The Suburban Life

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake is a gift straight out of Heaven?

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake can brighten even the dreariest of days?

Raise your hand if you believe pound cake causes cellulite?

I would have to answer with a resounding “Yes!” to all of the above (unfortunately, I answer the last question from experience.) 

In my early twenties, after a particularly difficult day at the office, I discovered a product at the grocery store which, over time, became a little bit of a guilty obsession.  It was sold in this tidy little white box, its buttery aroma evident even through its packaging and well, it completed me.  Okay, that might be a slight over-exaggeration but if this product unclogged toilets and killed bees I could possibly see myself marrying it.

The object of my adoration?

Entenmann’s Pound Cake.  The dirty devil.

My unhealthy obsession with this dessert not only increased my grocery budget but also increased my waist size.  Once my ’fat’ jeans began evolving into ‘everyday’ jeans I knew that my love affair with this delectable dessert would have to end.   I had to strike pound cake from every future grocery list and try to forget it ever existed.

And then I found this recipe.  And the monkey on my back reared its ugly little monkey head.  And I slapped the monkey upside the head and said, “Down boy.  It uses cake mix!  I’ll be fine.”  I mean, how good could it possibly be?  The recipe doesn’t even call for butter.

Oh, Lordy. 

It’s good.  Really good.  Yes, it has the Trifecta of sugar, oil and *ahem* cream cheese, but…it also has blueberries.  Did you know they are considered a “Super Food?”  So, I’m actually doing your heart a favor.  Yep.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So, go ahead and give this recipe a try.   And, please do not neglect the Vanilla Glaze.  Forgoing it’s sugary sweetness would be like reading an amazing book and stopping just short of the last chapter, or patronizing the Thunder from Down Under and leaving before the encore.  It just wouldn’t make sense.

Enjoy!

Blueberry Pound Cake with Vanilla Glaze

• 1 (18.25 oz) Butter Yellow or French Vanilla cake mix
• 1/4 cup white sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 (8 oz) package cream cheese, room temperature
• 1/2 cup vegetable oil
• 1 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1 pint blueberries, fresh or frozen (tossed in a little bit of flour to keep them from sinking)

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Spray 10 inch bundt pan liberally with Pam Baking Spray (or be all Betty Crocker and do the grease and flour bit.)
2. In a large bowl, stir together cake mix and sugar.  Form a well in the center of mixture and pour in eggs, oil and vanilla.  Begin beating on low speed, adding in cream cheese.  Scrape sides of bowl and continue beating at medium speed for 4 additional minutes.  Fold in blueberries.  Pour into bundt pan.
3. Bake in preheated oven for 45-55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in center of cake comes out clean.  Let cool in pan before turning out onto plate.
4. Pour glaze over cooled cake, recipe below.

Vanilla Glaze

• 1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
• 2 1/2 Tbs. milk
• 1/8 tsp of salt
• 1/4 tsp. vanilla extract
• 1 tsp. butter

1. Melt butter over medium-low heat and add the rest of the ingredients.  Whisk until smooth and cook until reaches desired consistency.

I made an interesting discovery a few days ago.  I detected a weakness, saw a challenge and then experienced a moment of resigned understanding. 

Allow me to explain…

This weekend I sat chatting with some other first-grade moms during Avery’s basketball game (by the way, still waiting for a basket…at her current rate of skillbuilding Avery should be primed to score her first “2 points” by about the fifth grade.  She’s a pretty cute little defender, though.) 

As usual, we were discussing our kids and comparing notes.  “Oh, Suzy has been counting by tens for months now.”  “Sally has already been invited to twelve birthday parties since the beginning of the school year.”  “What…is Avery the only one to have earned the nickname ’skanky mini-skirt wearer’ in the first grade?”  Yeah, I’m obviously over that.  And for the sake of anonymity “Suzy” and “Sally” are not their real names.  Given the growing trend for saddling your kids with originality I probably couldn’t spell their real names anyway.

Somehow our conversation veered towards “Firsts.”  As I listened to Suzy and Sally’s moms recount first teeth, steps, haircuts and poops I began to panic as I couldn’t for the life of me remember any dates.  Not a single one. 

