One Big Weekend - Four Small Posts... Part 1

This weekend we were sad to lay to rest Mike's kindly Aunt Bonnie, with the apple cheeks and great skin and the most expressive eyebrows I have ever seen. She loved her family and books and all children. We have lots of children's books in our collection which she purchased and inscribed for our kids at every gift-giving occasion. She had wonderful taste.

Throughout the weekend, we gathered with the extended family at the funeral home for the visitation, cried with the family at the funeral and shivered with the family at the burial. My schedule demanded that I go to the visitation at a time when I only had Ava with me. She was reluctant to go. I asked her if she'd ever been to a "viewing" before - I couldn't remember. She said she hadn't. I told her that there would be a line of Aunt Bonnie's children, siblings, mother and husband and that we would speak to them all. And at the end of the line, Bonnie's body would be in a casket, since some people would like to see her one last time before she is buried. ("And you can look, if you want, or not." "I won't!")

Ava watched the recieving line for awhile and asked, "So, all those people? They're saying they're sorry?"

"Yeah," I said. "They are probably saying things like, 'I'm sorry you've lost your mom,' or 'what a terrible shock.' But they are also saying, by being here, 'You are important to me. I'm here for you. You can count on my support in the bad times.'"

"Oh." I was proud that she was noticing and that she focused on the family and their loss instead of the fact that she didn't want to be there. And she was so GOOD at the social interaction with the adults. The only child at the funeral home at the time, all those inclined zeroed in on her to exclaim over her habit of growing, or who she favored in her face and build. Everyone she met, she hugged! Whoa, does she do comfort and grief great!

Everyone's loss experience is their own, but I often see them falling into two categories: Complete Shock by an unexpected death, or - like with my mother - Thank Goodness the Sickness is Over, which often comes with an extended illness. Aunt Bonnie had battled cancer twice, so I'm sure her family had spent time processing her mortality, but she actually died of a sudden, massive heart attack, which caught us all completely off guard.

Today, Uncle Carlyle's children all leave his home, returning to their own homes across the state. Uncle Carlyle, who looked down into the hole in the cemetary and said, "I love you, Sweetheart," before sprinkling his shovelful of dirt, is now going to have to figure out what The New Normal looks like in his life, where nothing is normal at all.

Festival of Carols

Brooks is thoroughly enjoying the wonderful music department which our high school offers. He is a freshman this year and has successfully infiltrated every corner of it as we add band, choir and orchestra concerts to the calendar this month. I believe the next step is clearly total world domination.

This is a busy weekend for us. Let me give you the run-down, for my organizational benefit as well as your entertainment. (Every time I talk to my devoted mother-in-law this week, she wants to do the run-down, too. "Now what's going on this weekend?" "Have I given you enough money for the tickets?" "Where is that concert located?" We did that conversation today. We did it last week. We'll do it again the next time we speak. She just doesn't want to miss an opportunity to support the kids.) Wed.: Tech rehearsal for Sophia's choir concert. Thurs.: Dress rehearsal for choir concert, middle school orchestra concert. Friday: First of three days of choir concerts. Sat.: All day chess tournament and second of the choir concerts. Sun.: Final choir concert, which conflicts with the high school orchestra concert. Immediately afterwards, we'll go to the church Christmas open house, hosted by the pastors.

These three days of choir concerts have become a meaningful part of my Decembers. Our local college puts on a Festival of Carols which involves all the music groups on campus and the children's choir which my children have been involved in. We first went when Brooks was a part of the choir and now, he's moved on and Sophia has joined the ensemble.

It takes place in the college's state-of-the-art performance facility, which offers gorgeous ambience and acoustics. The choirs and orchestras offer special pieces interspersed with traditional carols in which the audience is invited to participate. A large percentage of the audience is culturally Mennonite, and rich in choral ability, so the carols sound straight from the Herald Angels. I am in my element.

Here's what the Mennonites are not rich in: Sentimental Weepiness. From the third verse of the opening hymn, I am pressing my hankie to my mouth, trying to stifle the sobs and the Mennonites to my right and left look at me out of the corners of their eyes. Sobbing - It's just not a very German thing to do.

This wrecks me every, EVERY time, sung by the children's choir:

"And through all His wondrous childhood, He would honour and obey.
Love and watch the lowly maiden, in whose gentle arms He lay.
Christian children, all must be:
Mild obedient, good as He."

