I hesitate to share, but...

This one is so, so weird that I hesitate to share it with you. But heck, I've already probably ruined my reputation with that washable marker on the forehead stunt. (For the record red washable marker isn't really washable. Well you can wash it but it does tend to stain the pigment of your children's skin) Remember our backyard olympics...well one of the events required bean bags. I don't have "traditional" bean bags on hand so I fabricated some out of some dried pinto beans and the socks that have mysteriously lost their mate. It worked great.

When clean up time came we apparently missed one of the "bean bags". It got tossed into our vegetable garden. Well, those dried beans you get from the store can sprout. In a sock, even. When I noticed the "bean bag" I went to pick it up and noticed that roots were holding it to the ground.

So, being the good homeschool mom that I am, we cut open the sock only to discover that the beans had sprouted some pretty healthy looking leaves. E dissected a couple of the bean sprouts and did a little research online about the parts of a bean plant. We never really finished our math lesson, but science got an interesting twist yesterday. We even took a little footage of the event.

Yes, we are that nerdy.

warped sense of humor

So Hubby sent this to me today...it's one of those silly email forwards that is definetely worth the time...we laugh everytime we hear it.

venting

I love love love my house to be clean. It's not that I'm organized or a neat freak its just that visually uncluttered spaces appeal to my artistic side.

I also have 4 young children. And I homeschool. Few people outside the homeschooling community realize that homeschooling is a synonym for "cluttered house".

Do you see my dilemma?

Here is just a sampling of things I've found on my floor this morning:

-20 pieces of dried cereal, give or take.
-1 lego tree, and some sort of star-warsy space ship
- math manipulatives
-A third grade detectives book
-1 naked baby doll
-1 load of folded laundry, that a child did not put away.
-countless pairs of shoes (okay a couple of those are mine)
-dirty socks
-more dirty socks
-pancake that Baby launched from her high chair. (she got good distance by the way)
-dirty clothes discreetly hidden behind a rocking chair
-a bazillion Littlest Pets figurines
-Scraps of paper
-grammar workbook

Back in the days BC (before children) I could afford to be compulsively clean. Now I know that I would ruin the relationships I have with my kids if I imposed my standards for a clean house on them. Yes, I need to teach them to clean, but childhood is messy. There is mud involved. And obnoxiously small toys.

I know it's trite, silly even, but God please please help me not to be a neat freak. My kids are more important. Help me to live in the clutter with grace. Help me to find peace in the midst of a home that is usually busy, and cluttered and never as clean as I wish it was. Because that's life isn't it? It's always messier than I want it to be. I don't want to lose those precious, irretrievable moments because I was vacuuming.

You might wonder what we do all day...

Stories from Ghana

The summer I turned 18 I went to Africa.

I was young and it was before the advent of the internet. And I was a fool in the way only a young American can be: Like the time I ate Kabobs from a street vendor who swore to me the meat I was eating was definately not dog. Sorry Fluffy, I was young, and stupid, what can I say?

Or

There was the week we waited in Accra for the new team of "missionaries" to arrive. We had some long awaited free time so, like good American tourists, we shopped. There was the usual tourist junk, but in the mix was some lovely kente cloth and a suspicious number of fettish statues carved in ebony.

The Indians have the Kama Sutra. Americans have Playboy. Ghanaian have fettish statues. It was sex education right there on the streets of Accra. Now being a remarkably innocent 18 year old I took the naked people statues at face value.

What I should have realized, and didn't, is that these fettish dolls were a reflection of the underbelly of Ghanaian culture. Ghana is, nominally, a Christian nation but the real truth is that it is a nation of ancient tribal religions. And those religions devalue women and children at the most basic level. Young girls are given to priests as sex slaves. The children of those girls sometimes starve to death, and if they survive, they can look forward to a life of slavery too.

Fettish dolls do not make conversation peices in the living rooms of affluent Ghanians. They are used in religious practices so old and so dark that that the nationals who served as our guides in the market led us away from the figurines, but refused to tell us foreigners what they were, or what they meant.

But now I know. And the sweet 15 year old girl I met (who was the mother of 3 children) has a story she never told. I never even guessed.

It's probably good I didn't know then what I know now. I was 18. I don't know that I could have processed that then. I'm not sure I can now.

A brown-eyed girl waits

There is a little girl "photolisted" as a waiting child. She is one. She has big brown eyes and curly hair. She reminds me a lot of my own brown-eyed girl. Maybe it's because she is also of Native American heritage.

