We are not indifferent to the allure of the fabulous pumpkin. In fact, we fall under its spell every autumn, mostly because it means we get to whip up these favorites for our family again.
These are great recipes one and all. They are so great in fact that they caused us to get a tad emotional about the canned pumpkin that makes all of these recipes not just delicious but ridiculously easy. But last week there was a little parking lot drama that has left us feeling a bit sour on our good buddy pumpkin . . .
. . . Which means it’s apple’s turn to take center stage! We have the perfect recipe to highlight just how wonderful, moist, and delicious the humble ole apple can be too!
Erin’s mom Peggy has used this recipe longer than she has been parenting Erin, so it has a little over forty years of rave reviews to back up ours. In case you needed another reason to just click the link, this recipe is also so easy that the last time we made it, the six year old assembled it. Yep. That’s the kind of easy we’re talking ’bout. It would be perfect gracing that dessert table at your Thanksgiving table too. Just sayin’.
Ever have those daydream-y conversations with your friends? You know, where you ponder random impossible scenarios –
“What would you do with a million dollars?”
“What actor would play you in the story of your life?”
“Can you describe a world where the jeans in your closet always fit and dirty socks make it directly into the hamper without a 5 day waiting period on the bathroom floor?”
Get our drift? Well how about this one?
What celebrity would you invite over to your house for an interview and how would it go down?
Okay, that last question is a daydream for us, but it’s not random or impossible at all for our friend Ilana from Mommy Shorts. She has a web show on Ulive-The Mommy Show– where she does just this with her daughters Mazzy and Harlow. The episodes are short and SO entertaining – like tapas for your funny bone if funny bones could actually chow down on some potstickers. They are classy and hilarious versions of every conversation you’ve ever tried to have with an adult with your child by your side.
Here she is with Taye Diggs. (We know, right!?!) You can see the whole show here.
AND she gets the celebrities to do things in her house! (Ilana is more than kinda on the brilliant side.) Taye Diggs conquered her child-proofed toilet after FOLDING HER LAUNDRY and she got Rachel Dratch to fold up her stroller. Actually, we have our suspicions that Rachel might still be there wrestling with it.
See if Rachel ever did conquer that stroller here.
But what we cannot get over is how good Ilana’s house looks. We would be in a stone-cold-flop-sweat panic trying to get our disaster areas homes ready for camera crews and celebrities. It stressed us out to even daydream about interviewing a celebrity . . . until we remembered Ilana got shizz done in her house, BY CELEBS!
So in our fantasy we would have Martha Stewart over to our houses for interviews because no matter what you say about her, that lady has some skills. And when we say “our houses,” we really mean Ellen’s house because let’s face it, with Erin’s five kids she spends way too much time in her car to even schedule an imaginary interview. It’s sad. We know.
So come with us if you will as we imagine Ellen’s interview with Martha Stewart . . .
First, we would lure her here with a luxurious linen invitation woven from the finest flax east of Cleveland and custom engraved with ink made from butterfly kisses. We might lead her to believe that it was “The” Ellen contacting her to hand over her empire. We said “might,” but we can be devilish when the need strikes.
We’re imagining her not even getting past the front door before Ellen’s house gives her pause.
Martha: Well, good morning Ellen. My you look so much more spritely and blond on TV.
Ellen: Well, you know what they say, the camera subtracts twenty pounds and adds blond highlights.
Martha: I’m also, shall I say, intrigued by your autumnal entry decorations. Those don’t look like $50 Peruvian alpaca woolen boutique cobwebs.
Ellen: No siree, Martha. Those are authentic. We are reasonably sure they’re not from a black widow, so there’s that. Safety first.
Martha: And is this actual mildew on your stoop?
Ellen: I think you’re starting to understand that I’m all about authenticity.
Martha spins on her heel and dashes into the cornfield next door.
Ellen: Wait! I wanted to show you my garage!
Martha: I’ll be right back! It’s a good thing!
An hour passes where Ellen might have gotten a shower AND a cup of coffee if Martha had not bugged her every five minutes for a machete, a drill press, and a box of band-aids.
Martha: Knock, knock.
Ellen: Seriously, Martha? Don’t you think you’re jumping a couple of comfort levels by knocking on the shower door?
Martha: I want to show you your new gorgeous front door. Here’s your robe. My, is this synthetic?
