Rachel Callahan

Pinterest and The Potato Substitute.

June 10, 2014June 10, 2014 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Can I get a copy of that recipe?, Deception: A Parent's Best Friend

Pinterest has all of these freakin’ crazy ideas about food substitutions that will make you look just like the well-toned scantily-clad ab-crunching extremely photoshopped girls that are unfortunately plastered on way too many pins.

“Broccoli so good it tastes like steak!”

“Baked Zucchini sticks that are better than French fries!”

“Whipped Eggplant that you will swear is butter!”

“Tofu Smoothies that will make you think you’re drinking a fruity drink with an umbrella poolside in Aruba while weighing 95 pounds and in a string bikini next to your husband who looks like he just jumped off the GQ magazine! And wait – you two are going for a ride on dolphins immediately after finishing your Tofu Delight, and you still have two weeks of this vacation left and a million dollars of spending money!”

I often find Pinterest to be delusional to the point of needing a straight jacket, if they made one for websites.

But one dish that I will vouch for – with a few caveats – is Mashed Cauliflower.

It really is [nearly] as good as mashed potatoes.

HOWEVER.

There are some very important rules that must be adhered to if you truly want this dish to make you smile rather than gag.

Rule Number One. When boiling the cauliflower, it will smell like an eighth grade boy’s gym bag after being trapped in his locker for an entire semester. If you don’t want to have your stomach turned before you even eat it, you must start boiling the cauliflower and think happy thoughts with a rose jammed up your nose. Or drive ten miles away.

The smell is so strong, in fact, that…

Chris was showering during my dinner prep the last time I made this dish. He was toweling off and caught a whiff. “Is my towel mildewed?” … he sat there for a minute and then caught another whiff. “I swear I just got this towel out of the closet! How can it have turned already??” … a few seconds later he caught a third whiff. “Oh I know what is going on! I bet Rachel’s boiling cauliflower downstairs.”

In its native form, the steam rising off of this vegetable could be used as a weapon in The Hunger Games.

Rule Number Two. You must beat the smell back within an inch of its life by stripping the vegetable of its nutritional purity through the process of pelting it with butter, sour cream, and generous amounts of sea salt and freshly cracked pepper.

Because we all know that even whipped sewer water can taste good if properly buttered.

Rule Number Three. This dish must be eaten piping hot. The longer the mashed cauliflower has to sit, the more of its natural musk molecules defeat the Butter Overlords and take back control. So do not plate this dish until you have your spoon in your hand and blessings are prayed.

Rule Number Four. DO NOT, under any circumstances, allow your children to see that this dish was made with cauliflower or that it is associated in any way with the rotting garbage odors that they smelled a few minutes ago. THIS DISH IS TO BE CALLED MASHED POTATOES, nothing more, nothing less. If they’re not familiar with such, then tell them “It’s like the insides of French Fries!”, and that may be just the key you need.

Rule Number Five. Your children still may cry twice and gag three times upon the tasting of this meal. This is no reflection on your ability to turn a putrid-smelling vegetable into a southern tradition. This is only due to the fact that you’ve allowed your children to eat far too many boxed pancakes, chicken and fries, and Lunchables.

(On second thought, Rule Number Five may only apply to me. I’m sure the rest of you have your children trained to eat Spinach and Beet Soufflé three nights a week.)

(My children, on the other hand, find me unqualified to boil water. My three-year-old told me on Saturday, “Don’t forget to spray the pan when you make cinnamon rolls. Remember that time you almost forgot and I had to tell you? That was SO. FUNNY.”)

(I bet The Pioneer Woman never gets such cheekiness when she makes cinnamon rolls.)

Rule Number Six. The odor returns in a different form about an hour after this dish is consumed. Don’t eat this side if you plan on having the Queen of England over for dessert.

Rule Number Seven. If you have leftovers and plan on reheating this dish, simply unplug your microwave, take it to the farthest point of your driveway, run an extension cord, replug your microwave, and proceed to reheat your Mashed Cauliflower. You’ll lose neighbors over it, but at least you won’t singe the entire family’s nose hairs and foul the carpets.

I’m certain that you’re asking yourself by now, “is this a recipe post?” and the answer is that I’m not sure. But if, after all this, you still want to attempt Mashed Cauliflower (which I find absolutely delicious and just as good as mashed potatoes as long as the above seven steps are executed correctly,) here’s what I do:

1. Cut up one head of Cauliflower into large chunks. Cover in water, douse with large amounts of sea salt, and boil until soft – about 10 minutes.

