Tuesday, April 8, 2014

margaritas and scissors

If pressed, and if I'm being honest, I'd have to say it was the fault the margaritas. 3 margaritas. 3 margaritas that I foolishly permitted Sean to make, rather than myself.

Alternately, I could blame the decision on my running into my hairdresser in a coffee shop the other day, who I hadn't been to see since last May. Which got me thinking about how much my hair is the pits. THE PITS.

Be it the Sean-made margaritas scenario, be it the fateful meeting of the hairdresser in the coffee shop scenario, something happened this weekend:

Let's start at the beginning. Once upon a time, Sean and Jessie wanted to be prudent with their spending and with their public exposure of their children to unsuspecting fellow restaurant go-ers. Both were quite keen to hit the local Mexican restaurant for endless chips and salsa and, more importantly, salted & rocked margaritas. They decided to use their better judgement (ironic snort reserved for a few paragraphs down) and have a patio date. As fate - for better or more likely for worse - would have it, a CVS run yielded the discovery of Sean's favorite tequila on sale. It further produced Tostitos and that kind of gross queso dip that Sean's obsessed with; the one that I strangely can't stop eating despite being perturbed by every bite I take.

It's 75 degrees. The kids are being oddly simpatico - simultaneously. A couple hours of talking and beveraging go by. We hit the hot tub, and I'm pretty sure this is where it went wrong. I dunked my head, you see, thus making my hair wet and manageable. By the time the errant whiff of a not-great idea penetrated my foggy brainwaves, it was too late. Even Sean doubted my judgement - and that means something's really off.

I'll paint the scene here: still sopping from the pool and clad in my "bathing suit" (track shorts and sports tank) I sought out the scissors at the back of the medicine cabinet. I did my best to remain stationary as I held a struggling Weston in my right arm and Jordan stripped down to nakedness at my left (see pink tutu'd bathing suit splashed in split ends, above). And here, here  is where I should have stopped the whole thing:

when I realized that this was the face of my soon-to-be hair-shearer. As Sean brushed my hair out (leaving what I'm pretty sure are permanent track marks down my back from the brush because OW, it's not an Iron Man competition, Sean, it's my frail straggly hairs) I realized I could still stop this, but Tequila said "sh, it'll be fine."

"Oh, Mom, why you doing? Why your hairs cutting?" 
"Don't worry about it, Jess, I think it's a straight line." (<----DIRECT QUOTE)
"Maybe I shouldn't have let you do this."


So I saved about $60. I cheated on my hairdresser (with my husband). It's way way shorter than I instructed and it'll take roughly a year to recoup those losses (slowest growing hair in the land). But it's actually only approximately half-bad.

Oh and I just realized Weston makes that face in that last picture. I always wondered where he got it from.

There's a moral here somewhere. Don't make decisions - weighty or flighty or otherwise - when you're on tequila? Don't keep scissors lying around? Don't quaff & coif? Learn from me, friends.

I'll see you sometime next year, hair. I miss you.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

productivity in the time of babyhood

o - m - g   you guys, this last week. A crazy train, I tell you, and I'm all aboard.

Last Saturday night, Sean and I and a few members of my posse (...siblings) attended the annual dinner dance that benefits Life Centers of Ventura County. It's always a grand time and I, being stellar blogger extraordinaire for the ages, took approximately zero pictures and therefore have no proof that I curled my hairs and shadowed my lids and coated my lashes and inserted contacts into my eyeballs for the first time in a century. No testimony showing I put on a nice dress and adorned my feet in not-Uggs/flip flops and practically re-pierced my ears trying to put a pair of danglies in because it had been that long  since I did myself up enough to justify earrings. It did happen though. A few whiskey cokes happened too and holla at the husband who gave up drinking for Lent - as good a DD as a pregnant! (Ok fine he may have started his "Sunday" a little early but who am I to huck him under the bus?)