Ellen: Get out. I’ll be right down.
Martha: Are these cosmetics from the drugstore?
Ellen: OUT!
Martha: By the way, could you exit from the back of your house and circle around front so you get the full presentation effect?
Ellen: Sure, whatever. Just stop throwing my concealer into the trash, I need that.
Martha: Yes, yes, you do. And you could stand a visit to the Bolivian Royal Beeswax Salon too. Just because it’s fall does not mean it’s a good thing to skimp on grooming.
Ellen does as she’s told and comes around to find this.
Martha: I always travel with a full wardrobe to complement any decor.
Ellen: Right. The wreath is great and I’m sure it won’t have birds attacking my front door AT ALL. But remember, I wanted to show you my garage? Here, put on this blindfold so we can get you through my house without any more sidetracks.
Martha: Is it made from the silk of Mandarin worms fed only on mulberry blossoms and dreams?
Ellen: Suuurrrrrrrrrre.
Ellen leads Martha past the piles of laundry, papers, and dishes, whips off her blindfold to reveal . . .
Ta-Dah!
Ellen: Work your magic, Martha!
Stunned silence.
Ellen: Martha?
Martha: Is that a circa 1950 fainting couch upholstered in the original golden brocade fabric with a rare Turkish Easter Bunny angora throw laying across it?
Ellen: You hit the nail on the head with the couch, but I’m pretty sure the blanket is polyester from Walmart.
Martha: No matter. I just need to lay down.
Ellen: Take your time. There’s plenty of chips and soda past it’s expiration date on the shelf over there. Just make me a palace.
This weekend in eastern Maryland was a pumpkin patch strolling, nature hike taking, fire pit gathering, corn maze avoiding gift of perfect autumn weather. See?
All fall fun depicted in this photo is a lie
Yeah. None of that happened for me because at exactly 8:10AM on Saturday I was zinged with the worst pain of my life right after dropping my tween off for her babysitting class car pool. Luckily, when I arrived back home, my husband still hadn’t left for work.
In fact, when he came out of our bathroom, he immediately sensed something was wrong.
“Sweetheart, why are you curled on the bedroom floor in child’s pose sobbing?”
I joke. He doesn’t know what child’s pose is. And he might have been a bit more alarmed, but he wasn’t panicked either. I have my M.D. and while I’m not practicing, my family is pretty confident I know what to do when things start to spiral and all they need to do is listen to me.
Unfortunately in this case, in my agonized state, I let my inner “the worst of woman” throw in her two cents. You know, the voice who says, “Don’t be a bother. Going to the Emergency Department seems awfully dramatic.”
Despite the fact the differential diagnosis in my head was ectopic pregnancy, ovarian cyst, kidney stone, or appendicitis, the words that came out of my mouth were, “Take me to the urgent care center.”
And thus, I tortured myself with a detour through medical incompetence. Long story short, I was seen by a non-physician care provider in-training. She and her supervisor where distracted by my history of kidney stones and never considered it could be anything else. I was actually writhing in pain in front of them, but their plan was to send me home with antibiotics to treat a urinary tract infection even though my urine was normal.
Public Service Announcement – It is nearly impossible to be in that much pain from a kidney stone and NOT have red blood cells in your urine. Apparently, they missed that class, so you the public should be aware. I really don’t know how non-medical lay people ever get the correct care.
She did throw in a cover-her-assets,“You could also go to the Emergency Department.” Duh. My inner dumbass had already stroked out from the pain, so no arguments there. She did give me two Tylenol3 which were as helpful as pissing on a wildfire.
Thirty minutes later we were at the ED. Apparently, the term “Triage” was just a catch phrase for them, not a concept they rallied around in practice since nothing about my obvious distress or vital signs moved me up in line. My blood pressure was 178/98. In layman’s terms: Not quite “holy shit,” but definitely in the arena of “yikes.” If that elevation wasn’t caused by pain, they might have wanted to entertain the thought that I was having a vascular event. Just sayin’.
To their credit, they were probably thinking pain since I finally got some IV morphine . . . but only in a dosage equivalent to throwing a bucket on my wildfire. Apparently my husband, in his professional work attire, and me, in my 5K souvenir sweatshirt, were poster children for drug seeking junkies. I was still writhing with pain, but my moaning ceased and that’s all they really want in the ER – for you to shut the hell up.
