On marshmallows

I can't help but roll my eyes when I read an article or blog post about making marshmallows and the author acts like store-bought, mass-produced marshmallows are the food of the devil or even the devil himself (or herself as the case may be), while home-made ones are the one true light - your express elevator to all things that are good and pure and morally right.

This misunderstands the two kinds of marshmallows.  Store-bought ones are not some sad-sack, evil-imbued version of homemade ones.  Homemade marshmallows are completely different from store-bought, and I think it would do us good to appreciate both. The former is better in flavor, and gives you the control in making them like whatever catches your fancy at the moment.  These are confections to be enjoyed on their own.  The latter is better in texture! It is perfect for baking and melting.  I've never had luck in using those small batch homemade marshmallows in goodies like crispy rice treats or smores.  And when one wants a small hit of deliciousness in candy form, a store-bought marshmallow generally isn't the way to go.

Unless you are my son.

Each year, I try to make a holiday batch of homemade marshmallows.  But that doesn't seem likely this year - I'm just not ready to tackle the fussiness of it all.  So I decided to kick of  this year's holiday goodie season with marshmallow pops using the store-bought kind - stick one on a stick, coat in chocolate, then roll in nuts, sprinkles or coconut for a hit of flavor.

When Max was informed of our afternoon plans of marshmallow pop assembling, Max was joyous.  He was so happy that marshmallows were involved!

But then he seemed a bit confused.  And intrigued.  What did it mean that we were doing something to the marshmallows? Then I realized -  to him, these puffy treats were actually perfect on their own. While turning them into dressed-up pops made for a nice afternoon, he could have done without it.  Apparently, he likes them for all the wrong reasons.

On spaghetti bolognese...part 2

A pot of bolognese had been simmering on the burner, when in walked Seth into the kitchen.  He was followed by Max.  I asked Seth to taste the sauce, to make sure it tasted the way it was supposed to. He happily obliged, as did the little guy.

Seth said that it was delicious, making me feel all proud and happy.  Then Max got a spoonful for himself and proclaimed that it was old food.

My mind produced a rapid series of emotions in such a fantastically short period of time - I didn't think this was made with old food - most of it was just purchased the day before! Do I regularly serve old food to my child? Of course not! Embarassment, indignation, then...agreement.

It was indeed "old food." 

Or food that was regularly made before we moved here to Germany.

It had been one of those dishes that don't have any specific or particular memories attached to them, but were a part of the dinner rotation, a part of our identity as "people who make and eat and love spaghetti bolognese."  And though we didn't have particular memories associated with bolognese, we did have strong feelings about the deliciousness of this dinner.  Yet, in all the excitement of the move and new baby, we hadn't had much of a chance to make it in our new new home.

But making these dishes helps us to remember that we existed before the move - that we have memories and identities that follow us here.  Revisiting these meals gives us a sense of who we were who we are and perhaps even who we will become.  We should all be happy to eat old food.

On cake pops

The world is chock full of stupid and/or nonsensical aphorisms and proverbs floating around.  For instance - "boys will be boys" or "you can't judge a book by its cover."  What does it even mean that "boys will be boys?"  I have no idea! And yes, while it isn't everything, you can indeed judge a book by its cover!  It usually tells you the author and the publisher - so there is some important information right there!  Do you like the graphics/pictures/fonts used on the front?  The book may actually appeal to you as well! But I digress.

I must, however, stand behind the good old nugget of wisdom "never say never."

A few years ago, when cake pops were EVERYWHERE, I took an anti-cake pop stance.  I told myself that I would never ever let these spheres of cake make their way into my home.

I don't actually know why I was so vehemently anti-cake-pop.  Perhaps they were just too fussy for my tastes, involving a surgical level of precision that I do not possess.  Or maybe they were, quite frankly, just too small of a serving size.  Maybe I harbor anti-stick sentiments as well.  Who knows! But the feelings were strong, a knee-jerk reaction to their omnipresence.

So of course, I am now the proud(??) owner of a cake pop maker and cake pop stand!  What changed?  Max found out about them! And I didn't have a good reason to say no to them.  Telling a four year old that "cake pops are just too trendy, small and fussy" doesn't really register as a great argument.  So here we are getting ready to break out the cake pop machine for the upcoming kiddo birthdays.  And I might even be looking forward to eating them.

On high chairs

A few months ago, Seth and I picked out a charming high chair for Molly.  So bright and white and made out of wood, it was - at the time - a satisfying purchase.  A picturesque backdrop for making food memories with the little one.

Then we actually started using it.

It might be strange to name an inanimate object as one's enemy, but so it goes.  What makes the chair aesthetically pleasing has become its Achille's heel of function.  The white paint on the wood holds - nay, wears - all manner of food that finds it way to it like a coat of armor.  And all the food does find its way, of course.  The foods mix and mingle, residues and juices coming together to make a protective barrier on the chair.

A protective barrier from what?  Me, of course! Along with my weapons of cleaning bottles, rags, and sponges.  The high chair wants no part of these cleaning shenanigans.

Just when I think I have rubbed away all the filth and grime, a new nook or cranny (and this chair has a never-ending supply of these, it is as though the chair is an MC Escher drawing come to life) reveals itself, boastfully instigating a new battle.  We repeat these antics until I finally look at the time and realize that I have spend 45 minutes cleaning the chair! Just the chair - there are still dishes and floors to clean as well!  And it isn't finished.  Nor can it ever be truly finished.

So I admit defeat and tend to the dirty dishes and floor.  At least these make for an easier task.

The high chair may have won many, many battles.  But I have won the war.  For the chair has been made redundant by an ugly plastic chair from Ikea.