2. Drain, put into food processor with 4 tbsp of Butter, about 1/3 c. of sour cream, and extreme amounts of sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper. Blend until your kid’s ears bleed from the noise.

3. Keep sealed in the blender until you lop it onto your kid’s plates.

4. And never forget. It’s MASHED POTATOES.

What Pinterest Food Hacks have you found that are actually edible?

The Perils of Sunset Chasing.

June 9, 2014June 8, 2014 Rachel Callahan I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Picture Birmingham, Storytime

So the sunset betrayed me last week.

Birmingham isn’t an easy city to photograph – we have hills and trees and trees and hills.

BUT.

The downtown area is in a basin. So if you can get above it in any way, it’s MAGNIFICENT. Besides the mountain ranges on the south and east sides, there are parking decks. I’ve investigated several of them, but had heard of another – at a different angle – that was supposed to be sublime.

The inventor of the fantastic group InstagramBham, Blaine, was the one who first mentioned this deck during a news interview. I tried to find it…but I couldn’t. I tried again…and failed. I finally asked him for specifics…and I found it.

Clearly built in the 70’s, it looked more than a little creepy, as parking decks go. On the side I approached first, it said “NOT OPEN TO PUBLIC” and “VETERAN’S AFFAIRS PARKING DECK.”

I look like a Veteran, no?

I drove around to the corner and it told a different story.

“BIRMINGHAM PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION”

“FREE FOR FIRST HOUR”

Okay this was good. Because I had no cash. I rarely use the stuff anyway, but I had quite inexplicably used every last dollar in my possession that day.

(But I was fairly certain that just in case, I had a bit of stray money amidst the moon dust in the bottom of my purse.)

I drove around and around and around, slowly circling upward around the infinite floors of the parking deck.

I was alone on the top, which made me partially relieved and partially nervous. What if someone else came up here? What if they weren’t a good person? Parking decks aren’t places that ladies should hang out alone…

Oh – did I mention I was alone? I was alone.

I clutched my phone and my camera and my car keys and did a 360 look around the deck every 45 seconds. I’m not usually such a wuss but I was in a different part of downtown than I was used to, and the buildings did look a bit creepy that night.

In a good way.

I relished the sunset.

Every angle was amazing,

Every cloud was perfectly placed.

I couldn’t have picked a better night to visit a new place, and I was thrilled to add this parking deck to my repertoire.

Once the last pink cloud faded away, I hopped in the car and began my descent. The parking lot grew seven more layers from the time I entered.

…And then I realized that you had to do this weird every other corkscrew thing to get out – long, short, long short – so I might have just gone in seven extra circles.

Finally, I got to the gates.

“PUBLIC PARKING – LEFT LANE”

No problem. I had my ticket. I had been there less than an hour. It was a free sunset.

I pulled up to the meter – the one that I assumed would eat my ticket – and there was a sign.

“AFTER HOURS PARKING $2”

Gone was the long and fancy rate sheet from when I entered. Two dollars to get out, and two dollars was the only way you’re getting out.

It’s okay. Surely I can scrounge up two dollars. SURELY.

I pulled out my industrial strength mining sifter and began going through the contents of the bottom of my purse.

Old receipt…

Soft Mint from the Mexican Restaurant…

Unused Diaper…or is it?

But there was no cash.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

I pulled out my wallet. Maybe I stowed away some cash in a hidden compartment. Maybe I had enough change. Surely there was some way I could get myself out of this parking deck before the Ghosts of Veterans began floating about.

But no.

I had a few dimes, a nickel, one quarter, and three pennies.

The night turned on me and became spontaneously dark. Silent and dark. The feeling of being trapped crept up the back of my neck and I pondered how typical it was for someone to simply crash their car through the gate.

After all, the sign had lied to me…

I emptied my wallet. A couple coupons, all-too-useful credit cards, and my checkbook.

And I was in an abandoned parking deck at 8:15pm in nearly-North-Birmingham.

I heard a sound approaching from the left.

A security guard walked up. He looked just like Morgan Freeman if Morgan Freeman were more wiry.

(Which he probably is in real life. All movie stars are. Stupid cameras and their stupid pounds.)

Officer Freeman stared at me. And said nothing.

As I desperately dug, I explained my predicament without the use of commas.

