Brown Sugar Blondies with Chocolate Chips

Alternate title: The Most Delicious Thing I've Ever Baked

I mean it, ya'll.  These blondies are incredibly perfect: chewy, dense, soft, and sweet (oy).  I used chocolate chips because that's what I had on hand, but I think next time I'll try butterscotch chips instead and just lay myself out to swoon all nice and comfy on the floor so as to avoid any unsightly bumps or bruises from falling after the first bite. 

Oh, man. 

It'll have to be this weekend.  And I'll absolutely be doubling the recipe to fill a 9x13 instead of 9x9 pan.  I can kind of hardly concentrate from all the delicious remembering.  So here -- before I lapse into a fit of ecstasy and forget to give you the recipe -- is the recipe.

Oh, man....

Brown Sugar Blondies

(from allrecipes.com)

1 cup flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/8 tsp bakind soda

1/2 tsp salt

1/3 cup butter, melted

1 cup packed brown sugar

1 egg

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

2/3 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 350 degrees an line a 9x9 pan with parchment paper, leaving a few inches of overhang. 

In a small bowl, whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.  Set aside.

In a large bowl, stir melted butter and brown sugar until smooth.  Add egg and vanilla and stir until evenly combined.  Add flour mixture in three separate steps, stirring well after each addition.  Pour batter into prepared pan; it will be quite thick, so be sure to spread it completely to the edges of the pan.  Sprinkle chocolate chips on top.

Bake for 20 to 25 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of  the pan comes out clean. 

Cool completely before cutting.  And be sure to lay yourself out on the floor before taking the first bite.  It would be a complete shame to lose consciousness by hitting your head, mostly because it would probably be awhile before you could finish the blondie.

Oh, man...

Bigger Picture Moment: Making History

On television, the man stood tall.  Shoulders back, chin tilted, hands clasped with confidence.  His endeavor -- the one he'd bled passion into for years -- was ready to be seen, evaluated, loved.  The world was about to be changed, all with a simple unveiling. 

Under his breath, the man whispered: we're making history tonight.

And I always thought something else about that phrase.  I thought, something has been done that was good enough to MAKE it into history.  Worthy of being recorded somewhere and retold to generations.  Making history was equal to making the cut.  Making a goal.

But it echoes differently in my mind.  The television show blurs in the background.  My unfocused eyes watch hours-old memories while the noise of the world drifts into flatness.

------------

There's a deer in the woods, Lauren, come see! She exaggerates her tiptoes with deep swoops of shoulders and bent knees. Her head peeps up over the edge of the window, and we watch. The doe is glossy brown and still in the slanted morning sun. The edge of the forest is peppered with shadows and light, making patterns where there should be none, hiding others in tips of bare light. Where, mama? I can't see it. But the deer dips her head to the ground, nipping at something tender. Oh! There! She lifts her front leg to poise one hoof in the air: a delicate prelude. Then she melts into the forest, hiding in shadows and light.

.::.::.::.

Her fist grips the wooden spoon much too high as she stirs.  Brown sugar melts into butter, and she is immersed in her job.  Completely focused.  There is one bit of sugar that won't crumble: a hard bit of sugar that was perhaps too moist became a round pebble of surprising candy.  Lauren pokes a finger into the mixture.  Tests the resolve of the pebble.  She looks sideways at me and sees my the encouragement of my lips, smiling because her desire is so clear.  I nod: a conspirator against cleanliness and patience and a few other forgotten virtues.  She digs the pebble free and pops it into her mouth.  Her eyes widen as she savors the goodness of sugar melting into butter onto tongue. 

.::.::.::.

Last one to the car is a rotten egg!  We run across the parking lot, feet little and big stamping a rhythm into the night air.  Giggles and screams punctuate our beats, and -- breathless -- we fall into the open car doors in heaps.  Mama, YOU'RE THE ROTTEN EGG!  But I tickle them to release my rotten-ness in a burst of teasing love.  Oh, no! I shout, I better hurry and buckle in or I'll be a GIANT rotten egg!  They scream and scoot, backing away in a haste of feigned, joyful terror. 

