Dentistry Elves

It's hard to get things completed around here at times, and plenty to distract me. 

There's a section of my kitchen countertop that regularly has a stack of papers and mail and notes that, well, just rotates papers and mail and notes. My computer desk is the same.

We had our Christmas decorations hauled out of the attic storage taunting the kids for a whole week before a tote got cracked open.  The main floor is pretty much done now, but the pint sized "kids' tree" has remained bare and lightless upstairs in our common room. 

Until last night.

Our little elves apparently made their FIRST act of mischief one of helpfulness too, covering that little tree with pretty colored lights, and.... toothbrushes??????  Perhaps the sheer quantity in this house was enough to inspire them. 

I'm just glad they didn't raid the underwear drawer.



Advent Lesson:  Who knows?  Maybe this is a reference to their friend Hermey of the Rudolf story who, despite ridicule, really really wanted to be a dentist...  "Embrace your gifts and talents." 

Or, maybe it was just for fun!

Getting There

Note: Text by Kelly. Parenthetical notations by Kel.


Saturday’s eight hours in a car were chopped up by a few potty breaks and a whirlwind run through Walmart where we spent forty bucks on lunch fixin’s and a frisbee too. (We almost lost Finan. That’s why we don’t stop very much… it increases our risk of loss). We had plenty of food for snacks and another lunch today. I think the Food Network should run a Challenge show for deli chefs who can assemble meals for eleven in vans driving through department store parking lots. I’d be a contender for the $10,000 oversized check. Even if I won I think we would still assemble lunch from a grocery store. (No, we would go through a Wendy’s drive thru.)

We were happy to arrive at our little Ramada last night. (It was a dump.) It wasn’t bad, except for the lack of adequate air conditioning. Considering that we have NONE at home, we kept complaints to a minimum and put the big kids in the “cooler room”. (Don’t forget to mention the lack of windows, lack of towels, lack of ice machines, lack of hotel personnel, lack of wi-fi, lack of omelets and pancakes and bacon and sausage and waffles and good coffee. Shoot! Even lack of Twinkies.) It was just for one night, and the pool was nice and cool. Unfortunately, I did step on a “not quite so dead yet” wasp who managed to stick his stinger in the bottom of my foot. (That would not have happened at a Marriot).

I would also like to add how difficult it is to settle children for the night in an unfamiliar place. (Add to the hotel list: PARENTAL LACK OF SLEEP). They are fascinated by every switch, button, cord… and the close proximity of two bouncy double beds. We spent several hours attempting the impossible, and I finally suggested turning on the National Weather Service broadcast on the tv. Think emergency weather radio with radar maps. Both have the same sonorous voice that warns you of clear skies and flash floods in emotionless monotone. (Hey! I like the weather channel!)

Kel, exhausted from the day’s drive and relaying the incessant countdown to “When are we gonna be there???”, was clearly getting frustrated (This was Hell), but eventually the children fell asleep. And then he was compelled to take this picture of them. “Aren’t they so cute?”, he said. (I did.)

I’ll skip the breakfast selections (Yes, we should have) and add that we actually made it to Mass on time! (The truth is we had help… we gained an hour in Ohio’s eastern time zone, and who wants to linger over wheat bread?). The children were so interested in this centuries old German parish called St. Nicholas Catholic Church. The Italian Renaissance architecture supported a beautiful Florentine dome and stunning stained glass windows. (That’s what the pamphlet said). Merryn pointed out that one of the largest windows was of The Visitation, depicting Mary visiting her cousin Elizabeth. “That’s your name!” I told her.

So here is Merryn Elizabeth in front of her stained glass window.

The next blog will number the times Finan has exclaimed “Awesome!” and “WOOOOO-HOOOOO” during mountain tunnels, steep grades, runaway truck ramps, and bridge overlooks. (As well as Andy’s “I gotta go pee!!! breaks).

Welcome In!

We try hard to make our home a welcoming place to all who enter it. 