My ER doctor obviously paid some attention in med school because he dismissed the notion of kidney stones, moved me from the “She Might Be A Faker” section of the ED to the “Better Treat Or Face A Lawsuit” area, and ordered an ultrasound to check for ovarian cysts.
The tech performed a very rigorous vaginal ultrasound –and by rigorous, I mean she was gunning to be the first person to view tonsils via the Hoo Haa Highway. Despite her enthusiasm, she was unable to find the blood flow to my right ovary, indicating it might be twisted. This, in retrospect, should have been taken with a grain of salt since she couldn’t really find my left ovary either. At all. Why was the grain of salt needed? Because an ovary usually doesn’t twist unless there is a tumor in it.
A good ol’ fashioned freak-out would have been appropriate here. However, radiologic evidence of pain had finally cleared me from being a manipulating crack head, so I was awarded with a dosage of pain meds equivalent to spraying my wildfire with a fire hose.
But that’s not all I won! In addition to a good buzz, I received a looping vertigo-inducing ride to Labor and Delivery through two miles of the bumpiest, gut-jarring corridors this side of Calcutta for an audience with an overworked-on-call-for-the-weekend OB/GYN! Complimentary exploratory laparoscopy included!
De plane, De plane!
God bless L&D nurses because I was welcomed like a guest on Fantasy Island with a cocktail of Phenergan and morphine that finally dampened my pain like a fire-fighting plane come to save the day by dumping sky jell-o.
So let’s talk about this pain. I’m a lady who has gone through both childbirth and kidney stones, but this pain was obnoxiously worse. Not the worst pain in the world, but in a street fight it kicked the snot out of labor contractions and stones . . . and took their wallets. It was a sledgehammer slammed inside of my hip coupled with a steady level 9 mushroom cloud of pain that radiated to my groin and back that just NEVER LET UP for ten hours. At least contractions come in waves. And you get a baby.
I was wheeled to Pre-Op, in relief, thinking I would be operated on by 6PM. That time came and went. I understood because my surgeon was also the OB on call. Babies are unpredictable. I get it. You know who DID NOT understand? The anesthesiologist cooling his jets for my case. He was angry and I was his punching bag. Literally. His replacement of my IV, if not quite assault, at least would have earned him a trip to the principal’s office. He SMACKED my old painful IV and my new, equally painful IV — he inserted it over my wrist joint – FOUR times.
Don’t worry, I’m writing the letter. At the time I told him he was hurting me, but I checked my outrage. He was “putting me to sleep” after all. I was banking on him controlling his tantrum enough to not kill me because that is A LOT of paperwork. Hey, even without me scolding him, he scraped the bejeezus out of the side of my throat when he intubated me. Good thing I have lots of practice talking to hospital administration.
But sweet blessings balanced out for me when I finally met my surgeon. Even though she never witnessed my full-out distress, she believed my story. So when my ovaries proved to be the models of fit fecundity, she called in GI to vanquish my appendix and restore my right lower quadrant to a happy place fit for rainbows and unicorns once more.
Also an ouchie. This is the trocar they shoved through my belly button to allow admittance for the paparazzi, I mean, surgical camera.
Despite my relief, I still had the surgical discomfort of a thousand sit-ups to make me squirm. I had undergone a laproscopic two-for-one: my uterus whipped around like a joystick to view my ovaries AND my bowel “run” like a toddler pulling a cat’s tail. But this was minor compared to the pain from which I had been delivered. It was my party favor from the anesthesiologist – that half-assed IV he rammed into my wrist – that kept me up all through the wee morning hours. My IV alarm sounded EVERY. FIVE. MINUTES.
Perhaps Dr. ImportantPants will one day experience his very own Circle of Hell — one where he is stuck in a never-ending DMV line while being serenaded by an eternal low-battery smoke alarm chirp while simultaneously being smacked and jabbed by a sadistic boar. I know it will be devoid of the fabulous nursing care that I received from women who attended to my comfort, kept my care on track, laughed with me after I took out my own IV, and got me the hell out of there early the next morning.
To these angels and my surgeons, I say “Bless You!” To that slimy worm of a vestigial organ I say an edited-for-G-rating, “Good Riddance!” You know I’m talking about the appendix and not the anesthesiologist, right? On second thought, if the shoe fits . . .
