Italians call this breakfast, right?

Back in the 80's, Nutella was kind of a big deal in the TD home. Before you could just pick up a 5-kilo barrel of the stuff from Costco, mom would bring it home when she visited her parents, and whenever our dad traveled to Europe for work, he would lug back entire suitcases filled with Nutella and Ritter Sport. All bazillion TD kids would sit around in a big circle, and mom would dole out tiny tastes with a teaspoon. We would gasp and groan in ecstasy, before the hallowed jar was hidden away on the very highest shelf to await our next bout of uncharacteristically-good behavior.

Now that

Nutella's gone mainstream, we're liberated to enjoy it in ways other than straight-up. And we're (obviously) not the only ones. When we were in PEI last month, we picked up an assortment of yummies from the Charlottetown farmers' market, including a Nutella-spiked rice krispie treat. It was pretty epic, so the kiddies and I decided to recreate a batch to send to Mercina. I'd give our efforts two big chocolate-hazelnut-covered thumbs up.

I had a hard time getting a picture before Phineas had his way with them....

 Read on for the recipe!

Nutella Rice Krispie Treats

• 1 tablespoon butter
• 1/2 cup Nutella
• 4 cups miniature marshmallows, plus a generous handfull
• 6 cups rice krispies

This is just a very basic rice krispie treat recipe, except you reduce the butter and add a bunch of Nutella: melt the butter and 4 cups marshmallows, then stir in the Nutella. Pour the hot mixture over the cereal and extra marshmallows, then use buttered fingers to press it into a well-greased 9x13 pan. Let it cool, and cut into squares.

If I weren't popping these in the mail in August, I'd probably have made a Nutella ganache to go on top. And if I did that, I'd probably have covered said ganache with a generous sprinkle of chopped, roasted hazelnuts. But the truth is they're pretty awesome without any of that fuss.

A nice end to the evening. . .

I'm trying to think of a good way to describe this. . .Carl's dog died that morning. A cherry red Mack truck deprived Rover's shallow grave of most of its due, and the crazy neighbor lady saturated what was left of man(more specifically, Carl)'s best friend with high proof urea. After the poorly attended service, Carl went into the freezer to find his pint of Chunky Monkey empty, with a comforting post-it from his roommate shoved inside promising to "cover the next one." Carl's mother called him that afternoon, wanting to give him some good news over an early dinner -- he was to meet her on the other side of town because she didn't feel like leaving strip mall where she attended water aerobics. An hour and a half later, Carl walked into a suburban Chile's to see her soggy head nestled between the brawny arms of his despised high school math tutor. "Kyle understands my needs much better than your father ever has. Don't you, Kyle? We met at zumba." Kyle and Carl's mother left the restaurant to get some air right before the check came. Carl paid and hightailed it to nowhere in particular. Needing a moment to process his day, he pulled off to pace across a lot simultaneously vacant and threatening. On his third pivot, his nose was greeted by a large flat fist, which then proceeded to introduce itself to his wallet, cell phone, and keys. As he propped himself up to watch his car speeding down the road to irretrievability, Carl couldn't help but say aloud to himself "Damn. Now that's a sunset."This was that kind of sunset.

Bite me... No, really...

Yoni and I have both been on the road for the last few weeks. Yoni was in Australia, so I went to hang out with my sisters and mom. When Yoni returned on Saturday we needed to get  back to DC. We drove across the country (by the way, West Viginia is totally dreamy. A trailer park we drove by there is more picturesque than the chicest part of New York or DC). As we approached our little place on The Hill, I checked my email to find extremely sad news from my landlord: The bikes stored downstairs had been stolen. Our sweet, wonderful tandem bike was gone. I was despondent.  We rolled up at about 2 am. I rushed down and while I am still very sorry about my neighbors bikes, I was deliriously happy to find Fanny, our tandem bike, looking rather lonely in the basement. Our helmets were gone, which would have been really annoying had I not thought she was too!  