.::.::.::.

Her finger traces a line of words, the words trace a line of thought, and she is reading.  We snuggle in our pajamas on Mia's top bunk with a book propped between the two of us -- a bridge promising hearty tries and gentle encouragement.  Mispronounced vowels bleed into the silences, but recognition comes a second later.  Deep in my belly, there is a dizzy flutter of excitement.  I wonder if she feels it, too?  Does it travel up to my arms, pour out my fingertips, ripple across the pages of the book?  Does it burrow under her fingernails, wiggle up to her shoulders, cascade into her heart?  She is reading.  A paragraph is as long as an entire chapter might be, but still: she is reading.

------------

We're making our history, and we're making it right now.  Every activity, every touch, every word and glance -- they're all going to be made into a history.  Woven into the past, trailing out behind us as we step forward to choose another thread.  It's happening as I sit writing, as they sit coloring, as he sits working, as we sit living. 

History is being made.  And I intend to enjoy the making of it, simple as it may be.




We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Undercover Mother today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

Guardian Boy, Guardian Moon

11:29 PM
The dark house is almost perfectly still.  The others have been asleep for hours and it's just me, alone, moving around.  Right hand out, left arm down, I graze touchpoints as I go. 

The refrigerator; three steps to the living room; four steps to the rocking chair;

I close my eyes, crushing eyelids together, creating a burst of stars behind them.  I pretend it's not dark, only that I've chosen to walk blindly as a game.

Because actually, I am afraid of the dark. 

Instinctively, I feel a pressure at my calves.  The warning of a presence.  I speed up as the pressure rises.  It's against my thighs, the small of my back.  It pushes with insistence: be afraid, because you cannot see me. 

There's a catch in my gut -- a flipped-over fear -- and I'm in the hallway.  Both arms are out now, spanning the width.  The closet door; one step to the bathroom; two steps to the bend; four steps to the nursery; I find the knob to turn it just-so to avoid the creaking snap of an old mechanism. 

I can hear him breathing from across the room.  He's snug in his bed, broken free of his swaddle, and then lifted heavily into my arms.  I pull him to myself and he opens his mouth without needing any guidance. 

I look around the room with adjusted eyes.  The full moon presses through curtains to highlight one slow curve of one perfect cheek, and my sleeping boy suckles.  The darkness isn't black anymore, it's just grey.  And the creeping presence was only the presence of my imagination, creating a whorling mess of grasping unknowns behind me. 

Erased by the real warmth and safety of this new baby in my arms, protecting me with his innocence.



4:03 AM
I am deeply under.  Sunken into sleep with a great weight pressing from above; immersed in a thick, stifling fullness.  Although the pressure is from above, there is a bulk of gravity below and something within it tugging at me.  I try to shake it off, but it tightens...

and suddenly dissolves -- the pressure, the fullness, the gravity -- leaving me weightless and startled and awake.  A floating mess of edge-less worry.

My jaws are clenched so hard that my teeth are individual bits of clay: moldable; smashed. 

A single shaft of moonlight has fallen across my face, glaring onto my closed eyes.  I blink, and lie still to test the weightlessness.  When I feel sure that I'll neither drift nor sink, I rise and cross the room. 

The window blinds are half-open: a moonlight concession from last night's phobia.  I intend to turn them the other direction -- block the piercing light -- but as I glance into the early morning darkness, the moon stabs at me and I recoil.  I squint against its intrusion.  It's not huge, soft, or yielding, but distant, sharp, and focused.

It is vigilant and possessive. 

I look back at my pillow and trace the line of blue light to where it ends over Justin's black hair.  I leave the window as it was and climb back into bed.  My head falls exactly where the moon can see it.

And I rest within the fierceness of the light.





