Flobby Bay

I am not a cook.

I am a professional box opener.  And dumper-in-er. 

I also have mastered the art of the can opener.  Sadly the only time that my family has consumed fresh veggies is...well....uh....never.  But I'm sure that they were fresh when they were canned. 

I do make some stuff from scratch, however....like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  And hamburgers.  And eggs.

Just call me Flobby Bay.

I stand in awe of folks who can cook without the use of boxes and packets of highly processed powdery substances.  And I stand in even bigger awe of folks who can get their children to eat food that doesn't come out of boxes and packets of highly processed powdery substances. 

*Before you tell me, I totally get that I'm not furnishing my offspring with proper nourishment, but we're coming to terms with it.  Thus the reason for the Lightning McQueen vitamins that we munch on every morning with our Cap'n Crunch.*

So although I know nothing about braising and mincing and sauteing, I am, however, fluent in boiling, frying, grilling, baking, and "cutting up."  And I'm secure in my primitive boxhood. 

Ain't no shame here.

Because I've decided that I tip-toe on the edge of crazy just a bit.  I might not flambe geese or anything, but I know how to shake things up in the kitchen.

Hang on to your Kiss the Cook aprons....because.....

I DON'T FOLLOW PACKAGE INSTRUCTIONS.

Scandalous, right?  I know.

I don't wait for the water to boil before dumping in the noodles.
I never measure the milk and butter for mac-n-cheese.
I boil the noodles separately from the meat when making Hamburger Helper.
I dump-n-pour the Minute Rice until it looks right because then I don't have to wash the measuring cups.
I don't add a full can of water to Chicken Noodle Soup.

Can anyone else spell R.E.B.E.L.L.I.O.U.S. S.P.I.R.I.T.??

You scoff at my James Dean-edness?

Go ahead.  Laugh.  But I bet you are one of THOSE PEOPLE.  One of those package direction follower people.  When it says "2 cups of water" -- you add and pour little spurts of H2O until it comes right.to.the.line.  When it says "boil water" -- it has never crossed your mind to not let it boil.  When it says "450*" -- you have never punched in 451*.  Nope.  Not you.  You, rule follower, you.

So this is what I've concluded....

Although being a dumper-in-er speaks volumes about my lack of culinary expertise, it also points straight to the heart of my personality. 

I'm a natural rebel.  A rule-breaker.  A limit-pusher.  If there is a line, I'm going to cross it....or at least stare at it for a very long time.

But I've found that my well-behaved friends....the ones who let their water boil before dumping in the noodles....are born rule-followers.  It makes them nervous to go in the "out" door.  They drink a full 8 oz. of water with their medications, and they remember to take their contacts out at night.

So.....which one are you?  I bet I could already guess about most of you, so we'll see if I'm right! 

Are you a rebel?  Or a rule-follower?  Does it cross over in your cooking...ur...box dumping?

What does your dinner say about you?


(And if you just want to leave me messages about the health of my children due to the lack of my cooking skilz...save it.  I already pinned myself with the Mother of the Year Award today.) 

Just Cheesy

I have me some pretty cultured friends.

I have friends that not only know what talapia is, but they also know how to cook it.

My blogeeps post recipes that involve unboxed-menu options (like NOT a new cool twist on Hamburger Helper), and my tweeps do a dinner call every night that includes some of the same faincy schmaincy foods that confuse the heck out of me when I have to go out to eat at white table cloth restaurants with the husband for business dinners.

Seriously....these girls can cook.

And what amazes me even more than that is the fact that they feed it to their children. And apparently, the little people eat it.

I stand amazed in the presence.

Because the fainciest my cookin' gets is when I add a little extra Velvetta into the Blue Box mac-n-cheese. Just sayin'.

So today, I decided that I would break out of my comfort zone. I would, too, become a recipe blogess. I would document my cooking experience with pictures and then expose you to all the deliciousness.

You're welcome.

Because this one is amazing. Really.

I give thee.....

Melted Cheese On a Plate

Now pay attention. These directions are tricky.

1) Buy crackers (Ritz are my favorite) and shredded cheese (Colby Jack works for me, but do whatever you like) at the store.