Also ... our travels and my birthday have meant I have done practically no cooking. So when I found myself in my own kitchen, I wanted to cook. Unfortunately, there was almost nothing in our fridge. But a box of blueberries had shriveled instead of molded, so I thought there might be a way to reconstitute those. I found six eggs, some chevre, an untouched container of goat yogurt, maple syrup and butter. Soon, my kitchen misadventure culminated in a mountain of tangy flapjacks with a swoon worthy syrup. 

Here's the recipe:

Charity's Tangy Pancakes

with Blueberry Maple Sauce

6 eggs

2 cups yogurt

1/2 cup goat or cream cheese

1 1/2 cup flour

1/2 cup sugar

1 tsp vanilla

1 tsp salt (optional)

Butter

Syrup

1 tbsp butter

1/2 cup pure maple syrup

1/2 lb fresh, frozen or shriveled berries

1/2 tsp salt (optional)

Cream yogurt and cheese together. Add vanilla, eggs, sugar, salt and flour. Beat until smooth. Heat pan to medium heat. Grease pan with butter. Use a quarter cup of mix per pancake. Flip when little pits form where bubbles once were. 

Place berries, syrup, salt and butter in a sauce pan. Heat and let simmer for 10 minutes

OR 

Place ingredients in a medium sized microwave safe bowl. Cook on high heat for 4 minutes.  

Makes more servings than Yoni and I could eat. I'm guessing we could have served 6 civilized guests and 4 ravenously hungry ones with this recipe.

On parenting, poo, and why I'll forever hate the Maryland Transportation Authority

Lately, I've been stressing about how frenetic our lives are. The Experts tell me young children thrive on routine. Knowing when and where and with whom and for how long they'll play and eat and bathe and read and snuggle and sleep is Important.

These are the details of life that elude me. Sometimes I make a halfhearted play for predictability, but it never lasts. We stay up late enjoying visitors' company; we take a trip with an unavoidably missed nap here and a very-early morning there; Dave's work turns completely ape-crazy and the only chance my kids have to play with their daddy is three states away smack dab in the middle of the night. And, Experts be damned, my kids have an incredible father, and there's no way in he** they're going to grow up not enjoying his weirdly spectacular company whenever they possibly can.

I tell myself: It's okay! Real life is unpredictable! Flexibility is a life skill! They'll thank you later! And I'm usually pretty convincing.  But there are days -- like last Thursday, for example -- when I just want to lay every ounce of my once-joyful spontaneity on routine's bitter alter, in a sacrificial conflagration to the twin gods of sanity and calm.

I suppose, if I'm going to tell the story, I need to rewind to the beginning of our latest little road trip, to a travel plaza somewhere between Baltimore Harbor and the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Phineas -- who has been beautifully potty-trained for several months -- had an unfortunate encounter with an extremely powerful and equally over-zealous automatic flusher. He. Was. Terrified. I took a few minutes to calm him down, we hit the road and I didn't think about it again (because, seriously -- Who wants to dwell on these things?).

But then I noticed my boy eying every unfamiliar john with deep suspicion. And there was an incident in Boston that resulted in leaving most of his clothing in a Beacon Street yogurt shop trash can. No bueno.

Phin's plumbing paranoia came to a head a few days later, when we were escaping Manhattan's brutal heat wave at the MoMA. During a rather delightful conversation about expressionism, (Me: "Kandinsky didn't paint things, he painted feelings." Hettie: "Well, he made a mistake, because that's a flamingo."), it became apparent that Phineas needed to pee. I found a bathroom with a real door and a comfy chair and encouraged Phinny to, uh, take advantage of the environment. He did not respond well.

In fact, he became completely, utterly, bloodcurdlingly hysterical. So much so, that the responsible citizens in the corridor started enquiring whether all was well. So much so, that apparently they didn't believe my through-the-door explanations, and decided to track down a security guard. So much so, that the security guard felt compelled to forcibly pound open the door, just to be sure his art museum's family lav wasn't becoming a crime scene on his watch. And I really can't blame any of them. The ensuing conversation was impressively awkward for all parties.