This piece is one that I shared in a practice run of Bigger Picture Blogs' new Writing Circles, which are open to you all now!  Anyone is eligible join a writing circle, and we HOPE you will; they're an amazing way to give and receive feedback, support, and guidance as we try to hone our writing skills and realize the vision behind our expressed thoughts.  If you think sharing your work for constructive criticism by friends and peers sounds helpful, please give Writing Circles a try!

It's All About Control

Early childhood comes equipped with certain hallmark stages.  Many of them are endearing enough to keep us afloat during the other stages – the not-so-sweet kind.  But because we’re only human, and perhaps trained to remember the negatives above the positives, we focus on the irritations. 

The toddler’s tantrums. 

The preschooler’s meltdowns. 

The Kindergartner’s attitude. 

Something we fail to realize, more often than not, is that many of these so-called negative stages in child development can be traced back to a common motivator: control.

Basically, our kids are trying everything they can to gain control over their lives.  When they feel their desires aren’t being met: control.  When they see their hopes dashed: control.  When they’ve made a decision that is overridden: control. 

I don’t expect a little one to be allowed complete control at all times; they haven’t yet learned how to temper their desires with careful wisdom as a parent would hopefully do.  But I suspect that if we found ways to empower our children to feel more in control of their own bodies and actions, they’d exhibit less of the negative behaviors that are so frustrating.  A tantrum or meltdown could be avoided by allowing them a bit of freedom in their decisions.   And even more importantly, we’d be preparing our kids to enter a world that expects them to make their own decisions, and filling them with confidence because we’ve trusted them with the results.

Here are a few ideas – some specific, and some general – to begin transferring control to our young children:

Let them choose their own clothing each day.  If they become too cold in a tank-top on an early spring day, they’ll learn about the restrictions of weather, and learn to go find a jacket.  Unless you’ll be sitting for a professional photography session, don’t worry about mismatched patterns.  Hold your tongue and be proud that they did all the work themselves.

Place common items within their reach.   Many times, we say no simply because we don’t feel like retrieving a certain item.  But that doesn’t mean there’s any reason they shouldn’t have it.  Does your daughter always beg for the purple towel at bath time?  Let her know where to find it so she can get it herself before bathing begins.  Does your son prefer a specific cup at all meals?   Rearrange the cupboards to allow him to easily find it. 

Show them that you believe in their capability.  When they are challenged by a new task, like tying their shoes, encourage repeated attempts rather than stepping in immediately to save the day.  Say things like “I know you can do this, it just takes a little practice.”  Being in control is sometimes overwhelming; they need our obvious trust.

Use their input for rule-making.  The knowledge that they were included in decisions regarding their own actions is often helpful in smoothing out the enforcement. 

Allowing these short steps towards personal empowerment will work as long as they’re not done in reaction to the negative outbursts.  After a meltdown or outbreak of disrespectful attitude, they’ve lost the privilege of controlling that particular aspect for the moment.  But when done prior-to, as a style of parenting on an everyday basis, empowerment can help our kids get through the inevitable stages of control-seeking without becoming bogged down in bad habits.

[Originallly published here.]

InstaFriday

This was my week, in an Insta-nutshell:

Scudding clouds against a bright blue sky;

A glassy-eyed, feverish girl snuggling on the kitchen floor...

Then practicing some computing once the Tylenol kicked in;

A rolling-over boy, checking out the fluffy rug;

A banana-bread baker, helping mama stay focused;

A late-night snack based around the perfection of peanut butter.

 

More InstaFridays at Life Rearranged!  Follow me on Instagram -- my name (wait for it...) is Thisheavenlylife :)

Bigger Picture Moments: Eating Bon-Bons

There are a few specific times in my day that can, if I feel inclined to make them, be used solely for laziness. 

For instance, when Lauren is away to preschool, Landon's morning nap is the most glorious stretch of silence -- perfect for doing nothing.  To shatter the quiet with clanging dishes in the sink or shoving around in the laundry room would ruin the effect, and I do love to hoard silence.  It's such a rare, perfect thing.

