August 03, 2009

ribbons and recipes

August 03, 2009/ molly balint

Last Tuesday afternoon, Emma and I found ourselves scrambling around a sticky hot kitchen. While I gave her directions on measuring this, leveling that, and "do you know what it means to cream the butter and sugar?" and "you should really crack the eggs in a separate bowl first, but we don't have time for that."; I also fielded the whining from a jealous little sister, "You never let me do anything in the kitchen!" and tried to comfort and keep tabs on my three house guests who I worried were wilting in the heat and bored out of their minds.

For the two days prior, we'd lost electricity in a storm that seemed to settle in and swirl around our valley. And so this day, fair day, we were left to prepare almost everything.

We were multi-tasking wonders--between baking and measuring, she'd do another touch-up on her painting. I'd dry the paint with the hair dryer while she wrote out the labels for her photography--I don't want to talk about how many times we had to redo the labels.....while the cake baked, she changed her clothes, threw her hair back in a ponytail and we searched for our gate passes and read through the all directions one more time.

I quizzed her on things I thought the judge might ask about each of her projects:

What kind of paints did you use?
What's the name of your cake?
At what temperature did you bake your cake?
What kind of camera did you use?

And I tried to give her gentle nudges of things she might want to share with the judge:

You could tell her that the eggs are from your own chickens.
You could tell her the story about how you finished your painting and then your little sister got into the paints and covered it in black.
You could tell her how your mother is this amazing photographer who takes stunning pictures and she taught you everything she knows and she has this photography project called ha......(kidding. i didn't say any of that. of course.)

And right on schedule at 4 o'clock, we all loaded into the car, her bag carefully packed with half a cake on a pretty teal plate, her photographs and her painting of a sheep. We made our way to the fairgrounds and found the judging table for the Clovers--the children who aren't quite old enough to be full-fledged 4-Hers yet.

She walked up to the table. And I stepped back.

The judge was sweet--overflowing with compliments, asking sweet simple questions, nowhere near as difficult as those she'd fielded from me. And I smiled as I heard Emma tell the judge the story of the ruined and rescued painting.

And then her things were carried away, into the big home arts building under the green flag of clovers. Set on display among other children's projects--birdhouses and scrapbooks, knitted turtles and cross-stitched pillows, model rockets and strawberry jam.

When we came back to the fair Friday night, I believe she entered the fairgrounds skipping. So proud of that little white card in her hand that proved she was a card-carrying 4-Her. So excited to show her Daddy her projects on display and dying to see those silky green ribbons she knew would be hanging from each one.

So, I thought this morning in honor of the sticky hot fair days that are behind us, I'd share Emma's recipe for Sour Cream Pound Cake. A recipe given to me years and years ago, which we've since made our own. It is so good and just the right amount of sweet. One of the judges even arrived at Emma's table, fork in hand, "I just have to try this cake." And afterward, I heard her whisper in Emma's ear, "You make one awesome cake little girl." and she reached for one more slice.

Enjoy.

COUNTY FAIR CAKE

3/4 c. butter, soft
2 1/4 c. sugar (and that's why it's so good)
4 eggs
2 1/4 c. flour
1/4 t. baking soda
3/4 c. sour cream (i like to make it an overflowing 3/4 cup.) (can also be subst. w/ yogurt)
1 t. vanilla
1/2 t. lemon extract (optional. we never add it)

Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, beating after each. To creamed mixture add sour cream and flour mix, alternately. Starting and ending with the flour mix. Mix until just blended after each addition. Stir in flavorings.

Pour batter into a greased and sugared (that's the key) bundt pan. Bake at 325 degrees for an hour or until toothpick comes out clean. Cool in pan for 10 minutes. Remove from pan onto a wire rack and continue to cool. Sprinkle with powdered sugar.

June 25, 2009

ONE simple question, no. 7

June 25, 2009/ molly balint

Sometimes it's hard to be five. Especially when your older sister is off gallivanting and swimming and having who knows what kind of fun with a friend, and you're stuck at home with your boring old mom, and your little sister who repeats everything you say and fights you for the tree swing.

This is when the mantra begins, "What can I do that's FUN?!?"

If you asked my mother, I'm sure she'd back me up on the fact that I tended to be the perpetually bored child. Especially on Sundays. But my boredom, if I recall correctly, usually led to good things like puttering down at the stream or walking around the house with a tape recorder--reading the newspaper and writing my own radio ads--many of which involved a flushing of the toilet and lots of hushed giggling in the background.

I believe boredom is a good thing for children to experience. Because it often leads to amazing bouts of creativity.

However, it only seems like karma that Mary would be asking me the same question I'm sure I hounded my mom with for many, many years and many, many lazy Sunday afternoons.

Yesterday, I saved the day with painting en plein air. It did the trick and got us through a tough patch of boredom until Dan got home from work and Emma returned from her playdate. (only to drown her sister in stories of how much fun she had. Thanks, Em.)

But I believe it is good for a parent to have a boredom busting arsenal.

So here's my simple question for today:

How do you answer the "What can I do for fun?" question? What activities are in your boredom busting arsenal? What ideas do you throw out to your children in hopes that they'll latch on to one? Between all of you creative mamas, I think it will be a great resource for all of us to share our ideas.

Here's to a boredom-induced, creative summer!

May 18, 2009

Searching for whales

May 18, 2009/ molly balint

Strange as it may sound, I've had whales on the brain for the last several months. I can't remember where it started, really.

I know I had this idea to start making whale shaped chalkboards, but that still hasn't panned out. Then I thought about carving whale shaped stamps, but that hasn't happened yet either. So when I stumbled across this book on making hand-print animal art and happened to turn to the whale page first, it pretty much seemed like a sign to me. Don't you think?