There's a lot wrong with it (unfinished crown moulding, feet that find their way through the floor into the ceiling below, clutter, dust, limited bed space),  but what IS right with it, the people, is exceptional.

And since my family has finally returned from being spread far and wide, the shoe pile is humongous again, the fridge door is constantly open, and the barrage of requests has resumed.  I'm far from "company ready". But I'm trying to maintain the perspective that it's about relationships, not piles.

That's why, when a friend of Ally's asked to spend the night here (Ally: "Really?  You want to spend time HERE?"), the girl responded with an exhuberant "YES!" because she just anticipated it must be a blast here, all the time.  Regular circus.

Well, She's Brave.

And I thought she was even fearless when she walked in here with a carrier holding a baby raccoon. 

SHE BARELY GOT THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR.

The squeals and giggles were many.  The kids were awed by the cooing "Drew" made when they lightly stroked his back.  They all took turns trying to feed the poor thing who was clearly not hungry, but who attempted to comply just to entertain us.  The kids sat in a circle and covered themselves with his blankie so they would avoid getting peed on. 

They all wanted one.

Now, even though the rodent was given to Ally's friend by her Ag teacher,  this was NOT a school assignment.  It's true, this man teaches classes like "Ag Resources" in which students become skilled in archery, navigate through deep woods, and eat off a buffet of wild game for class credit.
 
Raise a wild animal?  Not required.

No, she ASKED to bring that baby raccoon home after he and several siblings had spent the first 3 weeks of their lives in the classroom.  (I never asked for any delicate information about the death of the mother... would you?)  Clearly, however, this one month old baby needed some love!

Was I worried?  Initially. 
After all, we've never had a raccoon in our house before.
Even on accident.
We've had big ones in our garbage, and boy, can they do a number on the stuffings of garbage cans!

But since he had been captive since birth, seen a vet, had no teeth, and was bottle fed with puppy formula, it was easier to let my guard down.
And the kids, and their friends (who continued to arrive), really enjoyed the "Come one, come all" adventure, right here in our own family room.

I'm glad it happened.  It was an experience none of us will soon forget, and thankfully, did not end up to be a three ring circus... just a three-ringed raccoon tail! 

And I truly doubt he'll end up as a coon-skinned hat.

Christmas Break- Day 1

It's the time of year when people talk about the ways the Holidays delight their senses.  Wafting holly candles, pine garland, cinnamon.... twinkling lights, tumbling snowflakes, decorative wreaths... festive carols and traditional hymns...

Those people don't have kids.

Basically, the familiar sensory experience in OUR home is, well, to put it simply, Stimulating.

No one else ever mentions the sound of ornaments crashing together when a ball goes flying through the living room, but it regularly happens here.  The Monkey in the Middle is just not tall enough to screen drop kicks from the 3 year old.  He doesn't mean to be destructive... he just has awesome aim. Even from 2 rooms away, I am quite adept at knowing when it's just brass ornaments, or when I have to jump up and grab the vacuum cleaner.

There are traditional Holiday tastes and smells, but here there is also the constant "stick" that is gnawed on candy canes, still in wrappers. Or globs of glitter glue that won't fully dry.  Or the rejected fancy candy with the gooey centers that taste like "yuck" ("Well, then stay out of your father's Ghirardelli!").   I want to scream when asked for the 15th time, "Mom, where's MY candy?"  It's only 9 am.  I should spare myself the agony and just eat the stuff myself.  But how then should I handle the situation when I hear "Why is the baby carrying around a bottle of ketchup?" 

Our one-horse open sleigh is real enough.  The circle loop that links the sitting room-living room-dining room-computer room is a first class obstacle course for the new Radio Flyer wagon.  I've been told not to overreact:  Speeding is of little concern since the thing actually has seatbelts.  Doesn't candy count as an accelerant?

I don't hear other households lament that, now that it's Christmas break, they are the loudest family on the planet. Well, maybe other families do have such complaints, but I certainly wouldn't be able to hear about them.  The din here can be deafening.