“How about Avery?” Suzy’s mom asked.  “Was she an early walker?”

Umm…umm…er.  And then suddenly my mouth began spinning this little tale, spewing out fabricated discourse.  “Actually, she took her very first steps on her first birthday.” (Not really.)  “She saw a shiny little present in my hand and beat feet over to grab it. Shocked us all.  So, so cute.”  (Gawd…can these women tell I’m lying?  Are my hands shaking?)

The moms smiled and nodded their heads.  “Actually, that seems to happen a lot.  I’ve heard that same story quite a few times.”

Yeah, because other dialed-out moms like me fail to remember these milestones and therefore find themselves reinventing history.

And, as you can imagine, I had all sorts of cute little stories about Avery’s teeth, haircuts and first little poop.  Fortunately, Jack’s bowel history is recent enough I had actual facts for that story.

Later that night, after I had darted out of the gymnasium, paranoid that I would be branded with a scarlet L or grow a giant nose, I confessed to Jer that I have apparently blocked out the past and have unfortunately picked up a gift for lying.

“Mindy, you didn’t block out the past, and you’ve always been a good liar,” Jer said.

“Um, obviously I did block some stuff out, Jer.  I can’t remember a single dang date.  Those women were sitting there throwing out all kinds of dates about their four kids and I can’t pull out a single detail about my two kids.  That’s not normal, Jer.  And, thanks by the way.  You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

“Yeah, it’s called a bad memory.  I have one too.  If someone were to offer me a million dollars to tell them when Avery lost her first tooth I couldn’t pull that date out of my butt for nothing,” Jer said.

“Nice, Jer.  Try not to use the words “Avery” and “butt” in the same sentence, next time, please.  But I get your point.  Something is definitely wrong with us.  We need to start doing Sudoku puzzles,” I explained.  “We need help.”

“Okay, that wasn’t my point.  Add ‘obtuse’ to your list of skills.  Mindy, did it ever occur to you why those moms remembered those dates?”

“Because they’re better moms than I am, obviously.”  Thanks for the reminder there, hon.

“How do you know they weren’t making stuff up?”

Wait a minute. 

Nah.

Could it be?

Could these moms have been reinventing history themselves?

“Hmmm…now that you mention it, that is a distinct possibility,” I said.

“See?” 

“Alright, but just in case let’s bring out the crosswords.  I plan on being armed and ready for the next basketball game.”

So, how about you?  Do you have a mind like a steel trap or do you tend to reinvent history a little bit?

My conclusion is this:  while exact dates and times are nice and can be handy, the real magic is in the memory itself.  Do I remember where the milestones hit on the calendar?  No.  But do I distinctly remember the feeling I had watching my little girl teeter her way to a first step?  Most definitely. 

Mindy

My daughter recently discovered that frenzied panic experienced by a woman who has lost something that is oftentimes more important than her car keys, favorite lipstick or (gasp!) most comfortable bra. 

Her purse. 

I have made no apologies for my unnatural but ever-so-real infatuation with purses.  I always have to be carrying one and covet the contents of my purse with an adoration I should probably only be feeling for my husband and children.  It might have something to do with some…ahem…control issues I occasionally experience, but I love having my purse and all its options on my person.  Want some gum?  No problem.  Eyebrows a little too thick?  Got your solution.  Need a new pair of underpants (a growing problem in my household)?  Pick one.   

I had no idea that this obsession with having “my stuff” in its handy-dandy carryall would extend onto my daughter but I’ve seen first-hand that it’s most definitely beginning to have an impact.

A couple of days ago we were heading out to do some grocery shopping.  Avery, like usual, was lollygaggling her way out of her bedroom.

“Come on, Avery.  Time to get a move on,” I said.  The milk ain’t gonna hitchhike it’s way here.  Unfortunately.  But, wouldn’t that be handy? 

“Mom…I’m not ready yet.  I can’t find my purse,” she explained, biting her lip.

“Avery, you’re 7.  I think you’ll probably be just fine if you leave it home this time, hon.”

“No, I really need it.  I’ve got some important stuff in there,” she pleads. 

“Avery, we’ll have to find it when we get home, okay?  We need to get moving.” 