For about a decade or a little more, I've helped the Life Centers out with the dinner dance when and where needed, and have chiefly been in charge of working up bid sheets for the silent auction. Every year on the week leading up to the dance, there's a big push for last minute donations to the auction, which loosely translates to me staying up much too late working on bid sheets and emailing the other members of the committee frantically trying to get details on the items or starting bids or whatever. It's always been relatively stress free; it's as hard as inserting info into a template and coming up with a little tagline to make it sound enticing. I mean, there were 115 items, so it's time consuming, but it's not rocket science.

But this year: I have two kids. This year, one of these kids has some attitude, um, quirks  that are in perpetual need of adjustment or consequence

"I'm funny Mom" (on repeat)

and the other of these kids would prefer his person to be Krazy glued to my person, please and thank you.

"Let's run away together Mom."

Friday, the day before the dance, I of course had 285 things to do - give or take - to make the deadline. The kids, in turn, had 285 tricks up their 2T'd sleeves (yeah..they pretty much wear the same size now) and took alternating micro naps that did not coincide in the slightest. Every time I cracked the laptop lid, a needster got it's wings and flew into one kind of demand-fest or another. Both kids were finished with their naps for the day at some ridiculous time like 2 o'clock (naps start at 1, so) and I was powering through bid sheets to a soundtrack of Super Why and Weston Cry.

At a certain point I could no longer stand the wailing and indignation of it all, and succumbed into a defeated heap on the floor, that Weston could crawl and gnaw and touch touch touch until his needy heart's content. As Weston attempted to clamber up the summit that is my bum, a concerned Jordan lay next to me on the ground as I enumerated the thousands of wispy soldiers that had abandoned my head during these months of post partum hair loss, in favor of entangling themselves in the sheisty company of the carpet. She alternated between ardent professions of "I luss you, Mom" (we'll purchase "proper pronunciation of V's" Vanna) and earnest pleas of "Mom, could you moose over?" so that she could slide between my hulking frame and the couch. I obliged and scooted a millimeter to the left, simultaneously turning my head to be greeted by Weston's uvula as he made his best effort to ingest eyebrow to cheekbone of my terrified face.

Jordan can be heartbreakingly intuitive about people's feelings, and she addressed my crumbled stature with repeated appeals to "don' be sad Mom"  and lots of pats on my head and cheeks. It was there as I lay prostrate on the floor underneath the weight of my fat baby son and beside the worry of my sweet albeit crazy moody toddler daughter, that I pondered whether God had neglected to fully equip me for this stage of motherhood. By my estimation, I was lacking at least one of the following necessities:
more patience: this is a character flaw on my part. I have patience up to a certain point and then I explode over the drop of a cracker or the spill of a milk drop.
more sleep: Wes plays a cruel joke about once a month where he sleeps relatively well for two nights in a row, and I'm convinced my exhaustion sentence has been lifted. He's done this probably three times over three months, and follows up each of these periods with horrifying nights for the next week. Aside from this, an average night sees us up together twice or so, which isn't horrible but I'm over it.
more help: the three of us stumble our way through the day until 5 when Sean comes home, and he's good for a pool date with the kids (Weston enjoys observing the splashy antics from his rocker) while I recuperate by compulsively cleaning the living room or making dinner. He'll often do the dishes and he always does the Jordan half of bedtime duty, but he is not the Weston Whisperer. Nor is anyone, really. I'm seriously considering some sainted mother's helper; I love that red headed angel-monster to the moon and back but I need to escape the cling. Just for a minute.

a slight variation of a recent 'gram of mine..but this is more or less any of Weston's waking moments

Naturally, all three of these would be ideal. But I feel that if I had even one! Sigh...the possibilities. I remember being grateful in that moment that, of all the blog skipping or skimming I've had to do recently (because of the dinner dance, I mean. I fell SO behind on my e-stories. There were like 55 in my feed at any one time), I hadn't missed this one of Jenny's about how these everyday, grueling, tiring trials and tribulations can be acts of love.

