New Address

Yep. That's right. I've moved. And I packed everything and took it with me, too. Let's just say its for organization's sake, since the other blogs participate in are at Wordpress -- plus, I like their layouts. So no -- I won't be posting here anymore.

Come join me on the other side!

Tonight, I had cookies for dinner.

Somehow it all goes downhill after Thanksgiving.

December Photo Project

I'm joining in -- I think I'll have to work at finding picture-worthy things around my house, what with the cute 8-month-old and all.

Oh, pumpkin spice

This is from a friend's facebook profile. I thought it absolutely hilarious and too fun to not post on the good ole' blog. Thanks, Jo.

If only I could break up with you, Starbucks. All I wanted from you was the Pumpkin Spice Latte featured in the fall season. You came to America but you dissed me in Japan. I waited for you to come, oh sweet PSL but Starbucks, you lied to me. You played me for the fool and I believed you. I believed you would bring my sweet Pumpkin Spice Latte to Japan, so I enjoyed you shyly in America. But you never came... I was so sad to walk in today and see you dressed up in your gawdy Christmas gear. It made me sad to see you dressed so tartly in your mint chocolate mocha. I could wait another year but why do it? If only, you weren't the only place to get a decent cup of coffee (darn you Dotour for being gross). It's not you, it's me... okay, who's kidding. It is YOU. I just feel like if we were to take "a break" we could grow more as individuals. So from now on I'll only drink your tall black coffees. You hurt me and I fear my heart may get broken again with your specialty drinks. Blast!

My bread-making rhythm

If bread-making is an art (which it is), I'm certain it's going to take me twenty years to master it. I've been practicing for about a year, first making "Bosch" bread for the family I nannied for while pregnant. I've decided to put in my time -- I love, love baking and, for me, there isn't much that beats fresh bread, still warm from the oven.

A cookbook that I've been using lately ("How to Cook Everything") says there exists various bread-making routines, and one just needs to try a few out before finding the one that best fits schedule and preference. I thought over-night rising would be appropriate, given the general lack of free time throughout the day to make the dough -- the first loaf I made was yummy, but could've risen longer. (See here.) The subsequent two have been, sadly, below par. I have not found my bread-making rhythm.

Today's loaf was especially disheartening -- I made the dough about 8pm and let it rise all night. Jones woke up surprisingly early (4:45), so I slammed the dough a bit and let it rise in the pan for an hour. Just as I was getting ready to put it in the oven, Jones started freaking out, so I picked him up, set the loaf haphazardly on the stove, and open the oven door. The pan fell off the stove and the dough deflated. (Sad times.) I turned off the oven, pressed down the dough, and set it on the counter to rise again. Jones went down for a nap about 6:45, so I went back to bed. When he got up an hour-and-a-half later, we came down to eat breakfast. The dough had risen quite a bit (perhaps more than it should've), so I turned on the oven to bake it (again). I put Jones in his high chair, and when I looked back, the dough had fallen (again). This time it was hopeless -- the yeast had run out of steam. I baked it anyway, and it came out flat, but still tasty. Perhaps it will make good french toast.

But really -- you have no idea how much I want to consistently turn out really good loaves of bread. Its akin to good coffee -- it seems twined with my identity right now (which really is silly, but feels true). Practice makes perfect, I suppose.

He likes them apples

When we started this whole solid food thing, I envisioned something different than what's actually happening. For some reason, I thought my boy would eat more than just applesauce (not including other foods hidden in applesauce). I remember turning up my nose at magazine columns that talked about how to get your children to eat the foods they don't like -- "My child won't have food issues." Lofty thoughts -- I'm eating (ahem) my words.

I go back and forth between feeling like it's okay for him to have applesauce for every meal (he'll even eat peas if they're mixed in with applesauce -- go figure) and wondering if I'm aiding him in becoming a picky eater. I was a picky eater, and I know my mom was frustrated -- and I know I will be, too. What happens when we get to Japan, and there is no applesauce? Will he simply refuse to eat? Will he cry, grimace, and gag at every meal? What if the only thing he ever ends up liking is fruit?

Let me know you're out there, moms. I need to hear the picky-eater stories to calm my worries.

It is well with my soul

This song really spoke to me today, particularly the italicized parts. The man who wrote it -- Horatio G. Spafford -- was a lawyer and lost a great deal of real estate in the Chicago fires in 1871. His son died around the same time. After two years of helping the homeless of the fires, Spafford decided to vacation to England with his family, but sent his wife and four daughters ahead because he was delayed with business. The ship collided with another, sinking within twenty minutes, taking all four of his daughters -- his wife was one of only 47 survivors. She sent a telegram to Spafford: "Saved alone." When the pair met with their friend months later, Spafford told him, "It is well. The will of God be done." It is said he penned these words during the years of grieving afterward.

Today, it speaks to me because my sins are in front of me, and I am comforted to know that Christ, though I can't understand it, has taken the whole of them.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
"It is well, it is well with my soul."

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed his own blood for my soul.

My sin, o, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part, but the whole
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, o my soul!

And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul!