Loralee's Cookbook

Over there, on the right, I now have a list of links; and my new blog, Loralee's Cookbook, is also on that list! Really it's just a website for my recipes; I figured it made more sense to give recipes their own spot, rather than posting them in my blog. So, I'll post a recipe or two each week, and you can check it out. If you make the recipe and like it--leave me a comment! [If you hate it, I don't really need to hear about it.]

Enjoy!

Pedals for Hope

Last Thursday the sixth grade of Entheos Academy, an expeditionary learning school, finished their Pedals for Hope project. Most of my kids attend Entheos, and Lindsey (11) was one of the sixth-graders who worked this year to raise funds for cancer research. [photo: Lindsey after the tour]

It started with an “intensive”—a week where the students do a very in-depth study of one subject. That week they learned about cancer: besides learning about the disease itself, they learned the statistics of how many people are affected by it, and visitors came to the school to tell the kids of their experiences with cancer. The students made a visit to the Huntsman Institute for Cancer in Salt Lake City and to the Make a Wish Foundation. Lindsey said that "The Make a Wish Foundation was a very calming place." She thought it was really neat that kids with terminal illnesses were able to have a life-time wish granted.

The Entheos kids went on to research articles on what others had done to raise money for cancer. As they continued learning about this disease and how it affects people, the sixth grade decided to make a bike tour to raise money for cancer research. This tour would include a campout—they would ride six miles the first day, ten miles the second day, and five miles the third day, camping the two nights between. Pedals for Hope was born.

Sixth-graders began looking for sponsors, seeking to raise $3,000. Some kids went to local businesses to ask for donations, others stayed after school and made phone calls to businesses. Students looked for sponsors who would donate bikes and helmets to use for their tour and they also found a sponsor who donated T-shirts for everyone involved with Pedals for Hope.

The kids also learned all about bicycles: they learned how to repair bikes, what all the parts are called, how they work, bike safety, and how to ride if they didn't already know. The kids practiced riding at the school, going through obstacle courses and learning to use hand (turn) signals. For a month of Fridays they went to the Salt Lake Bike Collective to repair bicycles.

At last the big day arrived! On Tuesday, May 20 the Entheos sixth grade took a bus to Thanksgiving Point in Lehi, Utah, where they began their bike tour. They bicycled six miles, then took a bus to their camping spot. Unfortunately the weather was bad; they ahd rain and 30-mile-per-hour winds to deal with. Lindsey says, "It was fun! We were up all night trying to keep the tents from blowing down." They had to come home on Wednesday, but by Thursday the weather had improved enough for them to finish their tour along the Jordan River Parkway, riding 15 miles that day. [photo: Lindsey and her good friend, Sharen. Later that evening Sharen had her hair cut for "Locks of Love."]

When they started the tour, nine girls volunteered to donate their hair to "Locks of Love" if they reached their $3000 goal. The students not only reached that goal, they came near to doubling it! They've raised $5,411.56—and counting.

I'm proud of Entheos for including service as part of their mission statement--and following through in such a big way. I'm proud of our teachers who put so much time and effort into helping our students achieve this goal and have an experience they can remember for the rest of their lives. But mostly I'm proud of Lindsey; she has been excited and enthusiastic about this project from the start. And I'm especially proud of a group of kids who could conceive such a great idea and make it happen. Great job!!

Lindsey's group finishing the ride on Thursday. They were coming fast and I wasn't quite ready for them, so I barely got her in!

Soft Caramel Corn

This one is for Ann, Bruce's aunt, who is old enough to be my sister.
So nobody else can use this recipe!

SOFT CARAMEL CORN

lots of popped popcorn (I popped about 1 1/2 cups)

1/2 cup butter

1 cup corn syrup

2 cups brown sugar, packed

1 can (14 oz.) sweetened condensed milk

1 tsp. vanilla

salt (optional)

Combine butter, corn syrup and brown sugar in a heavy saucepan; bring to a boil over medium heat. Add sweetened condensed milk and simmer, stirring constantly, until it reaches the "soft ball" stage (about 240 degrees). Add vanilla. Pour over popcorn and mix well. If you want, shake a little salt over the top of it and then mix it well again. Makes yummy popcorn balls too!

Oh, Pooh! 2004

I’ve just spent the last hour or so in a crappy conversation. Really, I literally have. This morning Kaylie “poop-ed in the toilet”, and I’ve been hearing all about it ever since. Kaylie is the sixth of my eight children; three years old, and as of this morning I think she’s finally potty-trained. Hurrah! (That brings me down from three in diapers to two in diapers. Hurrah!) So, I’ve been hearing the details of how she “poop-ed”, and how she doesn’t need diapers any more, and where she “poop-ed”, and how she is a big girl now, and how she “poop-ed in the toilet”. This is one poopy conversation that I don’t mind being involved in.