Am I the only person who drinks a beer to STOP my head from spinning?

My poor husband. 
The man is a professional who runs a building with nearly 400 children in it, aged 7 and under.  SEVEN AND UNDER.  It's a RESPITE compared to here.  I'd ask him what his thoughts are about this apparent juxtaposition of his life's work, but I think he went to have a beer.

Project Runway

I first realized she could do it when she emerged from the living room with a squished stick of butter in her hands and a big smile on her face.  Unless she was able to manuever the huge hose on the Dyson vaccuum, the butter stunt meant she could scale the kitchen counter.  And I was right.

The next time (or, what I THINK is the "next time"), I was able to catch her with the element of surprise.  The bar stool had already been pushed across the room, and the baby was standing ON the counter talking to the birds outside the kitchen window.  I didn't want to startle her into falling, so I clamped my lips shut and gulped down my scream. 

Over the years I have learned you can kind of expect this sort of dare devil behavior from small children, because at this age they are formulating thoughts and exercising preferences.  Still, it's a shocker when you realize your baby can actually implement a plan.

The most recent exploit, though, really had me wondering about personalities that accompany these behaviors.  I understand that if the child is hungry, she'll find a way to get into the secured cereal cabinet and dump 3 pounds of Cheerios on the floor, and a few in the bowl too.  I can see how if she wants to make dessert  like the big sisters she'll pull out the vegetable oil which is loosely capped from the last set of Brownie Bakers (who also did not secure the cereal cabinet).  Babies mimic the people around them, which is why in this house no one can ever find their own toothbrush.

But what do you make of a baby who is pleased as punch to have you enter the Hub of the Household to see her prancing up and down the dining room table as if it were Project Runway?

Motivation

One of our big summer projects this year involved hooking up electricity to the ceiling fans and overhead lighting in every room on the main floor of this old house, including the enclosed front porch. (Mind you, the ceiling fans and overhead lighting were already there and had been for years... but that's another story of self-sacrifice).

By the time Kel finished cutting into tiles and through plaster, repainting the ceilings was necessary, but that made the walls look awfully blah and dingy, so a different color scheme ended up making the fabric on the couch just "pop". And while we were at it (since the two front rooms were already empty of furniture) we refinished the wood floors in those rooms too. This is how we get things done, and a little rewiring job becomes Extreme Home Makeover. 

When we first moved into this house with its exterior of gross white tiles and icky green trim, the landscaping was made up entirely of rocks, discarded railway ties, scraggly shrubs, and broken cement walkways. I recall the time I pruned an overgrown forsythia bush outside our kitchen door. The kids and I would nearly poke our eyes out as we maneuvered around the limbs to approach the slanted steps and crooked backdoor. A quick "clip clip" with a pair of over-sized shears and I had that problem taken care of.

Boy, was Kel surprised when he got home from work! Typically he would appreciate my efforts, but this time he strained to hold his tongue and applaud my ambition.  That overly cropped forsythia couldn't hide the fact that I'm really not a great gardener.  However, it's funny to think that the space we now enjoy outside that reconstructed kitchen door is a direct result of a bad pruning job.  If only I had a "Before" picture!

As having nine kids might indicate, this Krenz family has been known for a willingness to take on more than minimally necessary.  We live big. I hesitate adding, however, that the kitchen ceiling still has a hole in it the exact shape of Brennan's foot, there is only one piece of crown moulding in there, and the windows have yet to be primed and painted. That remodel started in the summer of '02.  But we'll get to it, eventually.  We're just not motivated enough... yet.

When you put forth such effort (Kel doing the work, me keeping the kids out of the way), you hope things stay "nice" for a while. In our house, I realize that keeping things nice (landscape pruning not withstanding) is an especially idyllic notion, but I am entitled to hope for the best. Really, it's only October and the smell of the paint of the summer project is still fresh in my memory. So when I recently caught a glimpse of our 9 foot living room ceiling and saw what looked like WRITING, my initial reaction was "WHICH DERELICT DID THIS??"