So yesterday, I hoarded.  While Landon slept for two and a half hours, I burrowed into the couch.  A blanket was tucked around me, forbidding me from escape.  There was a pillow on my lap, propping up my novel.  I'm convinced that my body completely shut down in this time, only expelling enough energy to turn a page or allow my eyes to focus. 

It was wonderful.

But then, Landon woke up: he nursed; we retrieved Lauren from school; she went to her room to play quietly; Landon napped again; I ate lunch and checked email, and then looked around myself.

My house was a disaster.  I had plans to make some french bread for dinner later but there was no counter space on which to knead dough.  I went into my bedroom to find my shoes and saw instead three loads of laundry I'd meant to fold. 

The grumpies overcame me.  Instead of using my morning hours to knock out some nastiness around this place, I'd done NOTHING.  And when Mia came home from school, Landon would be mostly awake for the afternoon and I'd have my hands so full of chores that I'd have almost no time to play.  To do art projects with the girls.  To experience my kids. 

No, while they ran around outside in the soft and perfect, warm afternoon, I'd be stuck inside, sulking.  Slamming things around in the kitchen with clumsy speed, hoping to have dinner ready before bedtime. 

I was mad at my hoarded free-time.  I know it's not socially cool (something I've never claimed to be anyway) to announce that me-time is selfish, but that's exactly how I felt yesterday. 

By the time Justin and I went to bed, I had gotten almost nothing done.  It was as if I'd literally sat around all day eating bon-bons and watching soap operas: the banal stereotype of stay-at-home moms.  That was me.

I lamented.  "I'm so mad at myself," I told Justin.  He sat on the edge of the bed where I was crumpled in a heap at the foot.  "There was so much I needed to do today, and I just...skipped it all.  You know what I did?  I read.  That's all.  For over two hours -- enough time to clean the whole house -- I read my book.  Ugh!  Why am I so lazy?!"

He raised his eyebrows at my whining.  "Well...I mean...just put the book down next time?"

I rolled my eyes.  "But the thing is, I WANT to read.  I LOVE to read.  I'm ADDICTED to reading."

He shrugged.  Stepped over some dirty laundry on the floor.  Kissed my head on the way to brush his teeth. 

Later, we lay in bed.  Our lamps made the bed -- our hands, our faces -- warm and golden.  My feet were tucked under his calves and we both had books open on our tummies.  I closed the paperback cover, flipped the book over and glared at it.

"Finished?" he asked without looking up from his reading.

I sighed.  "Yep.  It's over now."

"See?"  He turned to face me.  "And you said you didn't get anything done today."  A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

I laughed; that tease of a smile filled me with promise.

Anyway, no bon-bons for me today.  Lauren and I are going to make banana bread.  I'm going to enlist her help to sort the laundry.  I'll let her play in the bubbles in the kitchen sink.  When Mia gets home, we'll read another few chapters of A Little Princess.

There are things to be done.  And motivation, too; a commodity. 

Let it be written: I will feel happy with this day at its end.  Then, I might search my shelves for a new book with which to reward myself.  Bon-bons before bed never hurt anyone.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Undercover Mother today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Failure

I once folded a pile of clean towels. 

Promptly, which was strange.  They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates.  But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth. 

And the way I fold towels is something to behold.  It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color.  Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...

I'm very particular.  It's quite necessary.  I haven't figured out why, yet, but still. 

So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded.  On our love seat.  (Because if towels don't say love...)  Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack.  I left them there.  Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner. 

Blame was placed.  Help was demanded.  Towels were fixed. 

I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths.  The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack.  On the coffee table.  (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...) 

The sun set.  The sun rose.  Twice.  (Then once more.)

The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction.  So the stack was relocated, again.  To the back of the couch.  (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)

And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me.  They are growing flat with helplessness.  Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills. 

If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection. 

As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman.  That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet. 

I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.