2) Open the packages. (I told you this was hard core.)

3) Arrange the crackers on a plate. (If you are going to take pictures of this process, preferably pick a plate that does not have a chip in the side from when you dropped your favorite penguin mug on it.)

4. Douse sprinkle with cheese.

5. Microwave for 45 seconds. Or whatever makes you happy. Ain't picky.


6. This is what it will look like.


7. And this is the majestic goo that will cause you not to see results at the gym even though you go twice a day on some days. Not that I would know or anything.


Go ahead.

You know you want to try it.

You can even use goat cheese. Or feta. Or brie. Or whatever else you faincy cookers use.

Or you can just use the cheap stuff.

I won't tell on you.

Again.....you're welcome. Just call me Julia.

www.happybirthdaykeaton.com

My oldest rascal had a birthday yesterday.

And I only cried twice. Once because I thought about the fact that this is our last year in single digits (which really just means we're that much closer to puberty, and that scares the begeebies out of me) and the other time was when I was decorating the cake (which were caused by my intense hatred for all things buttercream at that particular moment....I have since forgiven the buttercream, and we are very much on speaking terms again).

Keaton started out his day at the dentist. What a rotten way to spend your birthday, I know. But for the 20 minutes Keaton was in the chair there was no other place he wanted to be. Thanks entirely to the laughing gas that was flowing freely.


And although this has nothing to do with Keaton, but because you might want to know, I ate this for lunch.

I actually didn't feed my children lunch yesterday, because I was too busy running my mouth with a couple of my besties, but I think 2/3 of them ate....while we were at Steph's. I think. The other 1/3...um....I'm not so sure about. Excellent parenting once again.

After a tremendous gab session where all things related to world peace and world hunger were not even mentioned at all unless in reference to things that Jim-Dad need not read about solved, I headed home to begin on The Project That Actually Made Me Understand Why People Jump Off Bridges....otherwise known as...

THE COMPUTER CAKE.

Yes. A computer cake.

Because, as I was informed by the little smarty pants, he has outgrown cartoon cakes. (Dad gum it...here come the tears again.) And, as I was also informed, he didn't think I could make Darth Vader. Standing up. With a light saber.

He would be correct.

So...a computer cake it was. How hard could it be, right?

I Googled a couple of ideas to copy (because this girl ain't embarrassed to totally rip off someone else's idea and call it my own...just keepin' it real) and tweaked a couple of my favorite ideas in my head.

Ahem.

This might have been my problem.

The whole tweakin' in MY head thing.

I started with baking 3 cakes. Yes. 3. (And don't act all shocked when all 3 cakes are devoured in less than 24 hours either....by 5 people....because we like us some cake.)

Then I channeled my inner Ace of Cakes and carved out some pieces for the MONITOR. And then I stacked them up. With cardboard in between each layer. Because in MY HEAD that would make it more stable.


And then I pretended like I knew what I was doing and "dirty iced" my cake. (I learned that on Ace of Cakes, too.)

This would be where it all started to fall apart. Literally. My blessed monitor swung this way and that way. Clumps of "dirty" chocolate buttercream were flopping and falling all over the ding dang place. Finally, I resorted to slapping walls of cardboard on all four sides to hold the stinkin' thing up. Geez Louise. Don't worry...I warned the family about inspecting each bite for chips of tree.

After it was all dirty iced....kinda, it was time to whip up the buttercream. YUMMO. It is possible that I slurped up a couple of fingerfuls, but I will deny it if you ask me about it. So don't bother.

And then mixed in the black.


And then it was time to put on the pretty icing. No pictures....because I was covered from elbow to fingertip in black buttercream. (Before you ask me....I don't like fondant. I like the real stuff, but after star-tipping my 7893rd black dot on that cake, I was wishing I had gone the whole fondant route.)

And now my fingers are permanently stained black. LOVELY.


Then it was time for the keyboard. And the mouse.

And finally......

Drum roll, please.............


If you hold your head just right, it isn't crooked.

All in all....I think it turned out okay. Keaton LOVED his cake, and he told me that it was the best birthday cake he's ever had. Love that kid.