This little girl cannot be adopted by just anyone. She has to be adopted by someone of documentable Native heritage. So she sits there, photolisted, and she has no permanent home.

My Baby is of Native American decent, but her's cannot be documented. She is inelligibe for tribal membership and we have the green cards to prove it. This turned out to be a good thing, for her and for us.

It wasn't until Baby was home with us for 6 months or so that information about her heritage became available. At that time we weren't terribly familiar with the Indian Child Welfare Act, but we knew enough to be concerned. Had Baby's heritage had a little more of a paper trail she would have been eligilbe for tribal membership, but we would not have been eligible to adopt her, though we were the only parents she'd ever known.

Now, theoretically, the Indian Child Welfare Act is a good thing. Years ago there was a concerted effort by White Americans to inflict cultural genocide on the Native peoples of this land. Native American children were taken from their homes and shipped off to boarding schools. It wasn't pretty. I get why perserving ones heritage is important. And I certainly understand why tribes were skeptical of Family Service's ability to look out for their best interests.

But there is this little girl. She is one. And she reminds me a lot of my own brown-eyed girl. She is Native American. Should she wait for a home? She needs a mom and a dad today.

(If you happen to be of Osage heritage, and you can prove it, there is a little girl you should meet.)

You know you're a homeschooler when...

I need to do a Letterman style top 10 list entitled, "You know you're a homeschooler when..." It'd have stuff like: You know you're a homeschooler when your kids take their spelling test in their pajamas. Or maybe, you know you're a homeschooler when you let your kid go to the store wearing plaid shorts, cowboy boots, and a hawaiian shirt littered with "Jesus Loves You" stickers - and he's 13 years old.

I think people who don't homeschool think that us homeschooling moms don't realize our kids are weird. We know. We are keenly aware.

I was talking to another homeschool mom about her first day at her son's football practice. She said all the other boys on the team had buzz cuts, and her son had longish curly hair. She said her son was dressed in Target brand clothes, head to foot. But the other boys were all wearing the same brand of designer shirts and shoes. Her son stuck out like a sore thumb, and she had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, she wanted her son to fit in and be included. On the other hand she really liked that her son was different - totally himself, among the 8 and 9 year old football clones.

That's where the whole socialization question comes in. When people ask how our homeschooled kids will be socialized they are really asking, "Don't you think your kids will end up kinda weird if they aren't in school with other kids?" They aren't really asking if our kids will be able to function as adults and have healthy relationships. Homeschool kids do those things.

But are they weird?
Yeah, kinda.
We know it.
They usually aren't as hip.
They grow up slower, and use bigger words when they talk.
They might even be interested in mechanical engineering or sewing.

And for the most part - we like it that way. Our kids are growing up to be who God made them to be. They are unique; they are individuals. And a little weird is worth it!

Wanna be food blogger

I've got a really deep and profound post stewing around in my head, but I'm not ready to share it yet. So you get this:

A) A picture of bean brownies

B) A picture of last night's dinner. It featured veggies from our garden: cucumberss, tomatoes, rosemary and basil. Plus some chicken, pasta, feta and a vinegrette. mmmm...gardens rock.

C) Musical instruments. Oh, does that look like a pile of crud on the floor to you? You are so so wrong. My kids made instruments and jammed out for a good 45 minutes. You know you're a homeschooler when you find an kleenex box full of lentils on the floor and consider it a good educational experience.

I dare ya!

I can be fearful about many things.

Cooking isn't one of them.

When I cook I am bold and brave. And it's that sense of adventure (and a killer chocolate craving) that led me to this recipe. It's the weirdest recipe you'll ever love. And it is weird, even by my liberal standards.

Gluten - Free Chocolate Brownies for the Brave of Heart

1 can of beans drained (I recommend Great Northern, Black, or heck even Pinto)
1/2 cup of soy milk (or cow milk for you wimps out there)
2 T. peanut butter
1/3 cup of prune puree (or baby food plums)
1/2 c. GF flour blend (or I'm sure normal wheat flour would work for you non-diseased folks)
2 Tbs. of good vanilla - give or take
1 c. brown sugar
1/2 c. cocoa powder
1.5 tsp. baking powder
1.5baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 cup of chopped nuts or chocolate chips (I say go for the extra chocolate, personally)

Preheat oven. Toss everything (but nuts or chips) into your blender, and give her a whirl. Add nuts or chips. Stir. Bake at 350 for 45-55 minutes in a greased 9x9 pan.