Her face fell.  “Okay.”  With one last resigned look around her she walked over to put her coat on.

At that moment I saw something very familiar.  I recognized a very real emotion.  The kid needed her purse.  And I completely understood that.  It didn’t matter so much what was in the purse.  What was important was that it mattered to her. 

So I helped her find it.

Doesn’t this purse just scream ‘burgeoning fashionista’?  And here’s what she was missing.

Yes, I can certainly see why she needed it so badly.  What if she got hot and needed some quick fanning?  Those grocery stores can be uncomfortably warm and a broken wooden fan would be the obvious choice. 

I have oftentimes been away from home and wished I had remembered my rubber frog.  My girl earns an A+ for preparedness. 

Wow.  This girl is prepared for anything. 

Frankly, this one doesn’t surprise me at all.  After the yo-yo heartbreak I experienced I think she’s attempting to support me and my one and only talent.

The fact of the situation is this.  While the contents of her purse will undoubtedly change as frequently as Jack changes his underpants (all too often…trust me) the reason for it stays the same.  Avery has discovered the freedom that accompanies carrying a purse.  She is beginning the uphill battle from little girl to little lady and has decided that it’ll be an easier fight with a stylish handbag at her side.

I couldn’t be more proud.

Happy Friday,

Mindy

As some of you may know, I recently went away for a night with my girlfriends, all of us in dire need of a little rest and relaxation.  So, naturally, after settling in to our hotel room,we headed out to the nearest casino!

I’m really not much of a gambler, in all honesty, but the thought of possibly hitting “the big one” I must admit was intriguing to me.  Therefore, I approached the casino doors fueled by excitement and a little hope.  (Plus, they were giving away a super-hot yellow Camaro.)

Arm in arm, we entered the casino, our senses immediately assaulted by clanging machines, dispensing money machines and….secondhand smoke.  Yep, we were definitely home.

First step was to facilitate a ‘complimentary fountain drink drive-by’.  All the elbow jabbing and high-fiving we did at our score, I’m fairly certain, put giant marks on our foreheads reading “Warning:  these girls obviously do not frequent gambling establishments.” 

Second step was to scope out the surrounding area, to see where the winning machines were located.  We turned around, backs to the fountain drinks dispenser, and perused our options.   As we sucked down our Cokes (after all, these were free drinks people) we spotted out our destination…the penny machines.  Strangely, there were very few people setting up camp at these machines which immediatley got me thinking, “Oh, yeah…there’s our money-makers.  This is going to be easy.”  Collectively, we nodded (after filling up our free drinks, again) and headed over to the slots.

Only a couple of us had planned to gamble (the real adventure-seekers in the group) so we sat down at two machines and plotted our course.  Like real pros, we pulled out our wallets and started counting out cash.  Now, I’ve heard a couple of theories around this whole gambling situation.  1) Never gamble with less than a $100…your odds are much better, 2) It’s not smart gambling to switch machines after only a few rounds, commit to your slots and 3) In case you don’t have a $100, settle on the $5-spot burnin’ in your wallet.

Obviously, I went with theory number three.

I fed my money into the machine and hunkered down to make a little magic. And I was on a real bender there for awhile.  I grew my measly 500 credits to an astonishing 1500!  You’ve got it.  I was up $10.00!  Thoughts of my winnings were flashing through my mind.  What could I do with my profits?  I could buy lunch, put 4 gallons of gas in my tank, go crazy at a the Dollar Tree.  It would be very practical to cash out my winnings and just walk away.

And the following proves how strong my resolve (and practicality) is. 

I kept gambling.  Like a fiend in a frenzy I kept pressing that “Spin” button, watching my winnings melt away with each misaligned ‘7′, in hopes that the ever-elusive jackpot would hit.

And, it didn’t.  There would be no lunch, no 4 gallons of gas and definitely no shopping spree at the local Dollar Tree.  And I most definitely would not be racing home in a bright yellow Camaro. 

Fortunately, I did have a single moment of clarity when I decided it would make sense to cash out when I was back down to my original $5.00.  Better to walk away dead-even than dead-broke.  Or so I’m told.

