Grocery Shopping 101

I do enjoy grocery shopping. Those I love know this. But, I have realized that I have a problem: I spend way too much in grocery stores. Having taken a financial course through my church, I have been working to eliminate sources of wanton spending. Now, yes, groceries are a necessity. Everyone's gotta eat, right? But, overall, my five-times-a-week grocery shopping binges are eating a huge hole in both our pocketbook and Buzz's dreams of owning an 18-car garage full of classic Buicks, Cadillacs, and Bentleys.

I've nailed down a few reasons why grocery shopping is such a money trap for me.

1. I take too long in the store. Instead of going in with a purpose, I wander around. After examining the past few bank statements, I've come to the conclusion that the amount of time I spend in the grocery store affects the amount I spend proportionately. The longer I'm in there, the more I spend. I know, that's genius in the works right there, baby. But, still, it took me a while to figure that out. I calculate that I spend about $100 an hour on most trips. My average trip? About 95 minutes. Do that math.
2. I have kids. (Yes, a mom has every right to blame her kids for spending money.) It's easy to keep kids entertained, especially the four-year old, with a promise of a toy or treat at the end of the long grocery tunnel. (To be fair, my kids impress me. They are especially well-behaved in grocery stores. I'm sure it has NOTHING to do with the promise of a treat.)
3. I fall victim to the "set up." Have you read What to Eat? Oh, boy, did I ever read that book. I don't think I ate a single thing for about 2 weeks. So, I guess I'm an educated consumer, but I sure don't act like it. Grocery stores set up their shops, according to author Marion Nestle, not for the shopper's convenience but for the maximum profit. Go figure. So, that's why the more sugary cereals are at toddler eye level. Instead of being smart and going in and getting my stuff, I trot right along with the corruption, allowing myself to bask in the marketing ploys.
4. We have gourmet grocery stores in the Austin area. Oh, Central Market, how I love thee with your bounty of specialty foods, your wine and cheese to die for, your $20 a pound air chilled meats. Yeah. Stop. Gourmet is great...in moderation. I think my spending average goes up about 20% when I'm in a store with a wine section the size of Rhode Island.
5. I leave with items that are not groceries. NOT GROCERIES. Like a new muffin tin (that I don't need and could probably buy less expensively elsewhere) and a couple of magazines and a Matchbox Mega Rig Shuttle Mission.

It took me a while, but I've pinpointed these problems, and I'm making changes. Details soon!

I've Been Spanxed

Growing up in a southern United Methodist Church means a lot of things. For one, I know a lot of old hymns by heart. Two, I have eaten a lot of chicken casseroles and chocolate pies in my day. And, three, I collected many, many dresses, skirts, stockings, and pumps.

Seven years ago, I gave away all my dresses, skirts, and pumps. I hate wearing dresses and skirts and all the baggage that comes with them: slips, weird bras, stockings, drafts. But, unfortunately, they are often a necessary evil in my life. The past year, for instance, has brought a host of reasons to wear some more formal attire than my jeans and a t-shirt routine: five weddings and three memorial services. The United Methodist in me just cannot wear pants to a funeral.

In the throes of shopping for these events, I seek help. Not from my friends or family. I prefer to shop alone, and when I have questions, I ask the women who work in the women's section at the department store of choice. After finding a dress on sale, I inquire about whether it fits me correctly, and the wonderful clerk eyes my bottom critically as I turn for her. She says, "It's very cute. It fits you great. But, you're going to need a slip. The dress is sticking to your bottom."

Oh, how I hate slips. I hate them so much. They itch and twist and make me feel like I belong in another century.

My dismay must show on my face because the helpful lady says, "Well, actually, you could get a Spanx. Most people are wearing those instead of slips these days."

Oh, now. I have heard of these items called Spanx. The thought of donning something akin to a girdle causes me great fear and grief. Suddenly, the slip sounds great.

My increased dismay must show on my face because the helpful lady says, "At least try it on. They work wonders." She says this as she eyes my bottom, again critically.

I head to the hosiery department, a place I thought I would never have to visit again until my 93rd birthday. I stare at the scads of Spanx items. They have Spanx for seemingly every part of your body from your neck down to your ankles. The hosiery lady helps me select the right size for my body, which involves disclosing my height, weight, blood type, and preferred 401k provider.