Kaylie and Rachel, 2004

It’s the other, more frequent poopy conversations (and play) that I find objectionable. The trouble is that with two little boys ages five and six who are obsessed with bodily functions, and three little girls in diapers our family seems to talk about poop a lot. I try to steer them away from this sort of. . .unrefined talk, but no amount of instruction, begging or threatening seems to help. Brandon and Ryan—well, they are six and five-year-old boys. They like to play “baby”, where one of them is the baby and the other tells the baby what to do and what to say. What to do usually includes lots of raspberry-blowing, long, drawn-out hissing sounds, and belching; all accompanied by giggling and talk about what was found in the diaper. (Are you disgusted yet? I have been.) And since Rachel (age two) and Kaylie play with the boys and hear them, they think it’s pretty funny too. As I said, I’ve tried everything from saying, “Nice people don’t talk like that.” to, “Stop that right now!” but to no avail.

My latest tactic was to try to ignore it, the idea being that if the behavior got no attention it would go away. So we were walking along in Wal-mart (Ryan, Kaylie, Rachel, Jessica (age 1) and me—and half of West Valley City). And Rachel says, “Mama, I fah-ted”. Some of my family found this amusing, but I determinedly ignored it. Instead I talked about toys, books, the baby, anything. Rachel repeated herself for the next three minutes or so, with a determination equal to—no, greater than mine. I finally broke down said, “OK. But we don’t like to talk about that.” An acknowledgement, which was all she really wanted anyway.

Well, in a few years Brandon and Ryan will have outgrown the fascination with bodily functions (I hope!), and Rachel and Jessica will be out of diapers. And hey! Kaylie poop-ed in the toilet this morning! That is worth talking about!

November 2004

Chocolate

I have always liked chocolate—who doesn’t? Sweet and creamy, melting in your mouth, and …chocolatey!

Before I met Bruce I only ever ate milk chocolate. Bruce prefers dark chocolate; and now I do, too. Dark chocolate is smoother, richer, deeper; stronger. Milk chocolate can overpower your taste buds with sugar and cream; hiding its true flavor under too much sweetness. Dark chocolate is still sweet, but not so much that it overwhelms the full chocolate taste. And under that deep, dark wealth you can often taste a light fruit or nut flavor, maybe even a subtle smoky or caramel essence in its depths. I love dark chocolate; delectable!

Bruce is dark chocolate.

When I was little...

This is actually a paper that I wrote my senior year in high-school. Let me explain that it is a little tongue-in-cheek; I was supposed to be writing an autobiography in the style of Mark Twain. I really do think my siblings are great people. Truly! Bear in mind that these are memories from when I was a very little girl--I mean, think about it, Paul and Melanie--who were six years and five years older than me--were still willing to play house with me. So the facts may not be entirely accurate. Anyway, it gives you a little look at the family I grew up in.

back row: Paul, Mark, Wendell, Peter, Gregory

front row: I am the blondie, Dad, Mom with Denise in her lap, Melanie

My parents moved to Kearns, Utah in the mid-sixties to the house where I now live. They did not ask my permission because I was not yet born, and didn't really care. I know nothing of the population of Kearns, or of Salt Lake City, or even of Utah, but before I came along the population of my family was eight (this includes my parents, my five older brothers and my older sister). So when I was born, I increased the population of my family by twelve and one-half percent.

I remember, as a child, thinking my older siblings to be the most wonderful people on earth. I don't know where I got this strange idea because, looking back, I see that it is not true. My dear brothers, Wendell and Mark (third and fourth oldest, respectively), used to find it great fun to shut me up in the basement, in the dark.

The dark basement was a wonderful place for a little child to be. It was cold, full of spiders, and I'm sure there were ghosts; their voices drifting down from the ductwork. Strange thing abut those ghosts, though: they sounded amazingly like my brothers. I can't explain this mystery, unless the ghosts were those of some long-gone relatives.

The one thing I remember most about Wendell is his arm. It seemed he always had a broken arm--always. Somehow, this talented brother of mine had been able to break the same arm, in the same place, and (I think) on the same date for three consecutive years.

Of Mark I remember little, except that when my cousin and I played house we fought over which of us got to be Mark's girlfriend. Actually Mark had plenty of girlfriends of his own (Mom called him a Casanova), and he didn't need my cousin or me to fill the position.

