For the Love of Pumpkin Bread

So, I think I've mentioned that I love fall a few times here, but there's something I forgot to include in my list of things I love about this season. And that is, (imaginary drumroll, please) the glorious pumpkin. Every fall, I can't wait to figure out the loads of ways I can fit pumpkin into my life. I know I've already shared my affection for pumpkin spice lattes, but the world of pumpkin includes so much more than a mere latte. For starters, there's pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin pancakes, pumpkin cookies (with chocolate chips, obviously), and then there's my favorite pumpkin-laden food, The Pumpkin Bread.

In honor of my love of pumpkin and my love of people who read this blog, I'd like to share the recipe I'm currently using (thank you, Allrecipes.com) with you and highly encourage you to make this as soon as you are physically able. Once you make it (if you start now, you'll be eating it an hour from this moment), you should probably slip into your favorite wool cardigan, turn the air-conditioning way down (so that it feels like fall inside, obviously), warm your hands around a mug of tea and then take a big, bite of warm, aromatic, delectable pumpkin bread. And then you should call me and we'll talk about how much we love fall.

Ok, now that you know what the next couple hours of your life include, here's the recipe for pumpkin nirvana, I mean, bread...


Ingredients:
* 1 cup butter or margarine, softened
* 3 cups sugar
* 3 eggs
* 3 cups all-purpose flour
* 1 tablespoon baking powder
* 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cloves
* 1 1/2 teaspoons ground nutmeg
* 1 (16 ounce) can solid pack pumpkin


Directions:
1. In a mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar. Add eggs; mix well. Combine dry ingredients; stir into creamed mixture just until moistened. Stir in pumpkin. Pour into two greased 9-in. x 5-in. x 3-in. loaf pans. Bake at 350 degrees F for 1 hour or until bread tests done.

You can thank me later.

Late Night Auto Insurance

Last Night:
1:15am
The scene: Sam wakes up crying in the nursery down the hall.

1:16am
The scene: Sam's parents wake up to the sound of Sam yelling.

Dara Lynn: Matt, can you go check on Sam?
Matt: (slightly slurred) Yeah. (pause) Who's he with?
Dara Lynn: (quickly recognizing this is somehow related to Matt's job in insurance) He's with State Farm.
Matt: (skeptical) How do you know that?
Dara Lynn: (trying not to shake the bed from laughing) Because he told me.
Matt: (pause) No, he didn't. Wait, are you talking about Sam or the other guy?
Dara Lynn: Other guy? (laughing now and shaking the bed)
Matt: (getting up and stumbling towards the door.) Hmph.

I had no idea that an additional benefit to marriage would be the unexpected entertainment of sleep-talking. A few weeks ago we had a very similar conversation about insurance that included Matt turning to me at 3am and very seriously asking if I was looking for liability or full-coverage. It doesn't get much better than late-night pillow talk about auto insurance.

We've also had a couple of sleep-talking instances that were less entertaining, however. One actually wasn't a conversation, but included Matt acting out a dream he was having that involved his slapping an imaginary horsefly on my forehead. I woke up with fireworks behind my eyes and Matt's palm flat against my face. I yelled loudly. The explanation? He was dream-canoeing and had seen a big horsefly and literally told himself (in his dream, mind you) to hit it as hard as he could. And so he did. On my face. At 2am. It was funny later.

There was also the night when Matt turned over and put his arm around me and said "So, where are you from?" in his most charming voice. I rolled over and said "What?" in my less charming voice. Then he woke up a bit and said that he'd been dreaming he was at a wedding and found himself hanging out with a bridesmaid that he knew wasn't me (much to his surprise, obviously). So, he tried to play it cool and pretend like he knew what was going on, while fishing for information about who the heck she was. I was less amused by this dream. I wanted to punch that imaginary bridesmaid in the face. Or maybe slap an imaginary horsefly on her forehead.

I'm eagerly awaiting the next round of sleep-talking entertainment. I have a sneaking suspicion it may involve homeowners insurance, or maybe even renters. I'm just hoping no more horseflies or hussy bridesmaids. I'll keep you posted.

I Heart Fall

FALL. This is my favorite word right now. It magically conjures up images in my mind of pumpkin patches, cornmazes, hayrides, cardigan-wearing, apple orchards, leaves falling, long shadows in the afternoon, chilly evenings, woodsmoke, football games, hot chocolate, and the list could go on and on and on. I have a serious love affair with fall every year.

