed. A grown woman should not need this much sleep, should she?

So I’ve been dipping into the caffeinated coffee stash a little more often lately, been pushing the decaf tea to the back of the cupboard, even sneaking a few sips of Sir Monkeypants’ Pepsi on the side. Just to tide me over, just to get me through. It’s a slippery slope down into full addiction but oh man, I AM READY. Bring on the chemical dependencies!

This weekend we went to the annual Wine and Cheese party hosted by our friends Mike and Mike, and I had two half-glasses of red wine and was totally giddy bonkers. Add to that a bedtime of 1 a.m., and my 6 a.m. Little Miss Sunshine wake-up call was a Serious Groanfest. GAAAAAAAAAHHHHH. I am too old for staying out so late and yet still having a six-year-old. Maybe those teenaged mothers actually know what they’re doing.

To make matters worse, I had to take the Captain and his best buddy LittleBro from next door to a 67s game in the afternoon, so I popped some Advil and got myself a Tim’s at the game, and yet, I MAYBE POSSIBLY had a small nap in the middle of the third period. I admit nothing.

The game, by the way, turned out to be pretty good, ending in a tie, an overtime period, then a thrilling shoot-out during which the 67s won. It was further made fabulous by the ongoing – and I mean ONGOING – commentary provided by the aging gentleman sitting behind me. Picture a full hour’s worth of play time with this going on in back of your head, spoken in a growly monotone:

“come on guys, get it out of there, get it out of there, now set it up, go deep, oh no, oh no, this is terrible, get it out of there, what’s going on here, they are a mess, their passing is terrible, oh no, now set it up, now go deep, this is TERRIBLE, and that will be icing on the back end…”

After the 67s finally scored in the second period I was going to time how long it would take to return to the dire warnings, but they scored again like 15 seconds later, and after that the opposing team scored 1 minute later, then it was the end of the period. So I’m not sure how much of a good-graces period the team is awarded after scoring before we go back to the “THIS IS TERRIBLE” commentary, but I can say that it was back in full force by the time the third period came around.

It all ended well, though, and Commentary Guy actually did help me figure out a lot of things, like who was getting a penalty, and why, and that I could see it all replayed up on the big screen (slow motion replays also getting their own full commentary). So given the choice, I’d actually choose to sit in front of him again.

With a coffee, of course.

We started watching Masterchef Junior last week at the request of the kids, and I do not think I can continue to watch that show. It’s just too depressing.

Last week, a nine-year-old girl made a molten lava cake. She’s nine. NINE. Several kids aged 10 or 11 made their own pasta. From SCRATCH. One 11-year-old boy made his own tortellini. Other kids, aged perhaps 11 or 12, took raw squid and turned it into a gorgeous, restaurant-quality dish.

I think you can see how I might get a little down in the dumps watching this kind of thing.

I mean, wonder kids exist all over, there’s always some 15-year-old sailing solo around the world or some 13-year-old playing a solo piano concert at Carnegie Hall, or some 12-year-old scoring more hockey goals in a season than half the NHL. But the cooking, the COOKING, it is killing me. I will never be a sailor or an Olympic athlete or a concert pianist, and I have come to terms with that. But every day, I prepare three meals for five people. Cooking, much as I hate it, has become my de facto job, my forced-upon hobby, my raison d’etre around here (yesterday, the Captain referred to me in a dibs-calling-war as his “personal chef,” and yes, SO TRUE.)

So to see children, CHILDREN, understanding the difference in saltiness between certain kinds of cheese, or inventing their own recipe for lime/coconut cupcakes, is just so freaking DEPRESSING. Years of cooking, and still I can’t hold a candle to a freaking NINE YEAR OLD.

Sigh.

And even worse, it has me looking askance at the kids. I know, I know, I should be satisfied that they are (mostly) happy and (kind of) healthy. It is rare, I need to remind myself, that a child stumbles across a thing they truly love at such a young age, and have the personality and drive to work away at it for long hours, and have the parental support they need to make it all happen. Plenty of other families, I tell myself, have kids that whine when they aren’t allowed to play that fourth hour of video games in a day, or that cry when asked if they would (for once) actually practice the piano, or that love every single activity so much that they flit from one thing to another every five minutes.