(Note: Some might find it remarkable that I wasn't the least bit surprised there might be a scrawled message on the ceiling. Others might appreciate that what is utterly inconceivable in parents' wildest dreams actually does occur as fanciful thoughts to their children, and my kids happen to be the kind to act on them.)

After closer look I could see that this was really an index card adhered to the ceiling with 12 inches of strapping tape, and to my surprise it included Kel's handwriting!  "Palming the ceiling will give the girls a great vertical jump for volleyball!" he explained.  Considering Brennan's dunking skills started with hanging from the transom frames, I believe him.

I wonder what it would take to get the roof over the upstairs bathroom reshingled? 

Inspiration. Motivation.
It's all about what moves you.

Memories (unedited)

Just a few minutes in the Krenz household... for real.

Easy Access

Rosie, 17 months, approached me today with a cucumber in her ear and the instructions, "Hiiiiiiiii Nanny!" And then she handed it to me so I could talk to Kel's mom.

Luckily, it was a plastic cucumber from the play kitchen, and not a real cucumber from my refrigerator. If it were a real cucumber from the real kitchen, then my life would have taken a truly awful turn: it's never good when babies help themselves to the contents of your large appliances.

I remember one summer day, when all the windows were open. If you can picture it, we live in a house that's about 150 years old, and these old pulley system windows run nearly floor to ceiling. In fact, a 17 month old can easily see out, and neighbors see in. Some might consider that a little too much exposure, but I was grateful when our dear "great aunt"-type neighbor Nancy calmly called over our adjacent yards: "Kelly, I think Ally has a few eggs in your windowsill". Sure enough, that 17 month old baby was making scrambled eggs for us, with real eggs, and she was nowhere near the kitchen. (However, I'm not convinced she didn't get some help opening the fridge from a few bigger brothers.) I was actually kind of impressed that she walked through the whole house before breaking them in the window sill.

I guess it's safe to report not much has changed for me in these 15 years, from my oldest daughter's antics and now to my youngest. Children watch everything you do and innocently make their own attempts to follow along, although I'm quite sure my kids never saw me make eggs in the toyroom or talk in a cucumber. What is different is that I am slightly more calm about these efforts at independence and don't nearly over-react as much as I did in the earlier years (which honestly isn't saying too much).

Maybe I'm more wise, maybe I'm just more numb. What I do know is this: eggs and cucumbers are easy. But, I do draw the line at anything involving a gallon of milk.

"You should have your own show!"

You can't imagine the number of times people have remarked that our family should have its own TV show.

I guess they are referring to the popularity of numerous Big Family shows that pepper the TV Guide selections.... cute kids with matching outfits, nice parents, and perks in Disney World. A show about our family? I couldn't think of a WORSE idea.

For selfish reasons, I couldn't have a camera crew in here. They would be capturing hard evidence that I have a low tolerance for shoes littered at the door and garbage tossed lazily behind the couch, and even worse, that my children would actually do that! Producers would also expose to the world that my children learn to write their names on the dust that clings to the TV screen. There is no June Cleaver in pearls here... just a poorly dressed mom who is sorely lacking many answers to life's child rearing questions.

Of course there would be other characters on the show. But, tell me what could be so interesting about an Abe Lincoln sized man, the father of nine, who makes a living as the principal at a school with 360 children (all of whom are aged 6 and under). Hey! Maybe a few people would watch if it were shown during cold and flu season. It could be entitled "The Germinator", and sponsored by Clorox wipes and Kleenex. Now THAT'S reality TV. Still, would you really want to watch that?

My kids are performers though; just imagine what they would do with a Nielsen rated audience. They already love to entertain each other with their silly skits, funny jokes, amazing card tricks and karaoke. Our oldest could astound you with his abdominal muscles contorted to look like a skull. The 11 year old can do the splits AGAINST THE WALL. The 3 year old speaks Spanish, sort of. (At least that's what we think he speaks when he yells at the TV: "Dora, ciudado!" Really, her father is just not in that many episodes for a "See you Dad!" translation.) I wonder if shooting squirrels out of trees is considered entertainment?