Do not, under any circumstances, tell your taste testers what you put in the brownies. I bet they'd never guess.

These brownies are moist, but kinda cakey and could be frosted. They are also better on the second day. Couldn't tell you why. Also, they are very reasonably low fat, but have an outrageous fiber content.

Try 'em. I dare ya!

*this post is in honor of my father who will eat anything, regardless of expiration date. You have inspired me to live beyond the bounds of what other's think is wise. ;)

swimwear

Our church rented out a smallish yet cool waterpark for an evening of hanging out and baptism. As you might recall, I'm at my fat weight. I don't relish the thought of revealing my fat weight to members of my church in a bathing suit.

What to wear? What to wear?

The black string bikini of my early twenties is probably out. So is the cute little tankini my husband bought for me when I was fit and buff. Do they make swim wear in a turtleneck?

As it happens, they do!

While brousing the modest Christian clothing options available on the internet I happened upon these lovely articles of clothing. My favorite is, of course, the peice that manages to deliver both swimwear AND CULOTTES in a single stroke of fashion defiance.

But for the record, I did find some pretty cute (for real) swimming suits. I'm too cheap to buy a new one, so I'm hoping that all my untanned flesh will temporarily blind co-swimmers so they won't notice the jiggle.

http://www.limericki.com/

http://www.modbecatalog.com/

veggies

Look who actually knows how to grow stuff!

Don't break my heart

I wonder if it's possible to say a prayer, over and over again and not mean a word of it. I think it might be. I'm pretty sure it is.

I've been praying, "God break my heart for the city. Give me eyes to see what you see and a heart that breaks for the things that break your heart. Help me to be able to handle what I see."

But I really, really don't want a broken heart.

A broken heart has always predicated surrender and obedience in my life.

A broken heart has always led me to the place where I say, "Not my will, but yours be done."And next thing I know I'm off to Africa...literally.

If I pray, "God break my heart for the city" I'm afraid that I'll end up a foster parent - or adopting a sibling group from Sierra Leone - or giving up my comfortable suburban life for a duplex in the inner city. It'll be messy, and costly I guarantee it.

Back in the days when I went to Baptist Summer Camp we would end each evening at with "chapel". Every night at chapel there would be an alter call. We would sing the old hymn, " I surrender all, all to thee my precious Savior, I surrender all. " Over - And Over - And Over - And Over....until the prescribed number of campers came forward to "rededicate their lives to Jesus".

One of the guys from our church (Kurt Owens you were a hero) finally discovered that if you went forward to "rededicate" you could get out before the rest of the kids and be first to buy candy from the snack canteen. I think that that year there were an unprecedented number of kids who "rededicated their lives to Jesus". Coincidentally, they happened to be the same kids who got all the grape pop before they ran out at the canteen.

Anyway, while praying my obligatory "break my heart for the city" prayer the words to that old camp hymn came back to me.

I surrender all
All to thee my Precious Savior
I surrender all.

But the version I've been singing these days goes differently,

I surrender most,
Most to thee my Precious Savior,
as long as it doesn't cost too much"

It loses something doesn't it? Okay everything. If Jesus can't have my whole heart it doesn't really count.

The thing is brokenness and surrender go hand in hand.

Brokenness, surrender and obedience are an inseparable trio.

So if I pray for brokenness, I've got to surrender. And if I'm surrendered I've got to obey.

And in the Great Paradox I think this might be the only way to life. This death to myself, and to my dreams is the only way I can be part of a greater dream and a greater plan. It's life, this little death and it begins with brokenness.

So Lord,

I surrender all,
All to thee my Precious Savior
I surrender all

Break my heart for the city...And just so you know I'll follow you even if it means we adopt 15 kids from Sierra Leone and live in a cardboard box in Timbuktu.

Wheels

M says she's not sure what she'll drive when she's a grown up. It won't be a mini-van, but right now it's a toss up between a hot pink Hummer with flame detail, or a horse.

Culottes

Homeschool denim jumper ...applique farm animals to be added for a customized look.

culotte slip

fashion forward denim culotte

Some of you may not be familiar with this wardrobe essential. I say its high time you are introduced to this seasons must have item. Yes, it's: Culottes. I know it looks sophisticated and French, but please don't pronounce it that way. It must be pronounced in good old-fashioned midwestern American.

"What is this lovely garment?", you ask. Well, if you'd grown up attending Baptist summer camp you wouldn't have to inquire. You'd know. This was standard issue "casual" conservative Baptist ware. Oh, we were so cutting edge, daring to wear something that would perhaps reveal a knee cap.