But, I've wondered why I feel this strongly about a season and there are a few reasons, I think, for why I can wax poetic over these all-too-short three months of the year. The first is that I'm from Georgia, not too far from HOT-lanta actually, and for as long as I can remember, once August rolled around every year, I was ready to make the move to Canada for some relief from the sweltering Georgia heat. I'd cut out magazine photos of autumnal things (leaves, pumpkins, people wearing sweaters) and tuck it in the corner of the picture frame above my desk, just to remind me that one day, in the not too distant future, the temperature really would dip below 90 degrees and I might have a good hair day again.

But, there's another reason for my adoration of all things autumnal. Beyond just the obvious relief from oppressive, Deep South temperatures, there is something intensely nostalgic about fall, something that hangs about the idea of it and makes me feel like journaling at Starbucks, writing letters to old friends and reading favorite books again. (It also makes me want to go to Dollywood, but that's for another time, another blog post.) I can't quite put my finger on this wistful feeling, I just know that fall brings this curious longing for something I can't name.

Thank goodness for C.S. Lewis who put some of this into words, especially in his Weight of Glory, but also in some of his other writings. In Pilgrim's Regress, he talks about "that unnameable something, desire for which pierces us like a rapier at the smell of a bonfire, the sound of wild ducks flying overhead, the title of The Well at the World's End, the opening lines of "Kubla Khan," the morning cobwebs in late summer, or the noise of falling waves."

Lewis called this desire sehnsucht, "a German noun translated as 'longing', 'yearning' and 'craving', or in a wider sense a type of 'intensely missing'." I love this word for some reason, even though there's something distinctly melancholy about it.

Despite my best efforts, I can't help but wish away the long, hot summers every year. I wait by the air conditioning vent during those blistering months, knowing that on the other side of August (or sometimes September), along with cooling temperatures, there will also be the old rememberings in this new fall in the midst of hayrides and the smell of woodsmoke and the worn sweater I'll pull down from the closet.

This year my favorite season includes sweet Sam and I can't wait to take him to the mountains and jump in piles of leaves and feed him pumpkin pie (pureed, of course). As my friend Lex would say, "shared joy is double joy," and I'm guessing this fall will be the most joy-full yet.

Pumpkin Spice Lattes, here I come.

Porch Thoughts

I've just come back in from sitting on the porch, drinking an out of the ordinary glass of wine and watching the day fade to the sound of crickets. It's a miraculous 68 degrees out and my mind is already full of autumnal things like pumpkins and hayrides and cardigans.

It's been a full day of extreme Sam-watching and a few quiet moments on the porch staring at the trees in the yard felt more necessary than usual. After 29 years of singleness and loads of nights moaning to someone (usually God) about being alone, now I am alone approximately 5-10 minutes a day, and that's just bathroom breaks. I have a feeling that God is shaking His head at me a little as I get what I want and then wish I still had a little of what I used to have.

I was in Georgia this past weekend visiting my family while Matt was on a prayer retreat for a few days. Driving 4 hours (a.k.a. 6 if you count stops for food and diaper changes) with just Sam is something I haven't done before until this weekend. I was a bit nervous and then somewhat empowered during the trips there and back. It reminded me of all those drives I had back and forth to Georgia from Nashville and later from Knoxville when I was single, running up the miles on my Jeep while listening to music and pondering life's mysteries and the complexities of relationships (i.e. silly boys).

Yesterday's drive found Sam napping not once but twice, which gave me time to reminisce to the background music of John Mayer, Greg Laswell, REM, Iron and Wine and other old and new radio friends. It was lovely and I reminisced like crazy about the last, oh, 10 years of my life. I haven't done that sort of thing in months (as in, 8.5) and it felt good to revisit old memories and dear friends and even a few regrets. I think I almost reclaimed a little of myself on the interstate yesterday, as John Mayer's voice filled my car and reminded me of my "old" life, sans diapers.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade this life that I have with my wonderful husband and adorable Sam for anything, but there are days when I crawl into bed and realize that I haven't thought even for a minute about what I want or feel or wish for. It's so completely the opposite of what used to occupy my mind just a few years ago. Now, I can't go 10 minutes without contemplating the cost of diapers and baby food or wondering why the contents of Sam's diaper today was such a weird color.