We ladies reconvened at the complimentary fountain drink bar and filled up our mini-cups one last time, surveying the casino.  Sure there were plenty of winning machines sounding off their joyous alarms but there were as many or more machines as dead as the ones we had been playing.  And sitting in front of those machines were people chasing the same dream as me.   I wondered if they took advice from theory number one and invested an entire Ben Franklin or were merely testing the waters as I had done. 

We decided to quit the casino and move on to a more free, albeit less exhilarating, location…the beach.  I’m sure I will be back to that casino someday to try my hand at that jackpot again. 

Only next time, I think I’ll increase my gamble a bit.  I might have a bit more luck with a ten-spot.  I’m not sure I’m quite ready to commit to more (unless there’s another Camaro-at-stake or lifetime passes to the Thunder from Down Under.)  Hey…everyone has their price.

Mindy

So, how did you celebrate Valentine’s Day?  Was it a holiday filled with love, passion and romantic notions?  Were there roses and little chocolate hearts gracing your bed pillow?  Did your sweetheart whisper sweet-nothings into your ear pledging his or her undying devotion, romantic music playing in the background?

Yeah, mine was almost like that.  Except take away the  passion, notions, roses, chocolate and sweet nothings and substitute the romantic music for the sweet whir of Daytona racing.  Ahhh…the romance.

I remember the days of Valentine’s past.  The romance ranged anywhere from anonymous roses delivered in homeroom class to a slightly more mature holiday celebrated over a candlelit dinner with a spectacular view of the ocean.  I’ve always loved this day but the meaning has certainly changed for me over the years.  What began as a holiday centered solely on the flowers and candy has slowly evolved into a holiday centered solely on love. 

For the first time in about twelve years of celebrating Valentine’s day with my husband I initiated a “no-gift” policy…and actually meant it.  I will have to admit that I have actually previously verbalized my intentions of not wanting to exchange presents only to have changed my mind about 30 seconds after realizing that Jer actually took me seriously.  Imagine my poor bewildered husband standing in front of me with empty hands discovering that, yet again, he married a liar.   And in subsequent years he learned to always have a gift at the ready, despite my insistance that they were entirely unnecessary.  (Obviously, they were.)

But this year was very different.  I suggested (yet again) that we save our money and not exchange gifts.

“Yeah, right,” Jer answered.

“I’m serious.”

“Uh, huh,” he says.

“No, really, Jer.  We were just saying we needed to save a little money.  We love each other. We know it.  Let’s not do gifts.”

He looks at me sideways.  “Okay.  Are you serious?  Is this going to be one of those situations where I listen to you and then I look like the big ass when I have nothing for you?”

“No, Jer.  I am completely serious here.  I do not need anything for Valentine’s Day. We’re good.”

“Al…right.  I guess,” he says. 

And, folks.  I can tell he’s still not trusting me.  About an hour later he comes back out from the garage and says, “Um, Mindy?  I’ve been thinking about this whole ‘not get each other anything’ situation and I’m not sure about something.”

“What, Jer?  What are you not sure of?” I ask, exasperated.  We’ve already gone over this.

“I don’t believe you.  Somehow I’m going to end up screwing this thing up and now I’m all worried about it.” 

And this here was my defining moment.  This was the pivotal point in time when I realized that Valentine’s Day has taken on a completely different meaning for me.  Because listening to Jeremy and his “should I/shouldn’t I” struggle only reiterated to me that this year I was much more interested in simply spending the day together than opening little gift-wrapped heart-shaped jewelry boxes.

“Jeremy,” I began as I walked up and wrapped my arms around him.  “I seriously do not want anything for Valentine’s Day.  We need to save some money.  I’d much rather just spend the day with you and the kids than waste a bunch of money on dinner out and gifts.”

And with that, he believed me.  I woke up Valentine’s Day to absolutely nothing.  And I’m actually okay with that. 

Now, don’t misunderstand me here.  If we ever get into the position where spending money is of little consequence than you better believe I’ll be fully expecting a little somethin’-somethin’ awaiting my very anxious attention. 

But, until then, I’ll stay content with a hug from my (extremely paranoid) honey. 

Happy Monday,

Mindy