Now I was apparently risque because I never wore the culotte slip. Heaven knows how transparent those thick twill culottes can sometimes be. I must have shocked the old fuddy-duddy camp directors - it's a wonder that the didn't send me home for immodesty.

The other night I randomly surfed across several websites hocking their modest Christian clothing. I clicked, because I'm a sucker. Now, Hubby was already asleep beside me in bed, and I woke him up with my giggles. He so did not get why "culottes" were funny. But then he didn't grow up attending summer camp with the General Association of Regular Baptists.

Every time I think about culottes I laugh - out loud - to myself. No one else thinks it's funny.

And I thought my Baptist roots were all for not...How wrong I was. Even on the darkest, most depressing day all I have to do is pull up an image of this French sounding fashion travesty and I smile.

Don't even get me started on the homeschool jumper.

Doodles

I'm a world class doodler. I'm not bragging; it's just true. There's the average doodler, and then there is me.

Unfortunately for me, most of my elementary school teachers didn't see it that way. They saw it as evidence of my spacing out in class...which was probably true, but entirely beside the point. They missed the ART in my twirls and wiggles; they missed my self-expression.

The understanding teachers just ignored the marks I made on the margins. The "others" (as I like to call them) were annoyed to no end by my self-expression on the edges of my papers. I'm happy to report that I have fully recovered from the emotional scars they left.

But some people, they spend their life on the margins. Every mark they make on the world is, at best, ignored and at worst disdained.

I have what the professionals call ODSOJ - what is commonly referred to by lay people as an over developed sense of justice. So, as I watched the opening ceremony for the summer Olympics I couldn't help being distracted by all the money they spent on the production. I happen to have reliable first hand accounts of the orphan situation in China. There are so many abandoned children it's hard to wrap my brain around the numbers. And these little girls and boys live in squalor. Most of them have no hope of escape. They will grow up in institutions. Some will live their entire lives in institutions.

They are on the margins. Ignored. Disdained.

The inherent beauty and value in their lives will never be appreciated. They will never be seen. Never valued. Never loved.

And so many times their souls shrivel up like a little rose blossoms cut too early from the bush. What could have been lovely, what had the potential for beauty, never became.

Never becomes.

And the margins become dark and bitter. It's so hard to find loveliness there.

But it's there. There in the margins is a child, or a woman or an elderly person valued by God and beautiful in their own right.

If only...

Run to win...

Yesterday was Olympics Day at our house. We've been doing a little unit study on the history of the Olympic Games, and yesterday we hosted our own summer games in the back yard. Here is a live action photo of E competing in the ever popular obsticale course competition.

This is our verse for the week:

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize. Run is such a way as to get the prize. I Corinthians 9:24

Which reminds me, have you been watching Michael Phelps? That guy is crazy good. He was born with a talent that I cannot even imagine. But you know that's not enough...talent is only a peice of equation. You've got to have drive - a desire to succeed, and the will to perservere through the long hours of practice. It takes discipline and determination.

I'm just not cut out to be an Olympic athelete. I don't have the talent or drive.

But I am in a race...and I want to live in such a way as to win.

So I probably should not be blogging now...

Guess where we were this weekend? I'll give you a hint...I know you can't hear me, but I'm humming a familiar tune...one that uses an acronym....it has a "Y" and an "M" and "C" and an "A". You got it? Yep. we went to the YMCA of the Rockies on impusle again. We swam, and played put-put and generally had a good time.

Depression: Denial's long time buddy

My sister says denial is undervalued in our culture. We bad-mouth it, and psychobabble about it like we know what we're talking about. But really denial is key to survival. Sometimes really terrible things happen, things we have no control over, and the only way to cope is to pretend it never happened and go on. I think it's God's way of allowing us to survive the terrible brokenness of this world. Of course, it's not healing; it's coping. That's an important difference. Healing is better. But coping has its place.

So what's this got to do with anything?

Well, for me, denial has everything to do with Depression, in the clinical sense. Maybe I should do the AA thing and properly introduce myself, "Hello, my name is Stephanie, and I have a mental illness."

I'm depressed.
It's depressing.
But there you have it.

Now don't be alarmed. I'm properly medicated - or nearly so. And, in theory, after a couple more months on my meds my brain's neurotransmitters should recover from their whacked out state and I should be healed. For now. It's kinda a chronic thing. Any kind of stressors send me into depression. This last bout was triggered by the stress of adding to our family through adoption. But really it could be anything; depression is my default down state.