Then, the real fun begins. I'm to "try it on" first and model it for the hosiery crew to be sure it fits correctly. I'd rather just run out of the store with my new undergarment and spend a few hours contemplating its merits in the quiet of my own home. Instead, I go to the fitting room, and I open the bright package. Even in my panicked state, I notice the cute graphics on the package and the fact that celebrities wear these things. People like Jessica Alba, Gywneth Paltrow, Vanessa Williams, and Oprah swear by Spanx. And, heck, if Oprah wears it, you can count me in. (Two other pluses, and really serious ones at that: designed by a woman entrepreneur and made in the USA.)

But, I must figure out how to put the thing on first. I have selected the Higher Power model, a close relative of the Power Panties. The Higher Power and I become very well acquainted over the next 12 minutes or so, as I wrangle it onto my thighs. Then, I'm not sure what to do with the rest of it. For a moment, I wonder how I am even going to get this roll of nylon and spandex off myself. Because that's what it is, a roll across my hips. A very tight roll. I start smoothing it out, and within about 5 minutes, things shape up a bit.

Higher Power indeed. As I unfurl the whole deal, I realize it goes all the way up to just below my breasts. At first, I wonder how I will breathe with my ribs pressed into my spine. But, I smooth out the Spanx even more, stretching it from just under my breasts to just above my knees. Then, I put on the dress. I take a deep breath. Wow. I can breathe. Success.

I look at myself in the mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of my bottom. The dress is not sticking to it anymore as far as I can tell. Another success.

I also notice that my hips seem more shapely, more under control, less "I just delivered a baby." (Yes, yes, it has almost been a year, but "just" is relative.)

So, I walk out of the fitting room for the hosiery lady to eye me. She looks at my bottom critically. "Wow," she says. Is that a good "wow" or "oh my, you need to lay off the Twinkies 'wow,'" I wonder. Then, she says, "That looks amazing." I hope she's talking about my bottom. I really do.

After wearing my Spanx to several different events that have required dress pants or a dress, I must say they work for me. I am a total convert, a real believer. These doodads are a miracle in a nifty box, light years away from the slips and girdles of yesteryear. I haven't worn my Higher Power with my normal jeans and t-shirt routine, but the hosiery lady assured me that lots of people do. Maybe one day when I have an extra 17 minutes in the morning to unfurl my Spanx, I'll see.

To Scrap or Not: A Good Question

For the life of me, I can’t figure out the scrapbooking industry. It’s INSANELY huge. It’s also INSANELY expensive. The biggest lunacy to me is that this type of crafting is called “scrapbooking,” and instead of being true to the honest-to-goodness beauty of the term (the idea that one can take scraps, aka garbage, and make it into something beautiful), we have turned in into a bazillion-dollar industry. Americans alone are spending millions a year on SCRAPS, acid-free scraps at that!

The office manager at Spark’s school asked me the other day if I am a scrapper. Actually, she assumed I was and phrased it as a question.

“Oh, heavens, no,” I thought. But, then, I did make a book of photos for Spark’s paternal grandmother for Christmas, and I am putting together some books of photos from a trip to California. And, I am a packrat with boxes of scraps at my disposal for cropping and scrapping and booking. When gift bags are too disheveled to be reused, I cut the rope handles off and stuff them in a box. When someone wears out jeans too much to donate, I keep at least the pockets any cut off any denim that looks usable. But. I can’t be one of THEM.

You know those people. They have every puncher, every embellishment, every album, every pattern of every paper. They meet in groups and call themselves “scrappers.” And, their designs are immaculate. They have the perfect pictures with the perfectly handwritten note and perfect layout. You know what I’m talking about. (If you don’t, go here.) There’s a row of perfectly punched out daisies along the left side of the page. They are pink with yellow centers. Cute little 2x2 photos line the bottom of the page. They are closeups of hands, feet, belly buttons. Then, there’s a large photo of pretty 2 year old girl with her eyes wide open, her smile beaming off the page, her cheeks so cute and pinchable, her face framed with some vintage looking paper that has a daisy motif going on. Oh, and the photo is that vintage-looking black and white distressed type with elegantly penned pink journaling underneath, reading something like: “When you were two, your smile made me smile. Your laugh made me laugh. You complete me.”

(Yes, so, I threw that last bit in there for the closet Tom Cruise fans.)

Now, I’m standing here with this question hanging in the air, “You’re a scrapper, aren’t you?”

My answer is probably a secret code for getting invited to crop circle night or being shunned from all the real scrappers. I see two responses: Yes or No. Either one leaves me in a weird place.

“Yes, but I only use REAL scraps, scraps that I find, scraps that almost made it to the trash can until I reached out my hand and said, ‘Don’t put that in a landfill! Put it in my son’s baby book.’” This sounds self-righteous, like I’m some earth-friendly, the-environment-is-my-religion whacko.