By the time I turned around, Phinny had flushed and put himself back together. His visage returned to its typically-angelic state, he sweetly convinced me he was "all empty." Ten minutes after that, I realized my rookie mistake when he wet himself in the museum courtyard. One pair of new underoos and some mod shorts later, I stripped the moist child down to nature in what I thought was a quiet corner of the store, and later realized had a giant glass wall overlooking three floors of escalators. Nice.

Nevertheless, happy clean and fresh, we headed to a playground uptown for a picnic with friends. En route, Hettie had an accident. I dealt with this less compassionately and more time-efficiently than I had Phinny's recent indiscretion, commanding her to thoroughly drench herself in an anemic splash fountain. Dinner, punctuated by episodes of intense child-on-child violence and two mad dashes to the bathroom up the hill, was nonetheless delightful.

Old friends are good for the soul. And as I strolled back to our hotel through the lovely, smelly, masses along 5th Avenue, bewitched by the sultry too-late night, I couldn't help but feel profoundly blessed. I let myself bask in the collective sweetness of Willa strapped to my back, Hettie dozing off and Phinny, twisted around and smiling up at me, periodically mumbling randomly affectionate "I love you's." Hmmmm. Why WAS Phin sitting like that...? "On your bum, Buddy! I don't want you falling out." "I can't mom. If I turn around, the poop will squeeze out of my shorts."

That Smell wasn't The City. That Smell was My Child.

And that's when I may have lost it. Dave may have found me across the street from his office, whimpering on the sidewalk outside of Banana Republic. And I may have died a little when I realized he had to go back upstairs in a few minutes, and I'd be pushing that double stroller and dealing with its malodorous cargo by myself. And I know this just reveals how blessed/soft/spoiled I am, but I really did feel defeated.

Like most parents, I spend a fair bit of time obsessing about how I'm screwing up my kids. I'm tortured by mistakes I know I've made, and also the many more I'll blunder through over the next couple decades. I can draw a straight line from one too many road trips, to potty training setbacks, to a lifetime of missed potential and regret. I imagine, cringing, conversations they'll have sprawled on some therapist's tufted leather sofa -- and realize with dread that the conversations I can't imagine are probably the worst of all.

But here's one thing I know for sure: I love these stinky, hysterical, brilliant, naughty, gorgeous, surprising little creatures with a fierce completeness that shocks and amazes me. And heaven knows I'm trying to do right by them.

That night, after girding my loins and taking fresh courage, after putting the girls in bed and peeling the brand-new poo-filled shorts of my son, after a hot bath for him and a cold Diet Coke for me, I put up my feet and I called my mom. I'm pretty sure, 30 years ago or so, she had her down days, too.

Your reward for suffering through that ridiculously long blog post is this ridiculously cute image of Phinny in another recent (and bathtub-less) hotel. He looks happy, right?

Humph.

If you've been reading for the past few days, you may be tired of hearing that the Five TD Sisters are temporarily down to Four. Post after post after post has not only raised your awareness of this provisional change in organization, but also made certain you appreciate the keen discomfort it has met upon all of us involved. Yes, Mercina is gone to Quebec, and the rest of us are left adrift in the lower 48. And by "the rest of us", I mostly mean me. Because, while my other sisters are all incredibly attached to Mercina, they each have other points amongst which to situate themselves. Babies, husbands, houses -- such are the enviable pectin of life. These are the things which thicken ones world to the point of navigability; the securing truths of an individual's grand scheme.