We do have some cultured skills: The 13 year old can bring you to tears with her rendition of Les Miserables' "On My Own" or Phantom's "Think of Me". Her sister's just as good with contemporary Christian music. And the 8 year old can program the Casio for Bach's Minuet and can even follow along the lit keys. We also have a clarinet player, guitar strummer, and a couple trumpet tooters, but only one person ever practices. Every single family member dances, sometimes while not even waiting in line for the bathroom.

No, I'm convinced we should avoid more publicity. To the next person who says "You should have your own show," please don't take offense when I laugh out loud. Truly, I think we are on display enough (like, every Sunday when we're walking in late to Mass), and I already have enough Reality without having to do a show about it too.

I will, however, contemplate signing on for a cleverly scripted TV series about clean and well behaved children, and a mom who has dinner on the table every evening at 5, as dad waltzes through the front door and plops his briefcase on the dust-free coffee table.

Oh, never mind.
June already did that.

Optimum Disposition

I'm not a pill taker. It doesn't even occur to me to take a Tylenol for an ache, pain, or, if with codeine, vacation. If my eyebrows are furrowed, and one eye is a slit, Kel might say, "It looks like you have a headache. Do you want me to get you something?" But honestly, I'm just not aware enough to know it for myself.

That's why, I think, I can be a mom of nine. I just keep plowing through, not realizing that what I deal with in a single day is quadruple what some other moms might encounter. I guess if I did stop to notice, I might get a tad bit overwhelmed.

These last few days, however, I've been feeling a little run down. My nerves feel frayed. Nothing tastes good (now, there's a big flag). There's a pressure encompassing my entire head, and it's not because I'm wearing Andy's new Optimus Prime Transformers Helmet with Activated Voice Changer, even though I bet I would look better in it. Heck, maybe I would look exactly the same in it. That's just how I'm feeling.

This is nothing new. Many moms can empathize. Your needs are set aside for the Good of the Cause. You drag yourself out of bed because life must go on. Same old, same old. But it's the Quality of life for the family members which makes me pause. And really, who wants a grumpy mom? A snippy wife?


Enough already. This sounds like complaining. I'm going to go hunt down a Sudafed, and start playing.

Finan, can you take my picture?

Kitchen Help

Kel likes to drool over the Williams-Sonoma catalogue. They represent some wonderful products that have a huge "cool" factor. He gets sucked into the top-of-the-line grill gadgets and specialized tools, smartly designed utensils, and hard-to-find ethnic cookware.

Like the Ebelskiver pan he got for his birthday.

Today, on this leisurely Saturday morning, he is breaking out the new cookware to try his hand at making these Scandinavian treats, fluffy little pancakes you can fill with jam or fruit or cheese. (Williams-Sonoma also fills them with chocolate ganache, as if we would ever have THAT hanging around in our pantry. We always have chocolate chips.)

You whisk flour and other batter ingredients in one bowl. In the Kitchen Aid you beat egg whites "until stiff but not dry peaks form". Then you carefully combine the whites with the batter "in two additions." When you pour the batter into the wells of the pan, you dollop a teaspoon of the filling of your choice in the center, followed by another tablespoon of the batter. The video on the Williams Sonoma website is very helpful in demonstrating how to use two wooden skewers to roll the Ebleskiver over in the pan to cook on both sides.

I will tell you I love these Ebelskivers, especially the blueberry ones that have some powdered sugar on top. I also love hearing Finan pronounce these treats: "EbbaSibers..... Evvaskeebas... Escabobbers.... PANCAKES."

Stop in and join us.

