Endangered dinners

Hotdish is going extinct.

Hotdish (and its close cousin, casseroles) were staples of my childhood. There was the tuna noodle kind, the despised hamburger hotdish, and my favorite, one made with wagon wheel pasta. Several times a week their steaming dishes graced the dinner table.

And now, except for holidays, (where Green Bean Casserole and Carrot Casserole, a tasty concoction of carrots, cheese, and croutons, frequently make an appearance) I haven't seen one for years.

It's a dying culture, an essential craft handed down for generations, a language that is being lost. It was a vital part of my childhood, but will I serve them to my children? Not likely. All jokes aside, that my children will not know hotdish makes me truly sad.

So I decided to bring hotdish back. From now on, anything serving in a large baking dish is a hotdish in my house, whether or (most likely) not it contains Cream of Mushroom soup or a crunchy fried topping. The dish Husband and I now know as Enchilada Bake? It's Enchilada Hotdish. Pasta bake has become Pasta Hotdish. And the brown rice that I threw together with tomatoes, tomatillos, peppers, cheese, and adobo earlier this week? Late Summer Harvest Hotdish.

Year 3

Our 5-year plan for having kids has become quite a joke, as we keep starting over on year 4 (a la Groundhog's Day). So far we have:

1. Read books about having kids (Husband just finished Neal Pollock's Alternadad).
2. Watched friends and family have kids
3. Been guilted into taking a daily vitamin by doctor, just in case
4. Had initial discussions about child care, finances, etc.
5. Collected all stuff that might apply to a child (stuffed animals we've received from various places, adorable vintage alphabet placards I found at a garage sale) into a storage bin.
6. Thought a lot about where baby might sleep in our house, and how that would work

But one of the things that has been most helpful is reading mommy blogs--the firsthand accounts of having kids that don't pull punches and pretend its all moons and stars.

Dooce has an amazing post today about motherhood that transcends motherhood in its brilliance. I'm going to print it out and put it in my file. What file? That would be:

7. Made a file for baby tips, gear recommendations, parenting advice, etc.

Maybe we're ready to upgrade to year 3.

Advice

I ran across this piece of advice on Mighty Girl, one of my regular reads:

To choose a spouse, find someone who is flawlessly kind but has an incredibly strong backbone. See also: Marry him only if you will be proud when your child turns out just like him.

I was first struck by it because it's an apt description of Husband, so I patted myself on the back. But then I thought of other husbands I know--of family friends and run club buddies--and realized that it held true for others as well. I tested the theory further by seeing if it applied to me and those friends' corresponding wives, and while we are definitely kind and have backbone, I don't think those are our most distinguishing characteristics.

So what kind of wife should a husband choose?

Other Mighty Girl advice from that post:

Don’t make assumptions, and don’t take things personally.

What you give is what you get. When you predict that negative things will happen, they do. The opposite is also true.

Plan less, do more.

Always have a valid passport.

Stop picking at that.

I've also been contemplating that simple mantra, "Do no harm," after reading about it in a book recently.

You'll be a real good listener

There is this Rilo Kiley song I really like, and while it's about depression and most of that is outside of my experience, I like to take that part not so literally and enjoy the lyrics for how they appeal to me.

Because this part is 100% me, at least how I feel I should be most of the time:

"And you’ll be better
And you’ll be smarter
And more grown up and a better daughter or son
And a real good friend..."

For better or worse, I'm constantly conceiving of or embarking on some sort of improvement plan to be a better wife/friend/daughter/sister/relative/worker/neighbor, not to mention listener/talker/thinker/athlete/artist... and I can't really turn that instinct off.

There's always that carrot out there, that it's possible to be a real good friend, and I'm always chasing it, although I should be pulling out a stick to beat that impulse back, because I'll never feel that I've achieved it.

A battle of socks

My friend KC has the whitest socks.

















My socks are always dingy, thanks to softball and trail running and my red and before than, blue, insoles. But this time I'd had enough, and decided to pull out all my tricks.

First, the dishwashing powder + bleach + hot water soak that brightened up many a t-shirt. No dice.

Second, a paste of borax and washing soda, left on a long time. A bit brighter, but still grayish.

Here they are after step two, with KC's gleaming socks for comparison.


















(If you are wondering how I ended up in possession of a pair of her socks, no, I did not steal them. I did rummage around in her bag and help myself when I found myself without, but that's what we do. She'd borrowed a sports bra of mine earlier in the week. And maybe on some unknown blog she's posting a picture of it and writing about its relative cleanliness RIGHT NOW).

Third and last, I tried a new technique: boiling with lemon.


















I'm sorry to report that this story does not have a happy ending. After I'd forgot about the boiling pot and my socks were more than al dente, I spooned them up and realized that while the white parts were whiter, the gray/red parts were still gray/red.

And peeking at the unappetizing gray brew, I concluded:
1. The strong products I've used over the past months have undoubtedly leached the black writing on the cuffs, thus soaking them in a pale gray dye, and
2. My socks have been gray for a long time, and old stains aren't easy to get out.

So I will either just not care or buy some new damn socks.
The end.