And then, children's and college choirs together (to me symbolizing the in-the-blink-of-an-eye "day by day" growth - whether or not the symbolism was intended):

"For He is our childhood's pattern
Day by day, like us He grew.
He was little, weak and helpless
Tears and smiles, like us He knew.
And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness."

I mean, shut up.

I have tried to explain how obviously touching those words are to others, but my sobs always interrupt. And when I manage to convey the message of the text, the listener always just blinks at me. I don't know if they are touching to anyone else.

Anyone?

My Latest Obsession

Let me introduce you to my new boyfriends and my latest obsession. The obsession is the NBC show, The Sing-Off, hosted by Nick Lachey. It's a game show, essentially, in which a cappella singing groups prepare a number or two, based on the theme of the week. One group is eliminated every show with the last group standing getting a record deal, I guess.

My new sweethearts are the Dartmouth Aires, Dartmouth College's oldest a cappella singing group. Lawd, these guys are good. And such personality! I just adore them. The performance above was done on Rock Legend Night. Each group was assigned a different Rock Legend (I use that term loosely, as Brittney Spears was one of the "legends") and had to prepare and perform a medley of that superstar. For me, it didn't hurt that they were doing Queen. I was the victim of a near-lynching last week on Facebook when I suggested that Freddie Mercury was more talented than Michael Jackson. Too soon, I guess.

Click on the above link now, thank me later. And tune in tonight for R and B night. Swoon.

I WAS Going to Write a Little Rant...

about a student family that does not see any need to meet the expectations of my studio. A student who will probably be asked to find another teacher at the end of the semester. It's ultimately not good for business to be known as the studio where the rules don't matter.

And then I thought better of it.

Last year, we carved our pumpkin on the front stoop of the house. This summer, I found THIS in the landscaping.



Apparently one little seed found it's way from the Gunk Bowl to the earth, took root and produced another little pumpkin to adorn our doorstep this year.

A more cheerful story.

Chicken Fricassee

The kids and I returned home on Monday evening from a quick and wonderful trip. I'll not say precisely where I went because I did get the chance to visit with, and interview, two homemakers that I admire. Those interviews will appear here at some point, and once I bring them into the picture, I think it's important that I make them feel safe by protecting their privacy as much as possible. Thanks for letting me into your homes, girls.

Our little trip coincided with the ending of Brooks' football season. Literally, we waited until he had turned in his equipment, and then left town. The season was good in the way it kept him active and involved with his peers, but it was havok for our family meals. Michael would delay leaving work until it was time to pick Brooks up after practice, which also delayed our dinner time for an hour. Because Michael wasn't home, I was overseeing the girls' homework and activities on my own. I hadn't realized how much I relied on my good husband for that.

What with one thing and another, my meal preparation has dwindled to sandwiches and semi-homemade kinds of things. My goal for feeding my family became Lack of Starvation instead of beautiful, tasty, lovingly prepared food. Having seen the end of football season, and the homes and tables of some inspiring homemakers, I rushed off the interstate and into my kitchen.

Last night we had fricassee de poulet a l'ancienne, or, more familiarly, Chicken Fricassee. From Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Prepared in this way:

1 chicken, cut up for frying
1 sliced onion
2 diced carrots
2 stalks of celery, diced
4 T butter
1/2 t. salt
1/4 t. white pepper
3 T flour
3 c. chicken stock
1 c. white wine or 3/4 c. vermouth
bouquet of parsley sprigs, bay leaf, thyme, tied up in clean cheesecloth



Cook the carrots, celery and onion in the butter in a medium hot skillet for about five minutes, or until they are almost tender but not browned. After, push the vegetables aside and add the chicken. Turn them every couple of minutes. They will get firmer, but not browned. Cover the pan, lower the heat and continue to cook for 10 minutes more, turning now and then.

Meanwhile, in another pan, simmer together the chicken stock and vermouth and herb bouquet. I have started to really love the taste of meat cooked in wine and this is the broth that will do it for you. Taste this stock for seasoning and add some salt if you think it's necessary.

After the ten minutes of covered cooking, use the salt, pepper and flour to coat the chicken. Cover and continue cooking for another 4 minutes, with another turn in the middle.



Pour the simmering stock mixture over the chicken and vegetables. Bring it all to a simmer. Cover and maintain for 25-30 minutes or so. You know, until the chicken is done. Stab a big piece and look for clear juices if you're not sure. Remove the chicken to a waiting dish.