>>Our mortal toil here on earth is exactly that: work. A lot of it. No matter the circumstances or situation of one's life, nobody gets out without putting in some hard time. And children are a lot of work. In fact, they're kind of the perfect means by which those of us called to the married life can work out our salvation with fear and potty training. 

But they're more than just work, however ardently popular culture - and tired mommy bloggers like me - might try to convince you otherwise. They're also immortal souls. Little images of the Word made flesh, Who dwelt among us. And they deserve to be seen as more than accessories or add-ons to an otherwise 'perfect' and ordered life.<<

So I remembered that post - thanks Jenny - smiled at Jordan reassuringly and picked up Weston for another round of "let's trick him into being distracted by some toy in Jordan's room and then sneak out real fast and stay hidden from view and see how long he forgets that he needs my presence." Don't get me wrong, I still led a harried and rather frustrating day, trying to meet the quickly approaching deadline while trying to keep children happy and healthy and out of the pantry wherein there is always some inevitably accessible something or other that makes a colossal mess while my back is turned. But it goes a long way to have a good shot of solidarity every so often.

The dinner dance was super fun. Sean and I dressed up and got a little break from the babes; my siblings and a few friends and I sat around an outside patio table in ridiculously pleasant weather with some delightful alcoholic beverages; I didn't win anything in the auction but it was great looking around at the work we had put into it and the huge success that it turned out to be; we raised a really good chunk of change for an important cause. Not to mention, my sweet cousin who babysat the youths for us insisted "everything went so great!" (I later had my youngest sister, who I had sent over to help with Jordan, give me the real skinny. She informed me that "...yeah, Weston cried almost the whole time.." but I was so grateful that my cousin brushed it off and put on a brave face so that I could feel better about the night.)

And what is all this to say? Aside from a narration of my every complaint and whine? I don't really know, except maybe that being a parent is kind of a mysterious and wonderful thing. Kids - or my kids, anyway - do their very damnedest to give you hell, but they honestly can't help but be our little glimpses of heaven.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

case study

I was talking to one of my sisters recently, who is currently taking a child psychology class. I don't know why I never thought to take one back in my college hopping days. (I attended one..two..three colleges total. Not for extra degrees either. No doctorates here.) Psychology is fairly fascinating to me. Child psychology would be even more so, I think.

Anyway, my sister was telling me that personality formation generally takes place within the first three years of life. In other words, you can tell what kind of person a child will be - independent, generous, controlling, et cetera - by the time they're about three. Nurture notwithstanding, of course; traits can be attained through example and instruction and reinforcement, just as manners or reverence or whathaveyou can be learned and taught.

I had never heard of this three-year statistic, but danged if it doesn't make total sense. Jordan-girl, for instance: 100% who she is today as she was from hour one. She appeared physically fragile at birth

but it seemed as if she would never suffer an ounce of dependence in her life. She was alert, loud, willful and wonderful. Brown eyes that bored right to your soul, she had - and has.

Jordan of yesteryear has seemingly only changed physically. Oh I know, we've hit a lot of milestones since then. She converses, skips, hops, jumps and sleeps in a big girl bed. But she

is still she

And West-O. You want to know my first encounter with ex-utero Weston? They laid him atop me in Recovery after my c-section, and he LATCHED. Like, hard. He found what he wanted with no direction and just knew he was home.

6 months later, if he's not within a couple of feet of me, he's fretful. The boy is a sweet, good-natured, dependent lover of his mama.