Keaton's request for dinner was fish sticks and Ramen noodles.

No. Seriously. I'm not kidding.

So, we obliged.

And then we ate cake.

And more cake.

And even more cake.

And then we watched Shark Week......naturally.

Happy Birthday, Keaton!!!

You are an awesome kid. Love you from the stars and back and back again.

When Things Get Fancy, the Spaghetti Gets Going

If you've spent anytime around this rascal ranch very long, then you know it isn't a secret that I don't cook. And when I do cook it is the furthest thing from gourmet. Like Timbuktu far. Add the fact that we might as well have pitched tents at the baseball fields these past couple of weeks, and my stove hasn't seen much action. Unless you can count the fish sticks and pizza rolls that Keaton cooked his brothers for lunch yesterday.

Tonight, though, the boys and I decided to pull out all the stops. We were home, and we thought that we should do it up right.

Spaghetti is about the fanciest meal we have around these parts, and I count it as "cooking from scratch," although I use boxed noodles and canned tomato sauce, but whatever.

The boys got right to work creating their restaurant.

They made a sign.

If you aren't fluent in eightyearoldese, that says "3 Boys Spaghettioni."

And Sawyer is absent from the whole signage fun because just prior to this, he had slugged his brother in the stomach. And I didn't take a picture of him pouting in the chair.

Then they hung it outside.


Notice how excited Sawyer looks about the whole thing. Note....slugging your brother and being put in time out doesn't keep you from being forced to take pictures for your mother.

The staff of the restaurant also obviously forgot to tend to the landscaping before opening day. (Remember.....I don't do plants. I also obviously don't move the pots off the sidewalk that have the remains of former plants that I have killed.)

They made a menu.

They set the table. Tablecloth and everything. And even busted out the fancy candles. And wrapped the silverware in napkins.

They divvied up "jobs." And everyone got eyeliner mustaches. Except for me. Because goatee didn't match my outfit.

Keaton was the maitre d'.

Sawyer was the waiter. He named himself "Ostiano." Apparently it is authentically Italian. So says the Irish-looking redhead who was still being grouchy about having his picture taken.

Tate was the chef. Complete with a paper hat. Those bread twisty things....yay.....he did those himself. I think he washed his hands.

And I cooked the spaghetti. Which no picture was taken of. But, that's okay, because without a cool mustache, it just wouldn't have been that interesting. Although I did almost burn the sauce, which is pretty typical. I'm not a multi-tasker. Which could be why I HAVE to stick to one-step recipes!

Dad called and gave us the word that he was on his way home from his softball game. The boys scurried around to put all the last minute touches on the surprise dinner. We lit the candles. We turned off SpongeBob. And Keaton found some dinner music on my computer.

Good choice, huh? He said it was the most "Italian" thing he could find. Uh-huh.

The boys were so excited when Kirk walked through the door. They greeted him with their best Italian Redneck Arkansas accents. And Sawyer took his order on an old Mary Kay pocket calendar.

Excuse the grossness of the husband.....I think he was less than thrilled that I was taking pictures of him in his fresh-off-the-softball-field state. All for the sake of the blog, honey, all for the blog.

After a yummy dinner, fantastic mood music (which was set on repeat...much to my delight!), and a near-choking incident with Chef Tate (never a dull moment!), Kirk was presented with the bill.

And the announcement was made that tomorrow night is Mexican Restaurant night.

And that Tate is to play the maracas.

Excellent.

Cookin' Schmookin'

I've been rambling on for weeks now about the bliss to behold that is summer. I've chattered about little tan lines on the backsides of the rascals, about sunkissed cheeks, and flip flops out the wazoo.


And today I did something about it.


The rascals and I headed to the water park. And it was summerliscious heaven. And because it was the right thing to do....I took pictures. But, they aren't very good. Because I haven't mastered the art of photog with Rosie.






Aren't they the cutest?


This next picture of me, taken by Sawyer, is not the cutest. By a long shot. But, I'm all about keeping it real....so here is me. In my new swimsuit. Dishing out cash for icees and ice cream sandwiches.