This life as a wife and mom is what I've always wanted, but the challenge of retaining some semblance of who I have been and imagining what I might still become is tougher than I even expected. And not because I'm fighting for time to be alone with my thoughts but because I don't even have the time to be aware of what I'm not thinking about.

After sharing a few of these realizations with my mom over the weekend, she reminded me of her grandmother, my great-grandmother, who had 8 sons and a husband who worked the nightshift. According to family stories, this woman didn't make it outside their yard for a full ten years as she reared those 8 boys of hers. Obviously, those were different times, but it does put things into perspective a bit.

Well, it's taken me close to 24 hours to actually write this blog post and now Sam's up from his last nap of the day, busily mashing Puffs (a magical food made of air and sweet potatoes) into the blanket he's sitting on. And I find that I'm already plotting another 20 minutes on the porch tonight with perhaps another glass of vino to accompany me.

I think there may be a balance somewhere between the constant "meeting of needs" all day and the quiet reflection that feels so elusive. I'm just not sure how to find that balance just yet. I welcome any and all suggestions.

A Manifesto of Sorts

We've just gotten back from an afternoon at the pool which has only made me more aware that pale will never be cool. Nevertheless, sunscreen and I are on a first-name basis and at 32, I've given up on the dream of being tan.

Now that we're back in the land of air-conditioning, I'm still sitting in a wet bathing suit in our living room. (Try not to picture this). I don't normally sit around in my bathing suit, especially not when it's wet, but if I take the time to actually go change into normal, dry clothes, the babe will inevitably wake up and this tiny little window of time I have to write a bit will very quickly become a thing of the past.

Sam's snoozing in the next room, still in his carseat where he fell asleep on the way home. In the interest of dragging his nap out, I did a little driving around which also included some Sonic and a 64 cent cherry-limeade, a visit to Krystal and two mini-burgers, some talk radio and a call from Matt. Most of that was unnecessary information, but I feel like over-sharing today.

However, what I really want to address here in this post is something other than my random bathing suit-wearing afternoon visits to fast food restaurants. Instead, I feel like talking about how I have no response when someone casually asks me "So, what's been going on lately?" I usually pause and then look away, probably down at Sam, and then waste a little time by coughing unnecessarily while trying to drum up an answer. I mean, SURELY, I've done something interesting in the past 7 days that warrants sharing. But, after a little socially awkward silence, I come up with nothing. It's starting to make me wonder if I have Alzheimers or if I just genuinely have nothing going on.

But, I DO have stuff going on. It's just not the kind of stuff you talk about at parties or write about in your memoir. For starters, my days are usually ordered around Sam's naptime and bedtime. Everything in the schedule fits around those two things, come hell or high water, only a little less dramatic. Not to say that I'm not flexible, but if one of those two sleep events gets thrown off, it means lots of fussing (by Sam) and less sleep (for me). Those things together mean that I feel more stress, which means I eat more chocolate, which means I gain more weight, which means I get cranky, etc. So, as you can see, it's a slippery slope.

In addition to ordering things around Sam's sleep schedule, the rest of my time is devoted to laundry, cooking, running errands, occasional personal grooming (i.e. showers) and entertaining an almost 8 month old. I get lots done and I don't sit down much, but the only way you can really tell is that at the end of the day Sam is still alive and Matt has clothes to wear to work for tomorrow.

Basically, I'm pooped at the end of every day, but with not a lot to show for it. After all that energy spent, there are no works of art to be displayed, or film documentaries to wrap up, no music composed. I don't have a book to publish or even a magazine article to send to an editor. No awards are received, no time cards are punched. My portfolio and my resume have not benefited from the things I have accomplished. All in all, what I do each day goes largely unseen and the day after today I will do it all over again.

SIGH.

But, despite the lack of tangible expressions of my spent energy and the lack of an answer to "what's new with you?", I'm glad (and even proud) to be doing this thing called being a stay-at-home mom. No one sees these things I'm doing and Sam won't even remember all these days and weeks and months we've spent together.

But, I will.

I am logging hour after hour of memories of my little boy's life that I can never do over and never get back. And, no one else gets the privilege of doing this for him but me.