But more fascinating to examine is the sibling dynamic. Would their relationship be so totally different if they were both boys or both girls? Or if Jordan had been a boy and Weston a girl? I look at Jordan, maternal and concerned, but SO in charge and sometimes controlling nearly to the point of bullying. Every morning Jordan asks if Weston can play with her in her room. She pulls out the kitchen set for him and sits next to him and flips through her books. But if he grabs something that "belongs" to her, watch out boyfriend. I've seen many a (minor) abuse delivered that Jordan has had to answer for. Meanwhile, Weston looks on adoringly and confusedly while Jordan plucks a hair from his head or pinches a fingerful of his fat. He loves unconditionally, as does she, but she is the Alpha in the relationship.

*Somehow Jordan has become hilariously honest. If I don't happen to see something mean that she's done, but I hear Wes whimper, I ask her pointblank and she answers with soulful browns: "I pinch him." or "I pull his hair." Even though she gets punished, she never fails to deliver the truth.*

Occasionally their relationship reminds me of one in my previous life....

Fortunately, my brother Luke is a happy exception to the "your personality at three is your personality forever" rule because he was a BEAST. And I was definitely a Weston. I just sat there smiling like a three month old idiot as he sat on me and watched my face turn red to purple in consternation. Ok Jordan's not quite like how Luke was, thankfully, but she does like to exercise power and authority, as he did. Mostly they're in love with each other and there's minimal refereeing involved but we'll see how it goes once Weston discovers how to use his significant weight to his advantage. Unless he just turns out to be a gentle giant, which is entirely likely considering his passive personality.

So tell me of your children's relationships with each other. Or your sibling relationships. I just think it's so funny the similarities and dissimilarities depending on age gap, sex, which sex came first, and all that. Am I the only one?

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

relentless for lent

So, this happened. It happened in the ten minutes it took me to clean the kitchen after breakfast. The greater part of me thinks that this is hysterically funny. Jordan lines things up - it's her thing. Puzzle pieces, food pieces, shoes -

- and every single solitary stuffed animal in her possession. Then there's the part of me that sees this...and gives up. Why bother? Does anyone care if I clean? Does it matter if anything looks tidy? It's just we three for most of the day, and do you think the two year old and the 6 month of old give two poops?

I give two poops Mom. I tucked them in my diaper for you.

Nope, they don't. So should I?


I have been on this weird, incredibly productive clean/declutter bender for the last two weeks. In fact, Sean completely deadpanned to me the other day, "Jessie -(and he only calls me Jessie when it's serious. otherwise it's Jess)- are you pregnant?" And no, I'm not, but it's a valid question. It's been nesting on speed around here. What I've noticed is this: I feel better that I've done something tangible with my day. I'm happier, and I treat people (husband+kids) nicer. I'm more patient. It's glorifyingly freeing to be rid of so much junk that has smothered the atmosphere of this apartment for three years. My physical environment is cleaner, therefore my internal environment is at peace.

After some contemplation, I landed on my Lenten resolution(s). It's usually something like no sugar, no candy, no junk. That's hard for me, but I haven't been buying that kind of thing of my own accord for quite some time now. My only indulgence is Hershey's chocolate milk on the regulah. So I don't think it'd be much of a sacrificial change to give that up this year. I have decided to DO more. Vague? Let me clarify. I need to stop laying around waiting for the day to defeat me, because it inevitably will if I let it. Instead, I will be making a concerted effort to accomplish even the menial, the trivial, the mundane. Homecooked meals every night. (Right now you all are like, yeah duh. But for me, not duh. I know, I'm awful.) A clean bathroom. Books read to my kids - with all the voices and all the enthusiasm. A made bed. A carpet that knows the glorious feel of a vacuum blowing through its hair.

I'm not saying all at once and I'm not saying burn out or exhaust myself. I'm saying, do something everyday! I want this place to become a welcoming environment. I want my babies to have good memories of Mom when she was young and of their very first home. I want Sean to not come home to me watching Finding Nemo alongside my young while the kitchen produces nothing but a feast of squalor in its undone dishes and unwiped counters.