Onion and Mushroom Garniture

Julia wanted me to use 16-20 tiny white onions, which I didn't have, so I just used another medium yellow one, as I had for the vegetables in the chicken. Also, 1/2 lb. fresh mushrooms, stewed in butter, lemon juice and water. Add the leftover stewing juices to the chicken in the next step.



From the chicken mixture, skim the fat, then raise the heat and boil rapidly, stirring often. The sauce will reduce and thicken. You will want about 2 1/2 c. for the sauce. (At this point, I spooned some of this into the risotto I was cooking as a go-with. I also reserved some for my chicken stock for a later meal.)

The sauce

2 egg yolks
1/2 c. whipping cream



Blend egg yolks and cream in a mixing bowl with a wire whip. Continue beating and add the hot sauce by tablespoonfuls until about a cupful has gone in, then you can add the rest and beat thoroughly.

Pour the sauce back into the casserole. Set over a medium high heat, stirring constantly, until it comes to a boil. Boil for one minute.

Correct seasoning, adding drops of lemon juice, salt, pepper, even a pinch of nutmeg if you like.

Arrange the chicken and mushroom/onion garniture and pour the sauce over all. Serve immediately.

French cooking is a little time consuming and fiddly. Though American food can be tasty, it is usually prepared quicker and more efficiently, thus missing the deeper flavors provided by all these endless steps. Let me know if you try it.

Here

Sigh. I started thinking about how important community is during Sunday School today. Our group was discussing a willingness to drop everything to serve where we are called. In the book we were reading, there were lots of references to people leaving their local lives to go live someplace desperate - "doing God's work."

A young guy in our midst - someone who is artistic and passionate by nature - who is single and can't decide on a college major so is working two jobs for which he is overqualified - said he was feeling really convicted. He works 'round the clock and "doesn't really DO anything." Never mind that he led worship that morning, chose music for the service and executed it fantastically. Never mind that he is home next to his mother who is battling cancer or that he is standing next to his dad who is strained and afraid.

I felt mad.

What is it about modern culture that trains us to despise our roots? That teaches us that if we've stayed in the county in which we were born, we haven't ACCOMPLISHED anything? Screw that. So if there is any hint of the Arrogance of Youth - thinking we're too big for this small town - I will not listen passively. I tried pointing out what he does for so many so that he would take seriously the ministry he already offers, but I fear it just came across as a way to let oneself off the hook from a true "calling."

Now, I believe that people CAN be called away from the familiar. I've told my kids that we would be happy for them and encourage them in whatever path they might be called to. But I've also let them know that they should not feel pressured to believe that their responsibility is to get as far from home as possible in order to feel successful. I've let them know that it can be a smart person's faithful choice to serve mightily in the home, community and family which made them who they are.

I stewed on this topic on the five minute drive home. I stewed about it while I cut up the butternut squash for our lunch's soup. The squash and I stewed alongside each other while I cruised Facebook and pieced together the story just unfolding of a family in my town reeling from a violent incident that occurred during the night.

A couple was waiting up for their two high school aged children to come home from a school trip. Their home was invaded and both husband and wife were attacked. The wife was able to call the police but by the time they arrived, her husband was dead. He had been a respected employee of a beloved institution in our town. His wife attends a prayer group that I'm in. She was also Sophia's chess club leader in elementary school and their son is a classmate of Brooks'. We are by no means close friends, but this is a small town and they have been in our lives. I still feel stricken and heavy with the news.

That prayer group had our regularly scheduled meeting this morning. Our leader had arranged for a pastor from the host church to meet with us and help us pray. We pieced together some more information about our friend's injuries and the surgery she had the previous morning. We learned who was caring for the kids and nodded knowingly as someone mentioned how tightly-knit their neighborhood is. We all expressed the lame but very intense desire to leap to our feet and bake casseroles for them.

I wait to discern how I can best support these people appropriately. I anticipate this man's memorial service, which I know will be flooded with the people of the community, who know how to come together in a crisis. I'm eager to hear from Brooks when he gets home from his day's activities how the school acknowledged the grief in its midst.

I know I can't articulate this quite right, but maybe you can absorb my meaning when I say that this episode of violence - leading to loss and grief and a season of healing - makes me all the more stubborn on this topic. I better hear no one say that the needs Here, the community Here and what I have to offer Here, isn't important.

They are so Impractical! I can wear them with Nothing!

I adore them.

(Allegria Poloma Mary Janes. In Midnight Garden!)