Denial, and proper medication are how I handle it. Nothing really terrible has happened, but there is a terrible disease that sinks its talons into my back is wants to drag me into a pit. It's name is Depression. The medication helps most days. But some days, some days it barely takes the edge off. And then it's time for my back-up strategy: DENIAL. What I want to do is to crawl back into bed, put the pillow over my head and, if I wake up later, down a latte and a pound of dark chocolate. But I don't. I say to myself, "This depression is not real." I get up, go down stairs, and make breakfast for my kids. I do my mom stuff. But sometimes I just fake it. And denial gets me through the day.

Maybe, on second thought, it's not denial. Maybe it's survival, and a little righteous anger. Maybe it's me saying to this disease, " You cannot have me. You will not control my family. I will not surrender to the havoc you would bring on my life."

However you slice it, whatever you call it, I know this to be true: Healing happens with Jesus. And there will be a day, maybe soon, and maybe not on this side of heaven where I will not have to battle depression. I won't have to cope, or deny. I won't have to medicate.

It'll be glorious.

Denial: the undervalued coping mechanism

Photo Shoot

We did a photo shoot today. With my new blog template and all I decided that I need to look more sophisticated and artsy. None of this nice suburban mom stuff for me.

Sorry

I did actually graduate from the University of Colorado with a degree in English Literature. You'd think my grammar and spelling would be better.

I know what a comma splice is, and where apostrophes should go, but sometimes I get lazy. So I apologize to all those grammar nuts out there who are going crazy, and trying to keep their OCD in check. My grammar and spelling have been atrocious lately. Just use your imagination and pretend there are commas where they should be. And pretend I don't end sentences with prepositions, and begin sentences with "and".

Okay, I'm not all that sorry. I'm not even going to hit spellcheck. You're just gonna have to deal...it's my blog I can use cruddy grammar if I want. Do I know how to rebel or what?

Tootsies

BUFF

Beautiful

I changed the template for my blog. Did you notice? Unfortunately for me and subsequently for you my technical savvy is somewhat limited. I've cropped and wiggled this picture around but I can't get it to fit the header. It's times like these that make me want to beat my head against the wall, or my laptop.

While I crop. You can enjoy these pics...

George

I've got the kids in vacation Bible school this week. It's really mostly about me having a vacation from them, not them having any Bible schooling. Though that might be a good side benefit.

Yesterday was registration day. A sweet elderly lady looked at my 4 year old and said, "What's your name, honey?" To which Bub replied, "George." This is a bold faced lie. He said it with a smile.

I haven't the foggiest idea what spawned this deception.

Last night Bub asked Hubby, "Dad, what if a monkey flew through the air and then fell into our house?"

I would so like to get into that kid's head.

Now here is the difference between Hubby and I. In response to Bub's question Hubby pointed out the implausibility of such an occurrence. I on the other hand was thinking, "Well, clearly, we'd have to name him George. Then maybe we could invite him to dinner, but after dinner we'd have to call the Denver Zoo to see if there is space available for George. I'm allergic to bunnies, dogs and cats. Odds are good I'd be allergic to monkeys too."

I do not no where that child gets his fanciful ideas ;)

#250

This is my 250th post, which I've cleverly entitled #250.

I mostly started blogging because my husband said I should. He said it'd be good for me, and he was right. Does he know me or what?

So, our church is doing this thing where we're supposed be praying for God to break our hearts for the city for 28 days. Let me clarify: we're supposed to pray for 28 days that God would break our hearts forever. I actually missed the sermon that night, so I'm not sure why 28 is the magic number. Never the less I have been faithfully, if begrudgingly, praying. I'm feeling sorta so-so about the broken heart deal. I've had a broken heart. It sucks.

So far here are my revelations. #1 - I don't get out much. Homeschooling 3 kids while trying to keep a toddler from tearing apart my house is about all I can handle. And when I am out I'm usually way too sidetracked trying to make sure that none of my children are running in front of cars etc. I hardly notice other people. This doesn't feel quite right to me, but I don't have any solutions.

#2 - This orphan care thing just won't go away for me. I keep getting sucked back in. The other day I ended up on a website that did photo-listing for all the waiting kids in Colorado. Waiting kids are kids who's birth parents have had their rights terminated; they are legally free for adoption and are wards of the state. But for whatever reason, no one has adopted them. There are a lot of waiting kids in Colorado, a lot just in Adams county. There are tons more in Denver. This breaks my heart. It just shouldn't be.