I know, I know. Lent isn't about doing things for you, it's about giving things to God. That's what I'm hoping to do with this Lenten plan, though. I intend to DO in God's name, for my family's sake. Double whammy, see. So, in the words of this shirt that I absolutely must buy:

I wish you all a blessed Ash Wednesday and a successful Lent.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

hitting home

Guys, there has been some good internet out there lately. So good that I haven't felt the need to taint the web with my nonsense, not a bit of it. That's what Instagram is for (yikes I've been overgramming).

oh look, a non-grammed photo. Weston is unabashedly wearing his sister's tracksuit.

I have to say, it's pretty amazing going to these blogs for my stories on the daily or weekly, and reading something to which I can only nod and say yes. Yes. YES! I totally KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

This one by Kate nearly had me in tears with the solidarity of it all. She writes my feelings better than I could ever hope to express. In fact, next time a similar scenario occurs between Sean and I, I'm just going to shut up and open my browser to Blog de Rhodes.

This one by Dwija from a couple weeks ago was SO PERFECT. It came right at a time that I was starting to change my nightly prayers from "please Lord, let Weston sleep well tonight" to "please Lord, give me the patience and energy to deal with the crap Weston is going to dish tonight." And do you know, that tweaking of intention has helped immensely. Who am I to expect this to be easy?

This one from Chalayn about the recent snowstorm they had was so beautifully written:

I sat outside Saturday night and stared; soaking it all in and wanting to remember it forever - the beauty, the light, the silence. The change of pace, the traffic gone, the people inside keeping warm with their families, and - what intrigues me most - the fact that God made each snowflake unique, intricate, and fleeting. Much like us. All those delicate edges get lumped together on the ground, so much detail that most people can't even see, and the intricacies that gets completely lost in the night. He takes the time to create all that, how much more are we to Him?

Chalayn, you're making me feel guilty that approximately 100% of my content is vapid and/or grumbly.

This one by Katrina had me totally lol-ing because guess what I did only just last night? Sat in the McDonald's parking lot with a fat M&M McFlurry. There's something about a vat of faux ice cream laden with 12,000 candy-coated chocolates that brings zen to my frazzled existence. It just works.

Jenny's whole Wellness Project and her posts therein have been completely inspiring. It's something I, as a woman, should already know right? If we put a smidge extra effort toward our physical appearance - hell, a coat of mascara that monopolizes all of four of our precious seconds - we generally feel that our lives are slightly more...together. External order produces internal order, and all that. Yet I rarely set aside fifteen minutes to hair and makeup myself because I can't justify it. Diapers, you know. And breakfasts and breastfeeding. The clothing of the children and the fetching of the groceries. But when I do it, when I just DO it, my outlook on my day is better for it. I put effort into the people around me, why shouldn't I give even a minimal amount for myself?

This one by Ana was another one where I was like, yep. I do that; that happens to me:

The other night at the grocery store I was buying some trash bags and pushed aside a box that didn't look like the right kind to reach for the kind I wanted. When I pushed the unwanted box aside, I heard myself whisper an apology to it. I apologized to the box of trash bags for moving it aside and because it was not to be my trash bag of choice that night. Who am I?

Ha, oh Ana, I get you. Or I'll apologize to someone for the stupidest things ever. Like some kind person comes up and says "you dropped your keys!" and I'm like "oh I'm sorry!!" What?? I think the proper return here is, "oh thank you!"

I'm sure most of you have already read these, and if you haven't, get thee hence. So worth it. And I apologize for my lack of originality in just directing you elsewhere but I've been kind of SpongeBobby about blogging lately. The episode where the food critic stops into the Krusty Krab and SpongeBob* serves him the sacred Krabby Patty and the critic accuses him of forgetting the pickles, sending SpongeBob into a desperate spiral in which he questions his whole existence if he can't even make a Krabby Patty properly.**