So, maybe I'm becoming a little dull at parties and I don't ever have much to update anybody on. OH WELL. I wouldn't trade these quiet, uneventful days with Sam for all the published books and all the jet-setting jobs and all the high fives in the world.

Now that I've written my stay-at-home mom manifesto, it's time to put on dry clothes and maybe even do some more laundry.

Three Years of Good Times

I still have a Bachelorette hangover from last night's marathon of reality romance, so I'm not sure how coherent this post will be. But, Sam's down for the 2:30 nap, which means I have a small window here to write a little, so I'm blogging instead of doing something else slightly more productive. Anyway, I feel the need to mention that tomorrow is our three year wedding anniversary. Three years of wedded bliss (sigh) with just a little bit of un-bliss here and there.

I was reminiscing this morning about how "we" came to be and how now we've got this little guy named Sam as a result (of sorts) of all those dates and emails and transatlantic phone calls and trips across the ocean. So, in honor of August 4, 2007 and my darling husband Matt, I thought I'd post a few pictures from our long-distance dating days and engagement.

The picture of the pink building is actually the governor's castle in Uppsala, Sweden where Matt proposed. It was totally Bachelorette-worthy, which is obviously what Matt was thinking when he made the plan to propose in a Swedish castle. That was also the night I ate reindeer for the first time. As it turns out, Rudolph, Donner and Blitzen taste amazing.

I am extraordinarily blessed to be married to Matt and I'm hoping for 60+ more years of good times with that man.

Operation Night-Night

Operation Night-Night is currently in full swing and so I have a few minutes (fingers crossed for 20) to spend a little quality time with my blog. It's been a while and I thought it was probably time we re-aquainted ourselves.

Of late, we've been implementing a naptime/bedtime routine in hopes of retaining my sanity and perhaps enabling me to resist the urge to take a shot of whiskey every hour on the hour (note: this hasn't happened yet, but Jack Daniels and I may have a future together). Needless to say, this process has been something I'd like to call HARD. Who knew that babies have such major issues with being asked to put themselves to sleep? Not me.

So, we're trying something called SleepSense and I have to say that the $47 I spent online for a downloadable book was totally worth it. I even get a 15 minute call-in once a month to chat with the author. I'm wondering if that's where $37 of that sticker price is going. Not sure what I'll say when I call her but at the moment I'm thinking I'll thank her and, if all goes well, offer to vote for her in the next presidential election.

Perhaps you're wondering why it's taken me 7 months to figure out that The Babe needed a sleep schedule. Well, there are so many reasons why we hadn't given him one already and honestly, I'm not going to waste your time with detailing what I've been doing wrong all this time. I'd rather not be knocked off that high pedestal I'm sure you've had me on. As it turns out, 7 months of not sleeping well can seriously hamper your ability to think effectively. Case in point: I backed into the ditch at the end of our driveway this past week on my way to the grocery store. Roughly two hours later, a very large tow truck was driving away after having extracted the Jeep (question: does a Jeep without 4 wheel drive really deserve its Jeep card?) from the aforementioned ditch. I blame this event on long-term sleep-deprivation and not my driving capabilities. It's possible my husband would not agree with my placement of blame, but I'm pretty sure lack of sleep is the issue here.

BUT, besides Operation Night-Night, there have been some good times with the Samster. Sam saw the ocean for the first time on our little excursion to Jekyll Island with the grandparents last week. Big Fun. He also tried grits for the first time, which is, according to many southerners, the perfect food. He was a fan. Sam went to his first birthday party (not his party, but a friend's 27th birthday party) and he was a big hit. Only speed bump on that highway of fun was the aftereffects of the Happy Birthday song which included some "hip, hip, hoorays" at the end. After the 30 or so adult voices in the room finished with the last hooray, one little voice was still yelling and it was not "hooray." It was similar to his reaction during the World Cup US/England game. The boy doesn't like yelling, which I find ironic.

If I survive Baby Boot Camp (as a friend refers to the sleep-training process), I'll post a few pictures of Sam on vacation soon. That's IF I survive, which today feels like a big, fat IF.

I'll leave you with a quote from Plato, because I am that well-read:
"Out of all the animals, the BOY is the most unmanageable."

This makes me wonder how many Operation Night-Nights Plato had to impose.