As far as life-jellies go, mine is still a bit runny (I picked my narrative motif, and gosh be darned if I don't stick to it (stick to it. like sticky jelly. it is a pun.)). I don't mean to say that I'm in any way undersupported by my loved ones, but rather that I hold no primary claim on anyone or thing and vise-versa. Now, after nineteen years of kindred camaraderie, the closest thing I have to a 51% stake has flitted off into the Silent Northern Wilds of Canada with Mercina Grace. It's hard for me to deal with, and I can't imagine it's going to get much easier when what was to be *our* senior year of college starts in a month and *our* graduation commences in the spring, after which our little twin paths can't help but split even further apart than they already have. And here -- in the midst of the most deliciously satisfying public display of self-pity -- is where a wretched, inconvenient little opportunity for personal growth and increased self-knowledge starts to insist on my insides. Here is where I admit that Mercina and I are not inseparable, and, furthermore, that the fact is a good thing. Because -- as much as we would enjoy it -- I should not be the the Edith Beale to her Edith Beale (although I do think I would wear a turban well).

This unwelcome bifurcation is one of those awful bits of growing up. It's rotten and I think it's stupid, but in ten years I may feel differently. Maybe I'll end up becoming more responsible, finding my true self, etcetera and so forth, but for the moment I'd rather wallow in the muddy ruts of memory lane. So here's to excellent friends and shared experiences, and boo to them changing even one bit.

Harry Potter + Marie Antoinette = Quebec

Mercina has a special knack for making everything around her lovely. If you doubt me--or would simply like to look at a lot of pretty things--just browse through her posts. They offer a disgustingly accurate window into the world of magic she creates. We, the players in her land of dreams, tend to vacillate between modes of deep feeling, either of gratitude for sharing her gift with us, or inadequacy over our inability to pass muster.  

So it was with some apprehension that Glorianna, Charity and I endeavored to arrange a sweet little send off worthy of miz. Mia Grace. Our inspiration was simple. Two beloved films, Harry Potter and (Sofia Coppola's)Marie Antoinette. Combined they make Harie Antoinette, a hedonistic celebration of opulence and magic (but mostly mass consumption of pastel-colored candy and movies). My sparsely furnished apartment provided a perfect pallet for a grown up slumber party, with homemade butter-beer for sipping, and delectable lil' cakelettes for snacking. We rallied our creative forces to whip of some snazzy garlands, and laid a lush carpet of faux fur. Then we dolled ourselves up and danced around for no one's gratification other than our own.  Most of us had snoozed off by the time Harry discovered what lay hidden beneath the trapdoor on the third-floor of Hogwarts, but that seemed somehow appropriate for the evening. It was a night like so many others we've shared, which was exactly what we had hoped it would be. It's terrible saying goodbye to someone you love so dearly. It will be nearly six-months before we get to hear her voice again, and then a year more before she returns from her mission and we learn how she, and we, have changed in the interim. But in the meantime I'm grateful that we were able to pull off a fette worthy of the Queen of Aesthetics herself, and bolster us all with one more memory to treasure during the cold Canadian winter ahead.

We love you Mercina Grace! Be safe, and kind, and know how adored you are!

xoxox

Missions, Missionaries and How A Mission Saved My Life

True story: When I started conservatory in 2003, I planned to stay for no more than a year. The reason why? From the time I was a little girl, all I wanted to be was a missionary. For the entire year, I was preparing. I had an early bed time. I woke up at 5. I prayed and studied my scriptures multiple times daily. I worked with the missionaries in Budapest as frequently as I could. All the while, I was studying the great music of the Western world. I had completed all of my interviews and i had one step left: I needed to see my doctor. This is why I came home from Hungary. When I went in for the appointment, she listened to my heart and discovered something. She did the EKG and that day, I realized how limited my time on earth was. I also realized the mission I had been preparing for was entirely different from the one that I had always dreamed of serving.

Today, Mercina makes final preparations to enter the Missionary Training Center tomorrow. My remarkable little sister off to serve her own mission. I thank the Lord and all of the beautiful and wonderful women I knew growing up for planting that desire to serve in my heart. That desire saved my life. Even though I'm very sad Mercina's leaving, seeing my little sister leave the family she loves, her Yale education and a really great boyfriend to do what she knows is right just makes my soul very happy.