We were there for a couple of hours, and then we packed up our beach towels and goggles and headed for la casa. Because I didn't want Sawyer and me to turn into extra crispy fried chicken on our first day out in the sun.


Providence, I tell ya. Providence.


Because when I opened my front door, I smelled burnt cheese. And instantly remembered that I had set the crockpot before we headed for the pool just 3 hours earlier.


And then I walked to the crockpot and found this.



That would be the remains of this fabulous recipe that looked fool-proof. Obviously not. Me being the fool.


You see, I have all these friends that can cook. They are always raving about their fancy-schmancy new recipes that they have found and going on about their gourmet meals that simmer in their crockpots all ready to eat for when they come home from romps with their children.


So I decided to feed the family something other than mac-n-cheese tonight and branch out. After all, I was romping with the children today, so why not have dinner waiting for us when we returned home. Sounded brilliant.


Tiffani is always going on and on about this website, so since I heart Tiff so much, I thought I'd start there. I found a link for slow cooker recipes and one of the first ones that came up was this recipe for Slow Cooker Dump and Go Cheesy Chicken. The ingredients were family-friendly, and the directions were me-friendly.


So, I dumped in the ingredients, and I went. Just like the name of the dish instructs.


Look at this part:


Cook on High for about 6 hours.


That's right....it says to cook the stuff that I just dumped in the crock pot on HIGH and leave it for 6 HOURS.


So I timed out the whole thing. I turned it on HIGH at around noon, knowing that it SHOULD be ready for us to devour around 6:00. Things were moving along smoothly.


Back to walking in the door from the pool.


After only being gone 3 HOURS.


3 HOURS!


Wait. Did you forget what it looked like? Here's a refresher:



Yes. It's burnt. It's scorched. And it stinks.


I have no idea what went wrong. Maybe I just have a nuclear powered slow cooker. Who knows? I'm not sure why I even try, because Martha Stewart in no way, shape, or form lives here. But what I do know what the family is eating for dinner tonight.....


Mac-N-Cheese.


And the dog gets the cheesy chicken....maybe that's why they call it "Dump and Go."


UPDATE**So the husband is now playing Fire Marshall Bill and banning me from CrockPot Romping. I'm in turn subjecting him to meals of mac-n-cheese for the next eleventy hundred days. Take that, Bill.**

Yummy, Yummy Tiger Butter!

Yummy!

My new favorite sweet (and cheap and easy) sweet snack is Tiger Butter! Have you ever had it? If you like chocolate and peanut butter then you have to try it!! (Sorry, Mich!)

The boys and I were craving some yesterday, so we hopped in the kitchen and got started. Well, first we "hopped" to Wal-Mart to buy the chocolate, but then we got started!

All you need is:

White Chocolate (I use almond bark, but you can use a package or two of white chocolate chips)

Milk Chocolate (I use a package of chocolate chips, but you can use any milk chocolate)

Peanut Butter (I just spoon as much as I want in there, maybe about a cup and a half, but there are no exact measurements, so just do what looks good!)

Melt the white chocolate and milk chocolate in separate saucepans (according to your package directions). Add the peanut butter to the white chocolate after it is melted. Stir over low heat until smooth.

Spray a cookie sheet (the kind that has sides, not the all-flat kind) with cooking spray, and then pour the white chocolate/peanut butter mixture in the pan. Spread it out. Drizzle the milk chocolate over the top (use it all!), and then, with a butter knife cut through the drizzles, so that it swirls. It will look really pretty.

Put it in the freezer until it hardens. Then cut it and EAT IT ALL UP!!!!!!!

Here is Tate while I was melting chocolate. I made him stand on a chair so I could take his picture. He is all scrunchy-shouldered because he thinks he's going to get burned...good for him, I guess!

Here is Keaton stirring the chocolate.

Here is Sawyer ready to eat our yummy treats! I give them 2 thumbs up, too!!

My kids love to help make this because it is super easy, fast, and fun! Plus, they really like the end result!!!!!!!!!

Hope you like it! If you don't, send me your left-overs, I'll eat them!! :)