In the basement we had an old, upright piano. The poor thing was painted an ugly, yellowish-ivory color and it had a six-inch (or so) high mirror running across the top. Some of the keys were chipped and some were so dirty that they felt rough, and the two highest notes didn't play. On top of the piano was a brass clock with a glass case. The base of the clock was oval-shaped and was of brass as were the numbers and the works; it had a glass dome.

My brother, Gregory (the second oldest), used to sit and play the piano quite frequently. He nearly always included "The Entertainer" or "Joy" (a modernized version of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring") in his repertoire. My cousin Wendy and I spent a lot of time playing spies; and Gregory was often the subject of our spying. We spied on him while he played the piano; sneaking around the basement, knocking over boxes, tripping and telling each other to be quiet. But Gregory always seemed to know when we were spying on him.

The basement was the place for playing house. It was huge and had one small couch, dozens of sleeping bags, and a washer and dryer that could all be used for furniture. Paul and Melanie (my fifth brother and older sister) used to play house with me fairly often; but we didn't call it playing house. It was "Butchie and Keiko" [say "kee-ko"--and they chose those names, not me]. Paul played Butchie, Melanie played Keiko and I played the poor, harrassed mother of these vicious children. I would pity anyone who had children as mean as they were; and no matter how naughty they were I could never punish them--they punished me! Sometimes, though, Mark would come to my rescue--he would play the dad. He kept me amused by giving outrageous orders such as, "Turn off the sun!"

Upstairs was different. There you could smell furniture polish, floor wax and baking bread. You could hear Mom speaking in Portuguese on the phone with her sister. Or you could hear soap operas, like "Dark Shadows" or "As the World Turns." You could see her watching her "novels," baking the bread or cleaning the house. Mom would ask us to help her with the housework; but, for the most part (as seems to be the case with most children), this was a hopeless cause. So we went away again, outside or to the basement, to be chased by ghosts, play spies, or play house, or whatever it was that we did. --1985

Does this little girl look fat?

As an adult I can look at this little eleven-year-old girl and say that she is definitely not fat. In fact, if one of my kids looked like that and thought she was fat I would be really sad and very worried about her. But, oh! My memories and feelings say, "Yeah, there's a little too much tummy there."

I was 10 years old. I had started taking ballet and I loved, loved, loved it; I was going to be a ballerina. My teacher, who had danced with Ballet West herself, was excellent. But she frequently told us how tall and how light and how thin you had to be if you ever wanted to be in a ballet company. I had been taking dance from her for two months; it was early in October, it was a Tuesday, it was around 5:45 p.m, and I was standing in the northwest corner of the room. Our teacher was telling us about how tall you had to be--something she acknowledged you had no control over--but she also said that you had to very thin, and if you were serious you would work on that. She also said that some of us would be too heavy to be in Ballet West.

And I knew she meant me.

I looked around the room at the other girls and thought, "Well, some of them are bigger than me." But I knew she was talking right to me.

OK. Looking back, I'm sure she wasn't singling me out at all. But I was 10 years old. Then, outside of class the teacher's mother would regale us with stories of her daughter's time in the ballet company. One of her favorite stories: the director put all the ballerinas on a diet, except for my teacher, because she was already so thin. I just knew I had to lose weight if I really ever wanted to be a dancer.

On top of that my family was very body-conscious; Mom frequently commented about people who were "fat." And, of course our society perpetuates this all over the place. In eighth grade, my friends complained about how heavy they were--100 pounds. I weighed about 10 pounds more than any of them. You know, my muscles--especially legs and butt--were rock-hard. I took dance classes eight hours a week, plus the practicing at school (plus I was young and active anyway). But I didn't think of that; only that I was heavier than my friends who all thought they were too fat. It's a hard thing to grow up in a time and place where so much emphasis is placed on how good you look, and where the "beautiful people" are brought so much into the forefront.

By the time I was 13 I had put myself on a perma-diet. When I first heard of anorexia and bulimia I thought those were really good ideas for losing weight. Fortunately I had a good--all right, terrific--self-esteem and I never had those problems. But I did stop eating breakfast and lunch. I might have a cup of milk in the morning, a small bowl of cereal if I was really hungry. I skipped lunch at school; instead I took my dance shoes with me and danced through the lunch period. After school I might have a glass of milk again; a half peanut butter sandwich if I was really hungry. Then I went to dance lessons for the evening; I was there not only for my own classes, but waited for my sisters' classes too. By the time I was 14 I was the pianist for all the ballet classes I didn't actually dance in. So I didn't usually get home again until 9:30 or 10:00. Then I did eat a good meal--and down a lot of milk (at least I wasn't getting a calcium deficiency).