The girls and I made some prints on paper this winter but after going to a printing/textile workshop at the BMA this weekend, I was inspired to get the girls to do a little whale printing on some kitchen towels for me today. Sort of like poor man's screen printing.

The book is filled with some amazing instructions for making animals using all kinds of handprint techniques--only stamping certain fingers, just your palm, printing with your fist. Things I'd never even thought of.

But making the whale is pretty straightforward.

To start, stamp (or in this case we painted with a brush) your hand and fingers only. Not your thumb. (if you want more of a handprint look, don't let your children coat their entire hands and palm in paint. The girls coated their hands for these whales, which makes them much more filled in.)

After you have printed your hand on the paper, use your pointer finger to make the fin and tail.

Once the girls prints dried, I used a sharpie marker to outline the whale body and add an eye. Because Mary's was so dark, I used the end of the paintbrush to paint on the eye.

All in all, an extremely successful, easy project. And I have a little whale in my life made from my favorite little hands. The perfect combination.

November 25, 2008

chickens, guineas and being a turkey (about dpns)

November 25, 2008/ molly balint

I have a feeling this will be my last post until after Thanksgiving. (And I also have a feeling that's one of the dumbest titles I've ever given one of my posts.)

But anyway....I have apple pies to make, bread to bake and a house to clean. My sister and I will essentially be trading spaces--Dan, the girls and I will be traveling to my mom's for Thanksgiving, my sister will be coming here--staying at our house, taking care of our chickens, keeping the fire burning--and spending Thanksgiving with our dad and grandmother.

In the meantime, a few odds and ends:

Last night, after several attempts, I conquered my fear of the dpn. I have some serious mental-block, motor-skill issues when it comes to dpns. I cast on several times yesterday afternoon, got twisted, frustrated and gave up. Then last night, I decided to give it one more try. With a lot of jaw-clenching and concentration I finally mastered them and I'm feeling pretty much like dpn hot-stuff. All I want is a pair of Leslie's Toast-for my too-long-arms, too-short-sleeves, freezing cold farmhouse. And I'm ignoring the fact that Ms. Urchin can whip up a pair in two hours. Maybe I should have started this in July.

Emma and I did a little classic pinecone turkey craft for the babycenter blogs. Then we got a little carried away and started making them with all natural materials. It was sticky, sappy business. Emma decided she needed hair extensions au naturel. I think we need to get out more.

And can I just say how much I love having these chickens and guineas? They are so much fun--my favorite part being able to go outside and call: "HEEEERE guinea, guinea, guineas!" or "Heeeere chick, chick, chickies!" And they come running--heads down, feathers spread just a little, waddling as fast as their little yellow legs will carry them, hoping I'll have a big scoop of grain to toss them.

I also love watching Emma, carrying her bright green bucket out to the coop with the whole entourage skittering behind her. I can only imagine how much I'll love these girls when they start giving us eggs. (I do mind however, that two of the girls have become quite fascinated with the road. I have to admit that I hold my breath every time I walk outside, checking the yellow line for "feathers". yikes.)

And last of all, just a few words to say how thankful I am for all of you. I can honestly say that I am touched daily by your emails full of kind words, encouragement, understanding, humor. Thanks for making this documenting of life so enjoyable and fulfilling.

Happy Thanksgiving.
xo.

August 27, 2008

This Old House Rocks

August 27, 2008/ molly balint

If you live in an old house, chances are you are very familiar with the phenomenon that if you set a ball down to rest on the floor, it will easily roll to some little sweet spot across the room. Some resting place where the settling and shifting of time has caused the floors to sag and give.

We have many floors like that in this house. Character-giving flaws, right? In fact, there is a room upstairs, that when empty of all furniture, gives me a serious case of vertigo--the "fade to center" was that bad. Now that we've completely filled it with desks, beds, dressers, I feel much better. (Though I happily usher all our guests to that room.)

And when floors sag, chances are you have a few doors that don't cooperate either. If you want them open, they want to swing closed, if you want them closed, they'll swing open.

In a house with so much character as ours has, one piece of hardware is vital--the rock door stop.

And it just so happens that if you follow our mowed trail out the back fence and through the field you'll find yourself at the perfect little stream crossing. The perfect little spot for gathering nice, heavy rocks to hold back doors.

On this particular trip, I failed to remember that you can't rush stream play. We'd just returned home from running errands on a beautiful day and I was feeling stir crazy. If I was a completely responsible mother, I would have been sending all my children upstairs for stories and naps, but instead I decided to strap Elizabeth into the backpack, tell the girls to get their bathing suits on and grab a bucket. We were going rock collecting.

Of course I told them we were on a time crunch. A small piece of information that didn't sink in.

Over an hour later, after I'd given ten of the "I'm serious this time" warnings, none of which were serious: "Okay, I'm really leaving now and if you don't come with me I'll make you eat these rocks for supper..." I found myself standing knee-deep in the stream, shoulders aching from the 29-pound chunk of baby on my back, fingers stiff and cramped around the handle of a pink plastic feed bucket carrying 15 pounds of potential door stops, I realized all my mental guidelines for this trip had suddenly washed down the stream with the current:

We're only going to take 20 minutes.
Don't take off your shoes in the water.
Just don't get your hair wet.
Don't sit down there, you'll get the seat of your suit covered in sand and mud.
You must carry your own rocks back to the house.
Don't get me wet.

What was I thinking? Seriously.

Days later after the rocks were given "baths" more times than my own children, we finally had a painting day. (Which quickly morphed into a face (and hand and bicep)-painting stand. )

All in all. A good outcome. I have a lovely tattoo of flowers on my bicep, which I'm thinking looks pretty tough. And my bathroom door no longer hits me on the way out.