Reflecting on the Blog

Struggling with the blog. Struggling with life a bit, actually. Not at all in a Woe Is Me kind of way. But in a determined way. My kids have been back in school for a couple of weeks and my piano studio resumes it's lessons on Monday. This time with the kids out of the house and my wishes as top priority have vanished in the blink of an eye. I *thought* I would purge the clutter in my house with a garage sale the first weekend of the school year. However I totally underestimated how much time the garden, and the produce preservation, would require. In my desire to Do It Right, I postponed the garage sale twice and finally completed it this past weekend. I had such a plan to touch everything in my house and laugh as I listened to it plead for a stay of execution. I touched a lot. And I laughed at a lot of the pleas, but I know I could have another sale next year.


Why do I let my plans grind to a halt because I feel I won't do it well enough? Too much devotion to Planning and too little to Doing is what I'm experiencing. Whether it's the garage sale, the housework or the blog, Life interferes and robs me of my nerve and gumption. Here's where the motivation comes in. I need to conquer this ogre Procrastination and become someone who Does and not just Dreams.


Now to the blog. Life is hectic at times and I have failed at the discipline of regular writing, which was one of my goals. What can I do to Do My Blog Well? Feeling that the photos are what draws ME into blogs that I enjoy, I purchased a snazzy Nikon camera. No more Point and Shoots for me. They make cruddy pictures. I'm pleased with my camera and becoming more pleased with the photos it is producing. However, the big memory stick I purchased to put in the camera is apparently too big for my computer to recognize. Sigh. Another obstacle. I took the stick to the supermarket to put the camera's images on a cd to sidestep around this newest hurdle. I gave it to Tech Support (Brooks) this morning to have him put certain images on the computer so that I can write my post about canning beets with my dad.

"But I think our disk drive is broken," said he. "Yeah, I've put it in and the computer doesn't recognize that there's a disk in there."


Are you kidding me?

Next is my new delight in the blog Pleasant View Schoolhouse. BFF Rebecca has recommended it several times over the years. I honestly only became a blog-reader at the same time I began blogging - about a year and a half ago. So I'd check it now and then, when I thought about it. But just in the last week has it so captured my fancy that it's all I want to think about or talk about. Anna, the writer of that blog has a lovely asthetic that prettys all the aspects of the life that she blogs about. There are plenty of recipes, but her life, like all our lives, is about other meaningful things besides kitchen work. My blog started wanting to be like hers when it grows up.


I started the blog thinking that so many of my contemporaries viewed me as a marvel because I cooked like their mothers, in process, quantity and confidence. So many of them were not comfortable in the kitchen because they hadn't grown up in that room as I suppose I had and they didn't feel qualified to cook for their families as their mothers had cooked for them. I intended my blog to be an encouragement to them and a record for my children, should they ever be interested.

But I think I have things to say on topics other than kitchen work. There's more than one way to Feed a Family. I tend to their brains, their souls, their compliance, their rebellion. Expect to see plenty of kitchen work remain a focal point.


And still many memories of days gone by.


But my life is richer than just the square footage in the kitchen. I have meaningful work with kids who are mastering the piano.


And I'm pretty proud of myself at play, too.


I want to journal it all.

On Motherhood

Stuff I learned from my mother:

Selflessness - In the way she always convinced us she really wanted the smallest pork chop or the burnt piece of toast.

Work Ethic - I have a mental picture of my mom every Saturday evening, setting her hair in rollers for church the next day, her chin dropping to her chest as she nodded off with hairpins in her mouth, exhausted from the day's work.

Self-Sufficiency/Thrift - Mornings in the garden, before it got too hot. Evenings under the lamp of the sewing machine. Vacation days away from the government job, but hard at work canning in the summer kitchen.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. - "Kids, stop scuffling."
"Settle down."
"I asked you to stop."
"Kids!"
"OK, AS SOON AS ONE OF YOU CRIES, YOU'RE BOTH GETTING SPANKED!
(Actually, should this entry be called, "If you can't beat 'em, give them a beating?"

Individuality - In the days of my adolescent conformity, my mother was not one bit interested in my desire to not be noticed. I was constantly embarrassed by my simple family and my mother just shrugged and did as she saw fit. If it was raining, she pulled from her purse the little pouch with the rain bonnet in it, unfolded it from its accordion shape and slapped it on her head... while I walked twenty feet behind and pretended to study my shoes.