“No, but I occasionally make photo books.” This sounds lame like I’m really part of the group, but I don’t want to admit it. Or, I’m not part of the group, but I want to be. Either way, it’s lame.

Because I sometimes just can’t live up to my high standard, I opt for the lame route: “Not really. Well, yes, sort of. I guess.”

Age-Appropriate Gifts

According to my baby book, where my mother documented every happening of my life until I was about five years old, I got some cool gifts on my fourth birthday. Topping the list were Barbie and Ken, a paper doll set, and a gum ball bank. My parents gave me a Care Bear room makeover, complete with a sheet set, bedspread, and drapes.

Today, 25 years later, I celebrate 29. Topping my list of gifts were a citrus juicer and stainless steel colander. Oh, and some beautiful lilies from my best friend Welby. Aren't they gorgeous?

A citrus juicer, a colander, and vase of fragrant lilies make for quite the age-appropriate gift for an almost-30 mom who loves to cook and enjoys nature and natural essences. Much more practical than gum ball banks and Care Bear linens. But I have to confess. I still have one of the pillowcases from the Care Bear set. The years have made it soft and worn, and I feel special when I use it on my pillow at night. Some gifts break the age barrier.

Foodie Friday: Martia's Miracle Pancakes

Two recent additions to my humongous cookbook library have started moving my family into a better nutritional direction.

First, I acquired Deceptively Delicious, which I bought before realizing the author is married to Jerry Seinfeld the comedian. I read through the book, thought the ideas were great, and promptly placed the book on my cookbook shelf and let it begin collecting dust.

Then, after a long talk with the pediatrician about Spark's completely off-white diet of peanut butter sandwiches, hot dogs, and chips, I also acquired The Sneaky Chef. Buzz and I constantly struggle with getting Spark to eat anything much less anything new. I take solace in the fact that his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are made on 100% whole grain bread, with organic sugar-free blackberry jelly (sweetened with grape juice instead of sugar!), and all-natural, organic peanut butter. But yeah, his diet really sucks otherwise.

The Sneaky Chef arrived sooner than I thought it would, so I had an unexpected new cookbook to entertain me one afternoon. I read through the book, thought the ideas were great, and promptly set it aside.

Both books are based on the same general idea: you can make food healthy and trick your children (and/or spouses) into eating vegetables if you conceal the vegetable enough so that they do not know they are eating it. In Deceptively Delicious, Jessica Seinfeld bases her sneak attacks on single-item purees for the most part. Missy Chase Lapine (author of The Sneaky Chef) recommends multi-item purees.

On a whim, I threw The Sneaky Chef in my backpack as I headed to the grocery store. While in the grocery store, I looked up the Orange Puree recipe. It's simple, just carrots and sweet potatoes. Knowing I already had some sweet potatoes at home from my recent organic grocery delivery service, I bought a bunch of carrots.

We'd try these ideas along with Dr. Carlty's recommended plan of not being a short-order chef and see how it goes. The results: not perfection, but we're definitely getting better. I felt like I have developed new superpowers as I dumped carrot and sweet potato puree into the mac n cheese and watched Buzz and Spark lap it up like hungry hounds. (Truthfully, Spark only ate about 1/4 cup of mac n cheese, but that's 1/4 cup more mac n cheese than he's had in the last 9 months and more carrots and sweet potatoes than he's had in 2 years.)

So, being one to enjoy a little kitchen experimentation, I played around with our pancake recipe and came up with the following, which both Buzz and Spark did lap up like hungry hounds.

2 cups self-rising flour (Lapine recommends a mix of 1 part white flour and 1 part whole grain flour, but I was out of whole wheat flour, so we'll try that next time)
1/2 cup ground pecans (Put about 1 cup pecans in a blender and pulse into finely ground.)
1/2 cup to 1 cup pumpkin puree (Use what you think your people will tolerate)
1 to 3 teaspoons raw sugar
2 eggs
2 or 3 cups of lowfat or nonfat milk

Martia's Miracle Pancakes
Mix the flour, ground pecans, and raw sugar.
Add about 2 cups of milk. Stir until well blended.
Add pumpkin puree slowly, stirring as you add it. If your people are funny about color, be careful not to make the batter too orange.
Add more milk to thin the batter to your preference. (Thin batter produces lighter, thinner pancakes. Thicker batter produces thicker, denser pancakes.)

