I’m afraid that I need to get something off my chest. A confession. An admission. I’m about to become . . . transparent.

Ok, here it comes. I took a dare.

Not only that, I took a dare mere days after having a big discussion with the kids about how they are never allowed to accept dares sight unseen. Truth or Dare was specifically mentioned as a game they were never allowed to play, and my speech was eloquent, edifying, and, let’s be honest, very full of wisdom.

And then I did it. I slipped. I fell. I took a dare without realizing its full implications, and now I’m obligated. “Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay” and all that.   I am now my very own cautionary tale.

What did I commit to? Well I’ll tell you. Buckle up.

My husband dared me to make Tater Tot Casserole for dinner tonight.

It’s true. And I took the dare . . . and I’m afraid that I didn’t realize what I had let myself in for when I agreed to it. I had a sheltered childhood I’m afraid, and not only have I never tasted a Tater Tot Casserole, I had never even laid eyes on a Tater Tot Casserole. I had heard of it of course, and I figured I could whip up as good a Tater Tot Casserole as the next woman.

But just now I sat down at the computer to google up a recipe, and the full implications of my rash vow have officially come home to roost. Tater Tot Casserole appears to be, get this, ground beef, topped with a can of Cream of Whatever, topped with Tater Tots. And that’s all. As far as I can ascertain, there is no flavoring of any sort. Green beans are apparently mixed in for variety sometimes, and the really deluxe recipes included Velveeta cheese.

I gotta be honest with you, ladies. I’m scared. I’m frantically searching for anything that will get me out of this horrible deed. But I seem to be hemmed in. I’ve tried googling for “gourmet Tater Tot Casserole” in the hopes that something more appetizing will offer me some shred of hope. But like I said, when it comes to Tater Tot Casserole, green beans seem to be as gourmet as it gets. I’m pretty sure I’m beaten.

Any moment now I have to leave and trudge through the snow and slush and sleet and slop to the grocery store and purchase me some Cream of Despair and Ground Beef of Sorrow and some Tater Tots of Shame. Unless any of you can throw me a lifeline in the next half hour. Help!!

Just had to share a little incident with you all. An uplifting vignette from my week.

The other afternoon, I was feeling a bit smug and pleased with myself for having gotten a roast in the oven . . . a level of thinking ahead on the dinner plan that does not always happen. (When it does, I like to celebrate with a little quiet smugness.) Anyhow, dinnertime rolled around, the table was set, drinks were poured, and I pulled the roast out of the oven. Imagine the severe blow that my smugness received, when it turned out that the roast was not cooked through. (Long story, and you don’t want to hear about it, but it all came down to the fact that I didn’t have a pan with a lid and my little improvised solution threw off the cooking time.)

So. There we were. We had to resort to a quick fix of some sort, and there weren’t really any options floating around in the cupboards. But, happily, the kids had all gotten their report cards from school that day, and a fun little perk is that they get gift certificates to Arby’s based on how many “A”s they get. We had a few of those to cash in, so we decided to do that for dinner.

Off we all toddled to Arby’s. On the way there, my mother-in-law called and I was chatting with her on the phone as we walked in. Ben took the kids up to the counter to order, and I stood back a little to finish my conversation. Read More

Just fyi – we’re doing a little behind the scenes juggling of the blog . . . and sometime this afternoon comments are going to be turned off for a brief time. Hopefully the transition will be relatively short and uneventful and then we’ll be back up and running.

We’re home again, home again! And it’s Thanksgiving, so of course none of you are reading this – you’re probably all far too busy peeling potatoes and stuffing turkeys. I, however, am sitting here quite negligently drinking my coffee in my pajamas still, having just dug out of my suitcases all the English goodies that we brought back for the kids. And I really feel that I need to post this quite quickly before I pull my act together and go dive into the great festivities in the kitchen.

Does anyone happen to recall the terrible travesty of the canned American Style Hot Dogs which I’ve had occasion to mention in the past? In case anyone missed this previously, here is a little visual aid for you.

Yes. I know. No American that I know of would dream of eating one of those . . . and yet the producers of this horrifying food-stuff have placed the stars and stripes upon it and, it seems to me, are willfully misleading a trusting British public. I did my patriotic best to explain to people while we were there that these are NOT in fact “American Style” – and the end result was that some dear friends of ours gave us a can for Christmas. Our present to them, incidentally, was a small ceramic Starbucks cup to hang on the Christmas tree. Each, in fact, giving the other a little something to remember them by.

The result was that, as we traveled home last night, we had buried in the depths of our luggage this can of American hot dogs. We had loads of other things too – mallow tea cakes, and chocolatines, and mince pies, and mincemeat filling, and wine, and jam, some Bucatini, some goose fat, some suet, and even a loaf of Tiger Bread which was the specific request of our 6 year old. The customs people noticed that we had listed food on our declaration form, and we got pulled out of the line for an agricultural exam. They scanned our luggage, and then made us open up one suitcase for them to inspect. And guess what got pulled out for a lengthy exam? Yes. The Stars and Stripes can of hot dogs. They said, and I quote, “What IS this thing?” They passed it around and had a consultation about it. They looked over the ingredients. They checked on where it was made.

And then they confiscated it.

Yes indeed. Not allowed into the country. And I was very proud. America will not be sullied by such things. Our standards remain high, and our borders secure.

Today after church we had all of our little crew in the car and were on a bit of a drive. The kids were all horsing around and doing their thing – playing word games and singing songs and whatnot – when suddenly out of the clear blue, five-year-old Judah piped up from the backseat.

“Hey!” he yelled.
“Guess what!”
“What?” we asked.
“I’m not too hot . . . I’m not too cold . . . I’m not hungry . . . I’m not thirsty . . . I don’t have to go to the bathroom . . . I’m not dying . . . My nose isn’t running . . . I’m . . . JUST . . . FINE!!!!!” and he threw his arms up in the air in a very triumphant gesture.

I merely bring this up because it’s just possible that in this season devoted to thankfulness, a few people might be coming up short when they try to count their blessings. So to them I would merely ask, “Do you have to go to the bathroom? Is your nose running? Are you dying?” Well then. You’re . . . just . . . FINE!!!!!