Ambition - I don't know how my mom thought she could go to college. It certainly wasn't a precedent in her community. Her own mother died when she was only two, and her older sister moved back to the farm with two young children, so Mom had babies on her hip from the age of ten. The family was rich in love, but not particularly lucky at farming. When Mom went an hour away to college, earned her degree and settled down two hours away from the farm, she seemed elegant and city-ish. (She was a school teacher and our town had 1200 people.)

Family is Precious - "If I happen to be in a coma when your baby is born, please make sure I hold him." (From the hospital bed in her living room.)

My mom offered me a lot during the 25 years I had with her. As a child, I felt like nothing was quite right if she wasn't at home and even terrible things were manageable as long as she was a part of the solution. There were times when my parents went out for the evening or mom had a meeting at church and I had to go to bed in a house where my mother wasn't. I would lie in bed and stare at the wall wondering how to sleep in such a house. The country road outside my bedroom window was not well-traveled and if the headlights of a car crossed the wall of my darkened bedroom, I would wait and hope that the headlights would slow down and turn into our driveway. Often they did not and that felt so sad.

My mom is gone now and I lost her too soon. She didn't get to hold my baby, coma or not. I remember the moment, a week into my own motherhood experience, that a wave of realization crashed over me. What I felt for my baby was WHAT MY MOTHER FELT FOR ME. And I never had a chance to let her know that I GET IT. And my grief started all over again.

But really, not all people have such great mothers. Or such moments of clarity. I'm lucky to have these reasons to be so sad sometimes.

I hope I honor motherhood as much as my mom did. As much as I learned at my mother's elbow, first-hand experience is a better teacher. The best truth I've gotten is the knowledge that I'm actually tough as nails.

OK, I've been mulling over deciphering the formula that makes a mother a warrior. I just keep landing on cliches, like the fact that we're nurses, chauffeurs, housekeepers, cooks, mediators, educators, coaches, philosophers, etc. I think it's all true, but everyone has heard it already, so it's lost the meaning of what I'm trying to say. I think part of it is that we ARE all of those things, but we do all those jobs while we're exhausted, grieving, angry, lost, sick, worried, lonely, misunderstood and unsure. And we do them not because its our job, but because we are compelled - by duty, by devotion, by dedication to our families.

Unglamorous, motherhood is. I never said it was pretty. Everyone else's needs come first and, while I sometimes get tired of it, I wouldn't have it any other way. How many Sunday mornings do I focus on getting everyone else dolled up for church, only to slam on my one and only coat of mascara in the parking lot of the church? I could be sitting, midstream, on the toilet, and if any of my children called me with urgency, I'd be running out the door with my pants around my ankles. Every one of us has been soaked in urine, diarrhea, breast milk, mud or vomit and kept on tending to another, simply because it needed to be done.

Last summer, I allowed each of my three kids to take a friend for a day at the beach. Great day, for sure, but no sooner had we pulled out of the parking lot and gotten on the interstate than we had a flat tire. A flat tire! With six kids in the van! It was hard to figure out how to change the tire, but I did it. Actually, for me, it was hard to figure out how to get the spare out of its hiding place! I got filthy dirty and aloof strangers felt they were doing their part by looking at me sympathetically as they whizzed by in their functional cars. But had they stopped and helped me out, I would have missed the triumph in doing a hard thing simply by putting my head down, being an adult and getting through it. And because I'm a mother, I did it while teaching valuable lessons: Here's how to change a tire. Here's where you put the jack. If you don't know the answer, look in the owner's manual. Oh, you tightened the nuts as far as they would go? Lemme see. (Craaank. Craaaank. Crrraaaaaannnnnnnk.) Your mother is still the toughest person you know.

I'm always confused by women who call in the coast guard whenever they are sick, busy or unrested - women who need someone with them when they take the child to their immunizations - because it might be hard. They are totally robbing themselves of the chance to find out what they can do. They can be the only one in the room, heck, in the WORLD who will make things better for another human being. Your child's head fits perfectly into that comfortable spot on your shoulder. No one else's feels as good to them. The way you do Christmas, or Sunday evenings, or road trips - is going to be the way your children think they should be done when they have children of their own. Doesn't that make you feel frikkin' powerful? It does me. I don't know if I've done justice writing about all motherhood has given me. It gave me a backbone and self-esteem and resolve and identity and it made me an adult once and for all. I'm nobody's princess. I'm a gladiator. A superhero. And I can feel great about myself because such a job will have an eternal presence in my family tree.

Snap Out of It!

Good grief. I've had a certain post I've been trying to finish for.... well, let's just say it's a recipe for the Little House Snow Candy.