Sometimes I wondered...I didn't think I looked too bad, even if I could "pinch an inch." But I knew that I wouldn't--couldn't ever be a ballerina; I would lose one of the great loves of my life if I didn't lose some weight.

When I was 16 I took a ballet class at the University of Utah two evenings a week. I had to audition for the class (bad news--I'm terrible at auditions; nerves) and ended up in the adult class instead of the serious, young ballerina class. Once I was there and my new teacher got to know me and see me dance, she wondered why I wasn't put into a different class; it must be my weight, she said. In December of that year I had to have jaw surgery (orthodontics) and my mouth was wired shut for two months--liquid diet (UGH! I still hate strawberry Quik!). I dropped 10 pounds in the first week but I was so hungry! I skipped school and dance through all of December. In January, when I returned, my University dance teacher said I looked just perfect. And I thought, "Great. If I never eat again I will be thin enough."

The very instant my mouth wires were cut, I gained the ten pounds right back.

This is me at my surprise birthday party. I was 17 and I thought I was 20 lbs. too heavy. I see this picture now and wonder, "What was I thinking?!"

So, for my entire life--since I was ten years old--I've thought I had to lose anywhere from ten to 20 pounds. A few days ago I was going through pictures that my mom had stored away and I found that surprise-party picture. I was in shock!! I looked at myself and said out loud, "Wow! I was hot!" How could I possibly see the girl in that picture and think she needs to lose weight?!

Now I'm married, I'm older, I have eight kids; I've gained some weight. Even though I'm softer now, I think I look OK--except for the mom pouch that doesn't seem to ever go away. Well, and the thighs. Sometimes I look at myself and think I look really good. Sometimes I look at myself and I see "fat." I have mostly come to terms with my body; over all I like myself (self-esteem is still not a problem). But old habits and ways of thinking die so hard! I can't help feeling I'd like to weigh quite a bit less. I tell myself that numbers on the scale don't mean anything, but I don't always entirely believe it.

A couple months ago I was in the temple. I looked around and saw people of all body-types; tall, short, some very heavy, some very thin, and all of them dressed in white. All equal. I had this freeing thought that it really doesn't matter what I weigh; I don't have to lose weight. That lasted about a week.

Soon after that, I had a physical; my doctor told me that my pinched nerve trouble would probably go away if I lost a little weight. He brought out a chart that said a woman my age and height should weigh between 113 and 142. He felt my wrist and said I had a larger bone structure and that the mid 130's would be good for me. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. But in a way it was a relief, as if I now had a good excuse to obsess about my weight. Is this long-time arch-enemy--the need to lose weight--also my friend? A security blanket? A self-identity thing? Hmmm. But if I did lose 30 pounds would I be satisfied? Or would I still look in the mirror and think I need to lose a little more?

And 20 years from now will I see pictures of myself and wonder, "What was I thinking?!"

I am sewing, daily sewing...

I have become the local seamstress. It started on March 6 when I was at a Relief Society party and Heather asked me to make her prom dress. She wanted a dress like Belle's yellow gown (Disney's Beauty and the Beast), and since she obviously wouldn't find one in any store she needed someone to make it for her. I agreed. [More on the prom dress later--when I have pictures.]

At about the same time, Brandon was looking at clothing patterns while I was shopping the craft department at Wal-mart. He found one he liked and said he'd like to make it for his little sisters. Brandon is only 10, and has never done any sewing, but I figured he could at least do some of it. I hadn't planned to make new Easter dresses for the girls, but if he wanted to learn to sew--making something for the girls--then I'd do it after all. I really did end up making the dresses myself, but they were easy and cute. But what I really wanted to do was make a dress for myself, so I did that too.

Soon after Easter my brother asked me to make his daughter's costume for the school play she was in. OK. I also had to make Lindsey's costume for the play (they go to the same school). And in the middle of all that a friend asked me to make a Little Red Riding Hood cloak for her little girl's birthday. And of course I said I would.

I've got all those projects done now. So far, so good. But I still want to make myself another dress or two (it's been a while), and my three littlest need nightgowns. It's a funny thing...I've done almost no sewing at all for---a really long time. Now suddenly I am swamped in sewing projects. It's OK. I really enjoy it. And I like to see my finished work--because, Dang! I do a good job!

Rats!

