Hot Mess

I vowed with perfect absolution that I would never do it again. And then I did it again. All week. I made a messipe of a recipe, and then I took that proverbial rolling pin and slugged myself with it, and tore off my apron in indignation, and cried because I'm not Giada DeLaurentiis. Neither my cleavage nor my cooking skills can compete. I always thought I was a competent cook, but then I got married and the question of What am I having for dinner became What are we having (funny how that happens...) and it turns out that fiesta bowl after fiesta bowl (a savory medley of frijoles negros, cheese, and salsa) is not acceptable. The?

So for awhile I begged out of cooking dinner for fear that my husband would scoff at the offerings. So I played the damsel in distress card, then the long commute home card, then the I'm in school card, followed by the I'm a damsel in distress with a long commute home from grad school AND I'M PREGNANT FEED ME NOW card, and after I showed all those cards, I became a desperate housewife mother of one who actually likes to meal plan. So here I am, planning meals and cutting coupons, and just forming a regular conga line up and around the islands of produce and enjoying my time at the groceria.

But after I come home from market, I oftentimes do what I did yesterday, and that is to reenact Pearl Harbor Day in my kitchen. I made some kind of waffle for Baby Girl and it tasted much like the chalky pasty goop into which you sink your teeth for the dental mold. Lovey Loverpants swooped in to try a bite (against the voodoo powers of my fingers trying to keep him at bay) and he laughed, "Uh, Kenny, did you use a little too much baking powder?") Hmm, could be.

So I'm trying mightily to close out the 3948038490 Mozila Firefox tabs I have up in my brain, trying not to attempt to read the news, do downfacing dog, and caramelize onions all at once. I want to enjoy the blessing of my family, and to enjoy the ritual of cooking, and to not be so hasty and wasteful, seeing as haste makes waste, and causes your family to waste away when all there is to eat is chalky waffle bites for dinner.

***

And if I still can't master the art of cooking, I'm going to go hang out at PBK and at least look good in the kitchen.

Dear Santa

Santa Baby, Being that there are roughly (merely!) only 70 sleeps away from Christmakkuh and the consumerist parade apres and post, I wanted to offer my humble suggestion as to a proper gift with which you may send my way. Presumptuous as it may be, I just thought it might be helpful to you, given the heady list of tasks you and your elfin non-profit organization have to accomplish in said 70 nights henceforth, if I would specify my wish this holiday season in very concrete terms. And it looks like this:

Oh, sweet Santa, think me not a material girl. It's just that I could use a little sparkle in my life, and yes, the wee one you sent me a little late last year (like a whole week and 44 hours past the date of expectation, but anyway) does lend a certain immeasurable glint to my days. But I would like some new, patently impractical footwear, you see, Santa, since my better half is a firm believer in gifting me with technology, like a wireless mouse, for instance, which, be assured, does make me sentimental every time I point and click, but Santa? Is there room on your list this year for pretty pretty bubblegum rainbows hearts stars and a pair of SHIZ-NINE-Y BALLET SLIPPERS?

I suppose you've heard the one about how I've been a good girl all year, washed 133,535,352,359,757.46 dishes with a cheerful heart, and have only taken 2 showers over the last 9 months that have been without the audience of a wee sucktopus and haven't complained once. At least not to the internet. Until now.

So, Santa, if you've got some extra space in that big arctic-proof sack of yours this year? I'd like these kicks very much. Please and thank you and milk and cookies.

Love, Kendra

Setting the Record Straight

The lead writer and co-editors of Kendraspondence, otherwise known as Kendra, Lovey Loverpants, and Baby Girl, have, at times, been blessed with the company of our faithful readers. These same readers have at times commented that site headquarters appear different than as depicted from pictures posted on the internet. So, in an effort to avoid further disappointing or misleading our readers who may become our future visitors, we earnestly attempt to set the record straight. Let us dispel any further falsehoods about ourselves or our lifestyle...

1.) TRUE: Kendra does indeed suffer from SAD and undergoes daily light treatments in the basement:

2.) FALSE: We are good neighbors.

3.) FALSE: Baby Girl is our only child. She is just the only one we typically allow ourselves to be photographed with, but there are some exceptions.

4.) FALSE: We live in the city. We live close to the city. But not so urbane that we don't have somewhere to park our John Deere.

5.) FALSE: Lovey Loverpants has not appeared on TV. He is actually the token Asian on "Laguna Beach: Season One."

6.) FALSE: Speaking of token Asians, Loverpants is the only Asian Kendra has ever dated. There were a few other suitors, but none were as charming nor had Women's Studies bibliographies floating around their dorm rooms. That sort of sealed the deal for K and LL.

7.) TRUTH: Lovey Loverpants has had some cosmetic surgery. To remove the obelisk jutting out of his skull.

8.) TRUTH: Kendra has dyslexia.

9.) FALSE: Men cannot wear haltertops.

10.) TRUTH: Kendra is Korean.