Because I imagine this blog is to actually record my life, not just my meals, let me just say I'm in a bit of a funk. I think I have some strange breed of SAD, and it manifests itself in very late winter and early spring.

I'm not walking around crying or anything... not even really feeling sad most of the time. But my energy is so low and my interest level is, too. And so I associate it as depression because that's what the symptoms are. Every day I tell myself that I'll finish that blog post for sure (among other things) and here it is bedtime and I'm just too tired.

I actually prepared something interesting in the kitchen today (beouf bourguignon) and it didn't occur to me to take pictures of it. My kitchen is kind of a mess anyway.

The good news is: It's happened before and it seems to be seasonal. And I declare it over. Or nearly over anyway. We're taking a trip to The Big City on Friday and I hope to get a great restaurant review out of it. Also friends are coming over on Sunday and that will be a great time. Making plans and feeling hopeful...

Your,
Feeder of the Family

Candy Making

For the last couple of posts, I just dash off a couple of quick thoughts, imagining that the NEXT time I post, I will really have the time to actually WRITE. But here's the thing: My kids are on Christmas break and I need to play the Wii with them and read to them and bake with them and crush them in Scrabble. I also, realistically, need to address Christmas cards and page through recipe books and dash to the store for the holiday baking supplies and then fly back to the store because I forgot the sour cream. You know how it is.

Holy crap, here is another example: I just now took a break in the middle of this post to make sure the Christmas cards got out in time. I recently got a teasing, but unwanted, comment from someone about not getting theirs until after Christmas, so I felt the burden of getting this done TODAY. Brilliantly, I thought I'd go south to my tiny hometown's post office, where there is never a line, to get my Christmas stamps. If I went north to my current larger town's post office, it would be no closer and I would for sure wait in a sizeable line. Great plan, right? Right, except that, true to the small town post office form, I found that they closed up shop over lunch. When I got there, it was 40 minutes away from the time they would re-open. So I went to the large P.O. and waited in that god-forsaken line. (Why, oh why is there not a bilingual postal worker at a counter at all times?)

Anyway, that's done and now I find myself dashing off another quick post with thoughts and pictures from our family's recent candy making endeavor. Nothing fancy, but these are usual treats from our Christmas kitchen in recent years.

English Toffee

1 c. butter
1 c. sugar
2 t. water
4 chocolate bars

In a heavy saucepot, heat butter, sugar and water, stirring often until sugar is absorbed by butter. I've seen several descriptions to mark the point at which to stop cooking.... until it changes from yellow to amber in color, until it reaches 300 degrees, the hard crack stage. The method I use is to look for that change in color and test the hard crack stage by dropping a bit into a glass of water and checking to see if it turns to hard candy.



Next, pour the hot mixture onto a buttered cookie sheet. (Note: I doubled the above recipe and it didn't quite fill the cookie sheet.)



Immediately place pieces of chocolate bar evenly over the hot mixture.



I found that by the time I had placed the chocolate on the far end of the sheet the chocolate closest to me was already melted and ready to spread. Use a spatula to spread the melted chocolate over the hot toffee.



Put in a cool place and, once hardened, break into irregularly-sized pieces.



Pretzel, Hershey Kiss & M&M Candies (I don't really know what they're called)
Ingredients:
Equal numbers of bite-sized pretzels, Hershey's Kisses and red and green M&M's.
(As a side note, when I was a junior in high school, my beloved English teacher, Mr. Jordan, went down a rabbit trail with us in which we wondered whether the term "M&Ms" only applied to the candy in the plural form. Should a singular candy be referred to as, simply, an "M?" We wrote to the Mars company with our query and they responded, to our delight. Would you like to know the official answer? As it turns out, the name of the candy is actually "M&M's Chocolate Candies." That being the case, the singular form would be "an M&M's Chocolate Candy.")




Preheat your oven to 200 while you use your children as free labor to spread a layer of pretzels on a cookie sheet. Next,unwrap dozens (or hundreds) of the kisses and center each one on a pretzel. When the oven is warm, pop in the cookie sheet.




It doesn't take long to melt the kisses, maybe 4-6 minutes. Remove from the oven and press a festive M&M's Chocolate Candy into the center of each. Allow to cool and serve.

By the way, these candies might seem to fall into the category of candies that look pretty and festive, but which you don't actually like to eat. Not so. I really like the salty and the sweet together, the chocolate and the crunch. Yum.