“The deck said it was free for under and hour and I used my last few dollars to get my husband into the pool this afternoon and I can’t find any money except for this change and OH the machine only takes quarters so it’s useless to me anyway and I have no idea how I am going to get out of this deck.”

I didn’t mention that my crashing-through-the-gate strategy wouldn’t work any longer since he showed up.

He finally spoke, in a measured, soft tone. “It’s two dollars after the cashier goes home. And she leaves at seven.”

This would have been useful information to have included on the sign at the entrance. But whatev.

“But the rate sheet…I wasn’t prepared…it didn’t say anything about after hours charges!”

He continued to stand over me, silently. Just like Morgan Freeman would, as he wisely let me learn to solve the problems of the universe for myself.

root, dig, mine, excavate

I started scratching off the inner layer of my purse, hoping that purses eat change like dryers eat socks. I looked more and more like a cat trapped in a garbage can.

Finally, he spoke.

“How much do you have?”

“Well…let’s see. 93 cents. Oh DANG IT!”

I had dropped a dime. I opened my car door, desperately pawing around for it. But it fell into some sort of crack in the universe and was surely in Narnia by now, most likely growing into a dime tree.

Feeling even worse, I began to empty out all of my car compartments to prove to the security guard that I had nothing else.

He slowly stuck his hand in his pocket, as if he had the magic key to let me out.

I found three more pennies and added it to my handful.

He fiddled with something in his pocket, seemingly still waiting for me to ‘fess up that I actually had plenty of money.

I reached my hands into the inner folds of my car’s private places and drew them back empty.

He silently pulled out a shiny token and put it in the meter. My shackling gate lifted.

I poured my grimy, sticky, triple-coated change into his hand, thanked him profusely, and sped out of the deck – before that Evil Bar went back down.

And I promised myself – and the Skinny Mr. Freeman half a mile behind me – that I would never sunset chase without cash. Ever again.

Three Teeth and a Babysitter.

June 6, 2014June 5, 2014 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, Storytime

Upon the loss of one’s eldest child’s first tooth, parental discussion has to take place.

Are we going to do the Tooth Fairy thing?

How far does our willingness to “Fairy It Up” go?

How much does the Tooth Fairy pay for teeth these days?

We agreed that yes, we would do the Tooth Fairy, but most likely half-heartedly, much like we do Santa.

And plus – Ali was always quick to tell us, “Silly. Fairies aren’t REAL. Everyone knows that!”

But then one of our babysitters told Ali that fairies were totally real and she’d even seen one, giving Ali the boost she needed to believe.

Like seriously BELIEVE.

So then Ali somewhat cornered us further into Fairying It Up by always writing a note to the Tooth Fairy – and I couldn’t help but respond.

(So really, everything is the babysitter’s fault.)

(Or at least I will frame it that way when Ali finds out the truth and has to work her way through the Five Stages of Feeling Deceived. Or Ninety-Five, when you’re as black and white as Ali. I think we’ll hire a babysitter that night.)

As for the last question, Chris and I discussed the price of our own teeth in the 80’s, reviewed inflation graphs, and ran an amortization schedule to come up with the highly scientific price tag of $5 a tooth.

After all – each kid only has 20 teeth. So that’s a $100 investment in the loss of their entire mouth, spread out over a couple of years. And we only have two kids, so how bad could it be?

We did not, however, take into account the difficulties of staying stocked in $5 bills if Ali ever went on a toothing spree. Note the dates on my Tooth Fairy Letters.

That’s right. After a six month hiatus following The Fangs From Hell, she has lost three teeth in less than a week – and a fourth is quite loose.

Her mouth is beginning to look like a nearly-finished Jenga Game and the news about the Federal Reserve’s shortage of $5 bills is totally her fault.

But something happened during that six-month break: a flash of skepticism.

After the first loss of Tooth Week, she wrote her note while in my company before bedtime. When Chris went to tuck her in, she had added a penciled addendum:

“Can I meet you tonit?”

Chris offhandedly told me about the addition, so I addressed it in my note back.

She fell asleep with her note firmly under her arm, so I had to pry it out with the precision of a neurosurgeon to swap it for mine without waking her and ruining my life.

The next morning, Ali ran into my room and said, “I even added that last part onto the note without telling you! …just to see.”

Oh Crap.

She’s gonna hate me so hard when she does find out. What have I done. I better line up that babysitter.