Ok I haven't with the underwear on the head but I have stepped into my bra straps before.
And come to think of it, this is vaguely reminiscent of my apartment lately:
My analogy here should be translated thus: if I can't keep the living room toy-free for ten minutes straight, multiple sentences I construct on a webpage will likely be subpar or unintelligible.
*Blogger autocorrected my spelling of Spongebob to SpongeBob. This is America.
**my extensive knowledge of SpongeBob comes not from allowing my kids to watch it (if they started doing that obnoxious machine gun laugh I'd surely perish) but from my younger brother watching every season he could get his hands on back to back a few years ago. He was fifteen at the time. Seemingly overnight his preferences changed from the above to Breaking Bad  and Dexter. Ummmmm.
Have a good one, dear e-friends.

Monday, February 3, 2014

"i got the black lung, pa" - a poetic narrative

'Twas 3 o'clock last Monday morn
when Jordan stumbled out,
clutching a clean diaper
with a face all full of doubt

that the pain within her tummy
had anything to do
with the feelings that would normally
accompany a poo.

She shuffled toward the couch,
where her wakeful mother lies
these last few weeks in vain attempt
to flippin' ferberize.

And as she crossed the threshold
to the living room - my perch -
I heard that ghastly, loathsome sound
that made me up and lurch

toward Jordan, did I hurry.
Alas it was too late;
the tired gross beige carpet
by now had met its fate

by way of Jordan's insides
spilling out upon it.
Yes, it is of puke and wretched sick
that I now pen this sonnet.

Over hours four and twenty
(that felt a month or more)
Jordan and the toilet
engaged like ne'er before.

(And oh, that is your update
of how potty training's faring.
No big girl panties worn.
No triumphant trumpets blaring.)

It passed. It passed. It finally did -
as stomach flus will do.
But if you are not vigilant,
it'll pass right on to you.

So Tuesday night at half past ten:
here I set my scene.
Having settled nicely into couch,
I felt myself go green.

Most of you don't know me,
so I'll tell you in this breath:
puking tops my Fear List,
beating public speech and death.

I reassured myself
"It's the nightcap that you had.
Though I don't remember So-Co*
ever settling this bad."

*Southern Comfort & Ginger Ale. Never again.

I stalled for fifteen minutes;
'twas the longest I could hold.
I braced for the inevitable
and off the couch I rolled.

I tip-toed to the bathroom
(if Wes woke up, I'd die.)
and back and forth I went
as the gruesome night slipped by.

A couple things I noticed
from my stint on tiled floor:
toilet hinges look like goal posts,
so is throw up, like, a score?

And I think I like my hair
parted better on the left.
Which I never would've known
had hair-gathering not been deft.

Third, I glom to lyrics
that narrate my situation;
just one line ran over as
I manned my porcelain station.

(It was The National
that sang my plight, so dire
as I "live[d] half awake
in a Fake Empire.")

The flu has since abandoned
this apartment in the 'burbs.
I cling to hope that no one else
it seeks out to disturb.

I've met my throw-up quotient
for a decade at the least...
This has been the story
of Pansy and the Beast.

scot free
(therefore embarrassing photo publish sans permish.)

Sunday, January 26, 2014

apple of her eye

A few days ago I was all geared up to write this fantastically optimistic post entitled something totally lame like "How Jessie Got Her Groove Back." I've never seen that movie How Stella Got Her Groove Back and the context of the title is probably inappropriate in some way and not at all related to what I was planning on writing about. Stella was probably trying to "find" herself in some Eat Pray Lovey type of way after some breakup or trauma or something, and ends up stumbling in to some off-the-cuff relationship that gives new life to her life. I'd imagine.

I, conversely, was going to tell you guys about how, yay! There's light somewhere down there at the end of that tunnel, and not the kind that they tell you not to go towards because it means you're dying. After an embarrassing number of months, I felt that I had finally groped and tripped and wobbled my way in to a routine of sorts with these two shifty-eyed fireballs. Not in small part because it seemed that Weston had somehow reconciled himself to the night and was only troubling me for one feeding, if you please mum, then returning right back to peaceful repose. 3:30 a.m. had never felt so exhilarating.