When I was growing up I liked animals as much as the next kid, and I had my share of pets, too. I'd catch lizards and horned-toads in the fields around our house and take them home to keep until they escaped. One year we had a lot of fun with a wading pool full of tadpoles--several of them even made it to frogdom. We had ducks and rabbits, which weren't exactly pets, but were fun anyway. We had cats and dogs; Melanie had a couple of gerbils--that had lots of babies; we had finches. I had a fish tank with lots of fish and a really cool fiddler crab. Although I got mad at my fish because they ate the crab when it was moulting. (Is that what you call it when crabs get bigger?) Well, anyway, we had lots of pets and I loved them all.

Then I got married and had lots of kids; I just didn't really feel the need for a pet any more. We did get a cat a few years ago because I thought the kids should have a pet. I like Abbi well enough--she's a really good cat. But it's just not the same as when I was a kid. You know, I just don't love little critters like I did then. So the last thing I ever thought I'd have in the house was a couple of rats.

My first experience with a pet rat was when my brother Peter moved from home, I think for the first time, to California with a friend. We all went to "visit Peter" (really Mom was just going to check things out) and he showed us their rat. First of all, in my mind rats were "rodents" (translate to "vermin" in grown-up language). And I just thought it was ugly! I thought they must have caught it wild and caged it up; it was BIG and it looked bald and had a really pointy nose. It was a male, and all it did was lie around on its back, letting all its maleness hang out. This rat would make you think of the stereotypical unkempt, beer-bellied guy hanging out in front of the TV all day--the kind that would answer the door in his boxer shorts. I was 10 at the time so the whole thing was slightly shocking--it made a big, negative impression! Fortunately our two little rats aren't like that.

Still, I would never have chosen rats as pets, so why did I get a couple of them? Well Becky, my sister-in-law, keeps rats. This did not inspire me to run out and get some. No, one of her rats had babies and my kids really wanted some. So on May 3rd or 4th Ryan called Becky up and told her he could have a rat, and asked when he could get it. She immediately asked to talk to me or Bruce for verification of the facts. I felt surprisingly neutral about the whole thing. I was a little worried about Abbi (it turns out she couldn't care less); but overall, I figured it would be OK. But I told them they had to clean their room and keep it clean until the rats were big enough to leave their mommy (I did not know that was only two days into the future). WOW! They cleaned their room in about 20 minutes! And they did a good job, too; they made the beds, cleaned out the closet, the tops of the dressers... They even cleaned under the beds--because "if there was old food under there, with germs on it the rats might get sick" (never mind the people). One week later the room was still clean and we became the owners of a couple of little female rats.

I have to admit they are kind of cute. Do I want to play with them? No. Do I want to touch them? No. Do I want them running all over the house? No. I have progressed so far that I can talk nicely to them when they are in their cage. But the kids love them; it's really fun to hear them giggling with their new little critters. And I guess that's what pets are really all about.

Wanna try something yummy?

Everyone's doing it!

A couple weeks ago my cousin, Wendy, told me that a friend of hers asked for my chicken salad recipe. In fact, lots of people ask for my chicken salad recipe. See, a long, long time ago--before I was even married--I made up this recipe trying to copy a chicken salad that I had at a restaurant once. I don't even remember exactly what that salad was like now; but this one sure is popular! I've had more requests for this recipe than any other I've made. Well, it is very good!

LORALEE'S CHICKEN SALAD

• 2 skinless chicken breasts
• 2-3 celery ribs, chopped
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 1 cucumber, peeled and finely diced
• 1 small carrot, grated
• 1 hard-boiled egg, crumbled
• 2-4 Tbsp. finely diced cheddar cheese
• 1/2 - 3/4 cup raw almonds
• about 1 Tbsp. Miracle Whip (salad dressing)
• real mayonnaise*
• lemon pepper

* You can use light mayonnaise, but don't use fat-free mayo--it's icky!

Steam or microwave the chicken until fully cooked, but not dried out. Place chicken on a plate, cover with foil or plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator to cool. While the chicken is cooling you can chop the veggies. Toss the celery, onion, cucumber, carrot, egg and cheese together in a medium bowl. Slice the almonds in half lengthwise and toss with the veggies. Remove chicken from fridge; bone it and tear into bite-size shreds. Toss the chicken with the veggies. Add the Miracle Whip and enough mayonnaise to give the salad a good texture. Mix in a dash or two of lemon pepper. Garnish with some whole almonds, if desired [parsley would look nice too].

This is really good all by itself, but I like it best in sandwiches. For nice hors d' ouvres you can use it as a filling in little cream puff shells.

Yummy!