Chef BoyRdee

I kind of like to cook. I like to plan meals, purchase ingredients, fret and stew all day, and that goes for the food too. It's better when it's just me working in the kitchen until extra hands are needed for rolling out pie crust, kneading bread dough, or tossing a salad. Then I love being surrounded by a whole bunch of biological family and chosen family. We'll have wine, several carafes of coffee, appetizers, and a big meal followed by a wonderful dessert. This typically occurs on a Sunday when...

Okay, okay. I give. Really, that's admittedly romantic. It presupposes that I can devote that much attention to a particular task without distraction. It's based on an assumption that we have more in the pantry than pinto beans and peanut butter. Even more realistic, it presumes that the laundry is done, and that you can walk through the front door without having to use a shovel at the shoe pile.

My Monday through Friday routine is also hardly romantic. Each day is a an endless loop of Plan the food, Prepare the food, Serve the food, Clean-up the food, and roll my eyes at the "I'm hungry agains". And my clientele is such that their taste buds are not developed, and they don't want their food to touch.

So when dinner rolls around, I'm out of ideas unless it involves peanut butter. If a hunk of protein isn't thawing on the counter by 9 am, chances are we're having pancakes for dinner, and Kel is mixing the batter. I've been known to make several decent crock-pot meals, but again, that requires preparedness and a plan. I might get as far as having pulled something freezer-burned out of the basement, but Kel usually has to pull something edible out of the pot.

This is actually a great metaphor of our personalities. He's got a knack for throwing things together that inevitably come out wonderful. He can locate a few remote ingredients in the fridge and pantry, and pull together a dinner good enough for unexpected interlopers, usually of the teenage variety and hungry like a wolf. He cooks like his Grandma Mert used to cook: with every pot, pan, spatula, ladle, spoon, measuring cup, and mixing bowl within arm's reach (and he's got long arms). The place is a disaster. He doesn't even start with a clean sink full of warm sudsy water. He ransacks the clean dishes in the dishwasher, and he also uses specialized cookware for unspecified uses. Is it really worth it to pull out the blender and all the pieces for it? and the Kitchen Aide? and the Cuisinart food processor?

It's just like the man to love power tools.

But, I shall not complain. I better not complain. The natives are restless.... and hungry. And we're out of peanut butter.

School Supplies

I wish you could see my living room floor. I'd post a picture, but I can't see my living room floor. It's covered, totally covered, with an incredible amount of stuff.

Which reminds me.
Did you ever hear that old joke about the Chinese soldier who was in charge of procuring, maintaining and distributing his unit's military equipment? His superior thought he was doing an awful job and, even worse, the soldier was never at his post. It was later learned that the soldier was hiding out back behind the equipment tent, scaring every passerby who happened along. "Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"

That's me, the infantry-mom, in charge of our unit's Supply Procurement, Maintenance, and Distribution. It's a lengthy job title (one of my many) and, in this household, a sometimes scary and labor intensive one. As I try to be a good steward of our family's expense account, I do my very best to "reduce, reuse, recycle," buy in bulk, and buy when the sales are hot.

That starts in July for school supplies, and you'll find me scouring slick Sunday ads for deals. All summer long I squirrel away bags of stuff and keep a running tally in my purse. When Walgreen's runs 10 count Papermate pens for .19 a pack (black, blue, red), I buy 20 packs. #2 lead pencils? 75 at a time. Two-pocket folders are 3 for $1? I get four times the amount the kids need, because folders get used up and need to be regularly replenished. Pencil boxes for 50 cents? Well, we still have decent pencil boxes from last year, so skip those.

And this is why you can't see my living room floor. It's covered with packs and stacks of Crayola markers (fine tip, and not), or Rose Art colored pencils, or pencil tip erasers, or spiral bound notebooks (1, 3 or 5 subjects, single or college ruled). Don't knock over my pile of Kleenex boxes and various styles of stainless steel round or pointed tip scissors. Loose leaf paper, graph paper, sketch paper, construction paper, copy paper: check check check check check.