After committing the Queen Mother of All Mistakes and telling one or two people that it's happened! it's happened! The prodigal sleep has returned!...alakazam. My blue-eyed angel by day re-tapped into his red-headed hellion by night alter ego and here we are. Hi Square One. We've met.

This morning,* after a humdinger of a night, I shuffled to our Nespresso latte maker (thank you Lord Jesus for finally allying my tastebuds with coffee and its powers and thank you Sean's parents for gifting us this amazing machine of wonderment) and, in what I can only assume was done under the duress and disorientation of 4 feedings in 7 hours, I threw the coffee pod to the bottom of my mug and stared at it. As if it was going to bippity boppity boil me some brew. I came to, and put the pod in its rightful home and nestled the mug under the sacred drip thingy, then went to the utensil drawer and grabbed a fork...with which to spoon sugar into my coffee. Thus does the morning of a winner begin.

*this post took a little longer to write than expected. by "this morning," I mean "Friday morning."

And SO, instead of post Bright + Shiny, I give you the above preface - for which I hope you had some wine to accompany all that whine - AND a delicious Apple Yogurt pancake recipe kicker. Oh Joy pinned this yum a few days ago and Jordan and I have enjoyed it like four times in the last week. Funny little observation: this is what apple pancakes look in all their pinned glory

fresh figs and pure maple and you know you'd see this in some hipster café
THIS is Apple Pancake via Jess
as they say on The Pinterest: nailed it
Anyway, their lack of pleasing aesthetic does not make them any less desirable to eat, shockingly enough, and they actually make for a relatively healthy breakfast. When they say Apple Pancake they mean Apple Pancake - there are four apples and it makes like six pancakes. Very appley. Perhaps I should write apple a few more times. Apples.
I changed a couple of things from the original maaaiiinnnly because I'm lazy and who has time to boil apples? Not this guy. Unboiled apples still perform to my standards, but those are lowish so you can decide for yourself. Also, in the original recipe it orders you to "whisk flour, baking powder, salt and honey together," but after quadruple checking, it seems they forgot to tell us how much salt in the ingredients. I put in about 1/4 teaspoon, and it works out fine for me. Alright then:
4 apples, peeled and grated (I use 3 Granny Smith and 1 Fuji for mostly tart with a leetle sweet)
1 cup flour (I use all-purpose but I bet you've got something healthier lying around?)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 tablespoon honey
1/4 teaspoon salt (as randomly decided upon by moi)
3 tablespoons Greek Yogurt (but I've been using plain whole milk yogurt from Trader Joe's)
1 egg
oil for frying (use coconut! the flavor has been fantastic)
butter & pure maple syrup
1// First combine the flour, baking powder, salt and honey. The first time I made this, I grated the apples first and they turned a little brownish by the time I finished the other instructions. Didn't affect the taste, I don't think, but it just doesn't look that pretty.
2// Add yogurt and egg and stir it allll up. Grate your apples and throw them on in. It will take a while to incorporate the apples fully because there are a LOT. And that's a good thing. Just make sure all your apple shreds are coated in the batter.
3// Heat up some coconut oil on your pan. Since I make this for Jordan and I (we've talked about how Sean don't eat no fruit, right?) I just fry them one at a time. But I'm sure you'll be more efficient. Throw a heaping spoonful of batter down, then flatten it all out. You know, like a pancake. This insures that the middle gets nice and cooked and the edges get nice and crispy.
4// On medium heat, these take about 3 minutes a side, I'd say. You be the judge. Once done, lay a nice thick slab of butter atop and dowse with some delish syrup. There are about 6-8 pancakes total, and we throw our leftovers in the fridge for next morning's breakfast. They keep nicely.
see, it's good.
Enjoy your Sunday. May your Masses be tantrum-free.