But what am I to do?

We cannot possibly adopt them all. I mean we in the singular sense, as in Hubby and me. But we, the collective we, as in the body of Christ, should. We are without excuse. Okay, that's not technically true. There are lots of good reasons not to adopt. But ultimately, they're lame, when it's a kid's life we're talking about. And not everyone is called to adopt. But some people are, and don't becuase, well becuase they have lame excuses.

So what's my lame excuse? Why am I unwilling to engage in the lives of these orphans living among us? Maybe adoption isn't the answer for us now, but orphan care is ultimately everyones responsiblity. I am not exempt.

church...

I love my sister.

My sister hates church.

She loves Jesus.

She just hates church.

And, frankly, I don't really blame her.

In her last blog entry she wrote about how church reminds her of really dumb trail horses headed to the glue factory. Actually, it's a pretty good analogy, but you'd have to read her blog to get it. This is the link:http://crockershomepage.blogspot.com/ (Sorry, no snazzy hyperlinks here.)

Anyway, after reading her blog I decided she sounded like a girl who'd stepped in one too many piles of horse hooey on her faith journey. And since she's my sister, and I happen to know her story, I know that not only has she stepped in road apples she's also had piles of poo launched at her head by members of the clergy.

I think I may have overstepped the bounds of what this comfortable analogy affords. But I think I've made my point: no one likes poo thrown at their head; it tends to make one have a bad attitude about the launchers of the poo. It's unfortunate that poo tossing happens in the church, but, as they say, "shit happens." (couldn't resist...sorry about the potty mouth...oh crap, now I've done it again...oh when will this rediculous pun end)

So where does that leave us, as Christ-followers? If, as I believe, faith journeys happen in community and we've established that some times we all act like idiotic trail horses, and the trail is littered with excrement of our own making then we aren't exactly sitting pretty. We're smelling stinky. (Dang...I cannot resist these stupid jokes tonight. Please forgive me.)

The Bible says we are to be the aroma of Christ. But church, for my sister, and others like her, conjures up aromas of something else entirely. Something methane-ish.

Something is wrong with that.

It's very, very wrong.

And I don't think it'll change anytime soon.

So the flip side to to the stupid trail horse analogy is this: At least on this faith journey I'm in I know that the trail leads someplace good. The view rocks. Sometimes it literally takes my breath away. Also, I've gotta say I've met some really fabulous dumb trail horses along the way...trail horses can make really good friends. And it keeps me humble knowing that though I deserve to be sent to the glue factory, I'm on a journey through mountains of grace.

I gotta believe, I GOTTA BELIEVE, it's worth a little poo along the way.

Pizza Soup

One of the irritating things about being gluten free is you can't just heat up a can of Campbells for lunch. 99.9% of canned soup manages to cram some kind of gluten into it. But, I've discovered that homeade soup is way yummier, and usually pretty easy. Not to mention cheap. Cheap is good.

On the road to this discovery I happened upon a delicious Creamy Tomato Pesto recipe. It's one of my favorites, but my kids won't touch it. Until today.

My sister is brilliant with kids; she always has been. It's a gift. And she is the one who taught me this trick. Never ever ever serve tomato soup. Always serve pizza soup. It's exactly the same thing. But the spin does the trick. Well, you do have to let the kids sprinkle mozzeralla on it and diced pepperoni. It's also good with croutons or pasta. But those are just extras. The point is that the word pizza works miracles on a kid's appetite. And if it even remotely resembles pizza then its a done deal.

Bub ate 3 bowls.

(And he had no idea I added pureed yellow squash to the recipe. The kid wouldn't touch squash with a 10 foot pole. But I, Wonder Mom, had cleverly disguised it as pizza. )

Creamy Tomato Pesto Soup goes something like this:

- 32 oz. of chicken stock
-1 can of tomatoes with garlic and onions.
-1 BIG can of diced tomatoes.

Puree. Heat. Then add:

1 cup half and half (or, if your husband isn't watching puree 1/2 pack of tofu in with the other stuff. I actually like the tofu better than the half and half - just have to be a little sneaker)

Salt and pepper to taste. ( go long on the salt folks)

Garnish with store bought pesto. (it says 2 T. but I say way more is better)

and sometimes 1 T of sugar helps balance the flavors...

Anyhoo...I think I'm beginning to see why I might not have a future in food blogging. My cooking is usually loosely based on a recipe I saw once. Could tend to confuse...