March 7: Cream-Filled Chocolate Sandwiches

Homemade Oreos. What's not to like?

Actually, I can't vouch for how good Cream-Filled Chocolate Sandwiches (pg. 95) are because I didn't even try one. Don't know why. They just didn't appeal to me. But James and the boys liked them. James said they were, indeed, a lot like an Oreo.

They intimidated me, I think, because they are huge. I don't have a 1.25-inch ice cream scoop. Had to use a 2-inch scoop instead. There's just something about a 2-pound cookie that puts me off.

I guess there's another trip to City Kitchens in my future. Unnaturally large cookies are what happen when you lack the right equipment.

I'm looking out the office window at more snow. Sigh. But under that snow I can see Renee's purple heather--and a robin just caught my eye hopping by under our rhodies. So this snow doesn't scare me. As long as the roads stay clear so the buses can run tomorrow, it can snow all it wants.

It has been another intensely domestic weekend. Lots of housework and errands. James is getting the boat ready for fishing and the boys equipped for spring sports. I don't know how we're going to manage with two boys playing three sports through June. And James will be in Palm Springs for two weeks in April. I can't even think about it.

Overwhelmed has been the theme of the week. Tuesday night I was so paralyzed from thinking about all I need to accomplish that I couldn't even eat. Between work (which is uncharacteristically demanding) and home responsibilities, I felt like I was drowning. So, I turned to my favorite coping mechanism: list-making.

Now I have lots of little pieces of paper floating around my purse screaming barely legible words that only I can decipher. I take a distinct pleasure in striking those words out of existence.

For example:

"Call Gretchen" (i.e., make hair appointment). Done.

"Camp Casey stuff" (i.e., get supplies for Christian's fifth-grade camp trip). Partially done.

"Kim's letter" (i.e., write letter about LapCorp dropping off the Regence network). Done.

"Call Trish" (i.e., make appointment for annual physical). Done.

"Jeff's section" (i.e., start working on my chapters of the Regence brand book). In progress.

"Cham" (i.e., brew homemade chamomile hair rinse). Done.

"Pick up book" (i.e., check out on-hold book at library). Library sent book back. But it counts as a cross-off.

One other item on my list was "Call VV" (i.e, call Grandma VeVe to wish her happy birthday). I happily did that Friday afternoon, the day she turned 91. My Grandma VeVe is something else. She still lives in the house my grandpa built during the war. She still drives. She still works in her yard. I know people in their 60s who aren't as sharp and independent as my grandma.

When I was growing up, my cousin Heidi and I loved to spend the weekend with Grandma VeVe and Grandpa Russ. During one of those weekends Heidi remarked to me, "Isn't Grandma sweet?" Always inclined to agree with everyone, I replied, "Yeah." But inside I didn't agree with her. And I felt guilty about that. It was only much later that I could look back and see that I was right--and that I shouldn't have felt bad about it.

I can think of a lot of words to describe my grandma. But my definition of sweet wasn't high on that list. When my 10-year-old self thought of sweet, I pictured the stereotypical sweet little old lady with the white bun. That wasn't my grandma.

Thoughtful, generous and kind, yes. But intelligent, independent, outspoken, stubborn, funny, saucy, sassy--those words worked better. VeVe taught us to play poker and Mercy. She hated it when Grandpa slapped her on the butt and called her "Cookie." She likes fast cars and crime novels and was the only grandma I knew at the time who used the term "piss on you."

My grandma does have her sweet side, but if I had to choose one just word to describe her, it wouldn't be sweet. In my mind, it doesn't do her justice. At 41, I've seen less than half the life that she has. When I think of all that she has seen, done and accomplished in 91 years, I'd say that the term I'd use today is role model.

Ninety-one years. That makes my to-do list look pretty tame.

Happy Birthday, VeVe!