Grease your griddle with some oil and heat it to medium/medium low heat.
Cook each pancake for a couple minutes on each side, or until cooked through.

Enjoy with some hot maple syrup or fruit.
Smile with pride as the family takes in the nutritious pumpkin and pecans unknowingly.

Foodie Friday: Real Simple's Recipes

Real Simple magazine's website has a recipe section. Not all of the recipes sound like something I'd enjoy, but they all seem easy to make, have relatively inexpensive ingredients (as if ANY food item is inexpensive in this economy), and a lot are kid-friendly, which in my case means they are husband-friendly, too. Even better, though, the Real Simple recipes aren't just the ho-hum, same-old dish. I like a little adventure in my kitchen.

Take this Slow-Cooker Lasagna, for instance. It's a vegetarian friendly, new take on a classic dish. The chard and fresh herbs give it an edge that a lot of veggie lasagnas lack. It's also a slow- cooker meal, so put that baby in the Crock-Pot while you do other tasks. I actually made it in the oven, too, when I didn't have time for a slow-cooker meal, and it turned out beautifully. Best of all, this dish makes a lot. I froze the leftovers in individual containers and had them two-three weeks later for lunches.

A convenience about Real Simple's recipes is that you can sign up to have them email you a recipe daily. I've tried a few (ok many, many, many) of these "recipe-a-day" types of emails, but Real Simple's is more useful than any other I've found because the recipes actually appeal to me, and the layout of the email is nice and snappy.

Foodie Friday: My Addiction

I am addicted to recipes. If I hear of a new recipe email newsletter, I sign up for it. While reading magazines, if I notice there is a recipe in it, I will keep the magazine. Forever. The magazines grew to be so many, that all the family members became concerned that these periodicals soon would take over the family. We were overrun with cooking magazines. So, I sat down one night with scissors, page protectors, and a binder and began the process of looking through each magazine and cutting out one recipe that I wanted to keep. (Ok, so one just wasn't cutting it, so I sometimes cut out two or three or four or...you get the picture.)

I went through every last Cooking Light, Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Every Day with Rachael Ray, Vegetarian Times, and so on, until I had thinned the herd substantially. The leftovers I stacked to donate to Spark's school, give to a friend, or recycle (in the case where almost every page had some nugget that deserved a page protector).

Now, I have a beautiful binder full of recipe clippings that I removed from various magazines. This binder sits with the rest of my cookbooks in the dedicated space in the kitchen. I inherited a beautiful, antique hutch from my great-grandmother. This hutch has the perfect spot for cookbooks, the other key component to my recipe addiction.

I have a hard time resisting the urge to buy new cookbooks. My hutch bulges with cookbooks so much that visitors swear it's moving under their weight. need more cookbook space. Don't mention that I could give away or sell some of the cookbooks. They are part of of my innermost self. Parting with me would be like giving away a finger or something.

When I tried using the local public library for cookbook browsing, it just wasn't the same. Oh, it was ok for perusing. Reading through a good cookbook while curled up on the couch is favorite hobby of mine. But, sitting a cookbook next to my stove and splattering random ingredients onto it? That's priceless.

Come Join the Joyride

We decided to try carpooling today. It's better for the environment, better for traffic, just better, right? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. At least in my case, it's just the wrongest wrong.

It usually takes me about 10 minutes to make it from the couch to the cube. I work about 3 miles from home. So, unless traffic has gone from bad to worse, my commute is gentle. But, all of our destinations are nearby, so we thought we'd do the carpool thing.

We made a quick plan the night before. We'd drop Spark at preschool, circle around to drop Buzz at work, I'd take Flower to my sister's house, and then I'd arrive at work. (I, the mom, would be last? Really?)

The optimum time to leave is 7:45. Leaving then gives a little breathing room to get Spark to school before he has to get a tardy slip. Nothing short of a miracle must occur to get everyone in my family ready and out the door by 7:45 a.m. Miracles do happen, but today was not the day for miracles.

We started out doing all right, but as 7:45 drew nearer, we realized we should have packed some things up the night before. Because I work from home a lot, I don't have a ready plan for taking Flower to my sister's house. I scrambled around grabbing some extra clothes, frozen food cubes, some toys, and the like while Buzz spread peanut butter on bread for Spark's lunch.

Then, I grabbed a bag and started stuffing it full of the kids' Halloween costumes and accessories. The whole reason we decided to carpool today was because we planned on attending a Halloween event in the afternoon, and Buzz's work schedule made it next to impossible for him to get there and back if I didn't pick him up for it. So, another bag stuffed full of items to take on our trek.