And still. When you see kids like that on TV, don’t we all ask ourselves what’s wrong with our own freaking children? Is it too much to ask that they, occasionally, bring home a school mark higher than a B-minus? Is it too much to ask that they find an activity, any activity that does not involve Super Mario or Fruit Ninjas, and actually want to spend time doing it? Is it too much to ask for them to at least TRY to cure cancer??

SIGH.

Making things even worse is this article I read over at MamaPop, in which Mia Farrow’s son Ronan Farrow is revealed to be the son of Frank Sinatra, not Woody Allen. But much, much more important than his dashing good looks and killer blue eyes is this segment:

“Ronan Farrow started college at the age of 11, went on to Yale Law School at 15, and was a Rhodes Scholar and lawyer like 10 minutes later. Now he fights for humanitarian causes and serves on councils that do stuff I don’t even have the energy to Google. Oh, he also founded the State Department Office of Global Youth Issues in the Obama Administration.”

It’s like, why did I even BOTHER procreating? We’re a whole family of crap-ass. SIGH.

Yesterday I was shopping at the Superstore and there was a bit of a traffic jam on the way out – the cart-return guy was chatting at the doorway with a big row of carts, leaving just one narrow laneway open.

So like a good Canadian, I yielded, and the outside crowd started pouring in while I tapped my foot. Then along came a young mom, already pushing an empty cart with her 2-ish adorable daughter in the little seat. She saw me waiting and said, “Well, you can’t wait there all day for everyone to pass,” and then she turned to the cart guy and said firmly, but not meanly, “Hey, can you move these carts so that lady can get out?”

And then he quickly and apologetically moved the carts, and I got out, and she got in, and I was all like, please please lady be my friend and come with me everywhere. Because seriously, it was such a small thing but to me SUCH an impossible thing, like turning to a stranger? To ask for something? Possibly causing hurt feelings and/or confrontation? IMPOSSIBLE.

So this lady, who I did not even get a chance to thank, is now my hero and my ultimate inspiration. You will live long in my memory, lady. Perhaps I will write a song about it.

In other news, I was at the Superstore with Gal Smiley, who has become my regular weekly grocery store companion. I’m not sure why she likes coming to the store, but man, is it ever awesome when she does. She actually knows where everything is – I can give her the next three items on the list, and she’s ON IT, off to find the stuff and bring it back and interested in bettering her best times. She likes to compare prices and suggests things to me that are on sale, she likes to scan stuff and pack stuff.

Remember when you had to go to the store with three toddlers, and it was a nightmare? You’d spend half the time taking kids to the bathroom or putting stuff back that they’d thrown in the cart, or dealing with meltdowns in the cereal aisle because they absolutely were not going to be allowed to buy Fruit Loops until they finished up the box of Lucky Charms they already had at home?

And now, suddenly (as these things happen), I have someone along for the ride who actually helps. Who makes the trip easier. And faster. And awesomer.

It was not very long ago I was very used to the idea of thinking of my kids as my work, my burden. Now they’re actually a help – maybe even someday, I’ll be their work. It’s fascinating and lovely and mysterious and joyous and wonderful.

Looking forward to next week’s grocery shopping already.

This post is for Javamom, who asked for photos of my Rapunzel-like (artificially) golden flowing tresses, as described in yesterday’s post.

I took over 30 shots for this post, trying to get a picture of myself reflected in our front hallway mirror. Most of them look like this one:

Or this one:

Or this one, an attempt to capture the back of my head, like taking a blind basketball shot:

As you can see, I won’t be putting “great at selfies” on my resume any time soon. I kind of liked this one, but you can’t see my hair at all:

Finally I ended up with these two, where you can see my hair, and my roots, and, if you look closely, the oil stains on my favourite shirt from making dinner last week and (NATURALLY) not wearing an apron. HOT.

Dorothy Hamill, eat your heart out.

I always wanted to have long hair, as a kid. My mother was a firm believer in short, sensible hairstyles – I had the Dorothy Hamill for all of my youth. She said it was because she couldn’t stand it when kids whined and complained about knots while having their hair brushed, and now that I have several long-haired kids of my own, I can see where she’s coming from.

But oh, how I dreamed of having long, flowing locks, just like Rapunzel. I loved hair washing day, because I’d get to wear a towel on my head for upwards of two hours at a time, pretending it was hair. Even as a teen, I’d dramatically flop myself on my bed, my towel-hair splayed all around, dreaming of being a princess/model/muse/moll, my flailing tresses evidence of my deep passion and spirited nature.