I do all this with an ulterior motive: my kids don't have to accompany me to the store where the litany of "gotta haves" makes my head hurt. They shop in my living room from a wide assortment of supplies, filling their backpacks and checking off their own grade school list. This strategy has worked very well until today, when my entire family baulked at Andy having to use a particular pencil box leftover from someone last year.

"It's FINE," I insist.

"But it's PINK," Kieran says.

"It's red, and it's just a little faded. And see? Andy doesn't seem to mind!"

Maddie chimes in: "That's because he knows the rule."

"Yea," Merryn says. "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit."
(She's smug about her slick new pencil pouch anyway. It's pink with brown giraffe markings, and she lucked out receiving it as a birthday party favor. How smart is THAT mom?).

"It's PINK!!!" Kel says. "He can't walk into a new school with a whole new batch of boys to befriend and have a pink pencil box."

That's it. This crowd won't listen to reason or even the extra-light jingle of coins in my pocketbook. Not even my suggestion of adhering SuperHero stickers on top of the faded red pencil box top will suffice.

While Kel rolls his eyes over my cheap disposition (admittedly at the expense of a poor 6 year old child), I march with consolation into the kitchen where the bulk art supplies are stored and produce a perfectly fine BLUE pencilbox.

"Suuuuuupliiiiiiies!"

The Brown Jug

Kel and I regularly get out together, which baffles many people who can't imagine parents of 9 children EVER getting a moment alone. Ten years ago I would have understood the awe. But, we've been blessed with having our children one at a time, over a period of about two decades. The result is, of course, that the nine babies are not babies all at once. We now have "older" children who regularly provide babysitting for little to no financial compensation save the McDonald's caramel sundae Dad might bring home, or the promise of a night out of their own.

As a couple we highly value our time together, even if it's just driving in a car. Lately, though, we've been avoiding the 30 minute drive into town and staying local. Of course, this greatly reduces the evening's options. Offerings in our stoplight-less small town include Subway, McDonald's, and $1 hotdogs with fill-up... which honestly, for me, is just one step above a diaper retrieving excursion from Walmart. Recently, however, we have happened across a little local gem called The Brown Jug. It's a tavern!

The attraction for me is not the typical tavern escapades of bellying up to a bar for a few Miller Lites. I understand the bar camaraderie of meeting people and having a few beers, but I've never regarded myself as a tavern type of person. No, I go for a different reason. The Brown Jug has weekly kitchen specials, and my new hands-down favorite is the Monday night Bacon Cheeseburger basket for $3.50, "run through the garden" and with a side of fries.* Honestly, the burger is delicious and more than satisfies that "I Gotta Have A Big Hunka Protein" craving. And add it up: even with a beer it's a cheap date.

Now, those who don't know me would be very surprised to see me sitting in a bar, especially on a Monday night. It just looks bad that a mother of nine starts her week out in a location that could raise a few eyebrows. Admittedly, it's not like this is Book Discussion Night at the library. But I'm not going to try to hide my big white 15 passenger van by parking out back, because those who know me know I drink at home. (And it's not because I'm ashamed that a few bottles in my wine collection are from Aldi.) My real friends already know that I'll rarely turn down an offering of a cold beer, or two. They know I've even stretched myself to enjoy the likes of a pomegranate martini or an iced tea infused vodka. I'm quick to admit I am an imbiber.** My real friends also know I'm just too cheap to pay double the price in a bar in exchange for smokey ambiance and the marginal excitement of watching electronic dart throwers.

Now, I doubt I'll end up being a pub crawler, but it surprises even me that I have come to enjoy grabbing a beer and a bite to eat at The Brown Jug. Even better, I fully expect a few of my friends will join me. And won't they be surprised when the bartender calls me by name when we walk in the door and take a seat at my usual table! "Hey, Nooooooorrrrmmmm!"
Cheers.


* "With everything". Fries are 75 cents extra.
** Before my husband gets pegged as being married to a lush, keep in mind that I've had extensive pregnancy/nursing interludes, so my drinking days have been quite numbered. Someday I'll catch up.