Meanwhile, Spark is standing in the middle of the living room wearing only his underwear and refusing to dress himself. I know we're supposed to wait on him and make him go ahead and dress himself. But, I just did it. Threw the clothes on, the socks on, the shoes on, brushed his teeth, combed his hair. Hey, I did it all in about 3 minutes, and it would have taken him much longer and many more yells than I'd care to admit to.

Also, my sister had to run an errand, so she had asked me to bring the spare car seat. So, I'm hollering at Buzz to not to forget to load it up, too, while he's carrying out the many bags: there's his two work bags, my work backpack, Spark's backpack, two bags for Flower (one with breast milk and food, the other with "dry" supplies), the Halloween bag, and my purse. So add the spare carseat and the Bumbo, and we're good to go for a weekend trip somewhere far away.

Buzz loads the kids up next while I throw some frozen fruit and orange juice in the blender. I race to the bathroom to brush my own teeth and put on a smidgen of powder so I look like I care to the coworkers I rarely see face-to-face. After grabbing a tube of lip balm and pouring my smoothie into a cup, I head out the door where Buzz has the car running, waiting on me. As I open the hatch to put one last item in, he smiles at me in the rearview mirror. "We're ready to go cross-country."

In reality, though, we were just going across town. As I buckle in, I notice the clock on the car says 7:57. Not the original "optimum" goal but not bad, and if we book it, we might not have to get a tardy slip at the front office.

We arrive at Spark's school with a couple minutes to spare, pull into the dropoff line, and we realize his backpack was packed in under a few things, so Buzz parks the car while I dig it out. I race Spark into the classroom, just beating the tardy cutoff.

Next in line is Buzz. I have the brilliant idea to try a new way to get there from Spark's school, which puts us smack dab in a bottleneck of interstate traffic. Southbound in the morning is a slow sludge at best, and we wait about 15 minutes through that. Though the traffic where I live is terrible, we don't really have any carpool lanes. So, there was no extra incentive for having four bobbing heads in my car rather than just my own. We just stuck it out with everyone else who was driving south.

The longest leg of the trip is from Buzz's school to my sister's house. Traffic is fine, though, so I make it there in record time, efficiently getting all of Flower's items out of the car and into my sister's house.

Away I go again. As I make my way to my cube, I notice it's 9:03. After just a little more than an hour of carpooling, here I am all of 3 miles from home.

I Hate Playdates

I'm not a huge fan of playdates. Most of the time, I hate them. This lack of interest in meeting up with another mom who has a kid close to my kid's age might spur from the fact that I am a loner to a fault. Maybe subconsciously, I'm trying to make my kids more like me than my spouse. Buzz is a 100% extrovert; I'm a 100% introvert. He LOVES meeting people and making small talk. I have no problem with conversation. When it's meaningful, I actually enjoy a good discussion.

The first playdate I attempted was with a former coworker who had quit work to become a stay-at-home mom to her daughter, who is about a year younger than Spark. We met at an indoor playscape at a mall. As a mom, a lot of my life revolves around my kids. Not all of it, mind you, but quite a bit of what I do is kid related: pediatrician appointments, waiting in line to ride cable cars in San Francisco, working a second job as a short-order cook.

Naturally when I get together with another adult who has kids, we should talk about our kids some. But, I would like to talk about other things. It's hard to discuss adult books with my almost 4-year-old son. It's even harder to discuss politics with my 6-month old daughter. So, I meet with my former coworker friend and her daughter. Every time I try to talk about something not kid-related, she would stare at me blankly. Then, she would change the subject back to the kids, something like:

Me: "Hey, have you read The Secret Life of Bees?"
Lisa: "No. Is Spark eating a lot of vegetables? I can't seem to get Mary to eat her vegetables anymore. I'm wondering if it is a phase."
Me: "Hmmm... Spark eats just about anything we give him. Do you like Barbara Kingsolver? I recently started reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and it's fascinating!"
Lisa: "We read a lot of the Baby Einstein books. Mary JUST LOVES THEM. Does Spark like those? What's he reading?"

Towards the end of the playdate, Lisa mentions that she has one afternoon left open for a playdate. She wants to know what my work schedule is like. Is that a day/time I can commit to? Suddenly, I realize she is trying to book her last open slot for a playdate with me and Spark. Fortunately, I'm a working momma, so I can blame it on the job. "Gee, you know, I just never know. I couldn't say right now that every single Wednesday at 3:15 will work for me..."