Man oh man, was I a teenaged joy to have around, I’m so sure.

Once I got a bit older and earned some greater hair freedom, I let it grow out a bit, but it was always about shoulder length. A few times in university I let it get a bit longer, but I had no idea what to do with it. The world of braids, curls, even ponytails was completely foreign to me. I’d wash it, brush it out, and it’d just hang there all day, until I finally couldn’t stand it and went back to my steadfast shoulder-length layered look.

Over the past few years I’ve gotten lazier and lazier with the hair upkeep, until I was in a cycle where it would grow out for about a year, then I’d go for a big chop, repeat. This past year was no different…except suddenly, my hair itself changed. It’s the growing amounts of grey in it, I think, that are suddenly making my hair…wavy. Curly, even, in places. Out of nowhere, I have body and movement (if I can control the frizziness, that is).

It’s like…supermodel hair. Well, as close as I’m going to get, anyway.

So last time I went in for my big chop, I just got a trim instead. My hairdresser actually squealed with delight that I was going to leave it long. And now, it’s long. Long enough to require TWO boxes of hair colour on hair colour day. Long enough to make a ponytail look like a real style, and not just a desperate attempt to keep layered locks from falling in my face. Long enough for a bun, for spontaneous ringlets, for gentle brushing against the middle of my back when I’m wearing a bathing suit.

Conclusion: long hair is AWESOME.

I consider this my last hurrah at youth, really. The two-boxes-of-dye can only go on for so long before I throw in the towel and go grey. That’ll probably mean a big cut, and from there it’s a slippery slope down to the aging-gracefully-super-short-water-aerobics styles of the getting-on-in-years. I find myself looking at ladies sporting the standard above-the-ears look and wondering why they don’t go for a longer style – the few I see with long grey hair really look outstanding. There must be something I don’t know, some new horror of aging that waits for me…thinning hair? Coarse hair that curls all over? Hair that needs to stay out of the water during water aerobics or it turns green?

Whatever the reason, I’m happy to let it run wild for the time being. Years from now we can refer to these as my supermodel years. It’s funny, don’t you think, how when you were 20 and gorgeous, every little imperfection seemed like such a HUGE and OBVIOUS flaw, and now that I’m 40 and fabulous, yet much more wrinkly and scarred and with several root canals, I find one thing I like about myself and that’s what I choose to focus on?

I think we call that maturity.

Or maybe that’s how all the supermodels feel. BRING IT.

Man, I had forgotten how hard the first two months are of Grade One. The sheer exhaustion of being in school all day long leaves them cranky, explosive, and so, so tired at the end of the day.

Poor Little Miss Sunshine can barely function – she comes skipping out of school each day, cheerfully hugging me and telling me school was, “GREAT!”, and then, within 10 minutes, she’s a blubbering mass who can barely make it home. Once there, she’s snappish and mean and every single thing is the “worst thing ever” or the “hardest thing ever” or the “meanest thing ever,” and oh Lord, am I ever counting the seconds to bedtime. GAH.

Yesterday at pickup this happened:

Her, bursting into tears three minutes after telling me she had a GREAT! day at school: I’m so sad!

Me: What’s wrong, honey?

Her: They [meaning her sick brother and sister] got to stay home, and I had to go to school!

Me: Well, they also had to feel terrible all day. And I thought you liked school?

Her: No, it is HORRIBLE. I hate school!

[A group of spirited young boys runs past us…]

Her, sobbing: And why are those boys RUNNING?

Me: I’m pretty sure they are playing some sort of tag.

Her: I HATE TAG.

Me: Good thing they didn’t ask you to play, then.

Her: What you even SAYING? THEY DON’T EVEN KNOW ME.

Me: That’s lucky then, isn’t it?

Her: Now you are just being FARTASTIC.

Me: What’s that now?

Her: FAR. TAS. TIC.

Me: Ooooooookay.

Her: I want to be home RIGHT NOW!

[Collapses on the ground wailing.]

Me: So do I, honey, so do I.

Eventually I dragged her to the car and we made it home, where I offered her a snack (met with hysterics), tried to help her with her homework (met with wails about how it’s all just TOO MUCH and NOT FAIR), and even attempted piano practice (which ended with her being sent upstairs for jammies a whole half hour early).

Holy Hannah, Grade Two cannot come soon enough.