Five days later I pulled the next tooth. Two teeth now, on the first yank, no tears. I was elated, as was she.

Chris and I debated whether the Tooth Fairy’s favorite color should indeed be white (Ali also assumes my Grandmother’s favorite color is white based solely on the fact that her hair is.) Ultimately, Chris left it up to me.

As I headed into her room for what would probably be another note-prying, I said to Chris,

“Wait a minute. How is tooth-fairying all my deal? Why don’t you ever have to retrieve a tooth? Or pull them, for that matter?”

“We have a good system.”

“You mean that I do all the work?”

“Well, you started the note thing. I would never do that. So it’s on you.”

“Whaddya mean?? You don’t approve of my notes? She loves it!”

“I could never keep up with that kind of continuity. As I said, we have a good system.”

I pondered, remembering that this was pretty much the only familial duty that he’s not constantly offering to do for me or just doing it for me without asking. We do indeed have a good system.

The very next night, the third tooth was begging to be pulled.

And this time, although her note was retrievable, Ali had the tooth in a Ziploc bag firmly in her fist under her pillow.

I left my note and her money, but also left the tooth bag.

Chris was worried. “You – I mean the Tooth Fairy – told her that you would always put the teeth in my body part box. This may be it for you – it may all blow up in your face tomorrow.”

Out of guilt, I went back and attempted another retrieval. But it wasn’t happening. She was making a fist pearl out of that baggied tooth.

“You should leave another letter then. Explaining why you left it.”

“I’m too tired.”

“Okaaaaay….”

The next morning, Ali came in with the Tooth Fairy note and the tooth.

“Look what I found under my pillow! Why would she have left the note? She PROMISED to ALWAYS put them in Daddy’s collection!”

“Hmm…I don’t know! Maybe she was just busy.”

“But she PROMISED!! And no one should EVER break their promises.”

Yup. It’s time to have the babysitter over to clear things up.

The Origins of Topper.

June 4, 2014June 3, 2014 Rachel Callahan I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Storytime

A couple of months ago, Chris and I took our nasty, stale, extraordinarily aged wedding cake topper on our anniversary trip. Our thirteenth anniversary trip.

Topper got to enjoy every aspect of Asheville, The Grove Park Inn, Sunset Chasing, Chocolate Shop Visiting, and we even took him to The Biltmore Estate.

I’m waiting for them to contact me to tell me that he was the first wedding cake topper to visit their fine estate, but in the meantime, let’s assume as much.

(For the record, this isn’t the most ridiculous thing Chris and I have ever done together. It was probably making this meat bouquet. Or lying our way to the top of a skyscraper still under construction.)

(The key to a happy marriage is being absolutely ridiculous together as often as possible.)

The unsheathing of Topper made me think back. More than thirteen years…to when I planned my wedding.

First of all it must be said that getting married at nineteen years old certainly cut down on a lot of the perfectionism that I would have now. Which is totally a reason to get married young.

Also, I thank God daily that I got married in a pre-Pinterest world.

Okay maybe not daily. But I totally should.

Because back then? All we had were wedding magazines – and at most, three different publications. These are the very books from which all of my wedding ideas emerged.

They were monstrous at the time, but my head would have exploded if someone had tried to explain what brides would have to sift through in the future.

One of these books contains my wedding dress, carefully tabbed with a 90’s pastel blue post-it note.

(I did not, however, wear those Mickey Mouse gloves with my dress.)

I literally picked my dress from that picture in that magazine – and then had to drive two hours to actually see it in person. I picked my cake design from a picture in another magazine, one that I unfortunately couldn’t locate in yesterday’s basement excavation.

But the cake.

Let’s talk about that cake.

My budget was tight, as was my timeline, so my choices were quite limited. Also, I wanted a cutting-edge cake design that had to be decorated in fondant, which was totally a fresh invention back then, thereby limiting my choices even more. I interviewed a couple of the more affordable cake bakers in town, and had settled on one fairly well-known baker.

We’d gone to her shop, tasted her cake, she assured me that she could make the modern, geometric, whimsical cake from my magazine clipping, and she gave me until Friday to let her know my answer.

I was pretty sure when we left the store that she was our cake baker, but I had one more tasting. I called back the next day from my Power-tel Flip Phone (it even had a screen to show the numbers you were dialing) to tell the Cake Mistress that yes indeed I would like to procure her services.

“I can’t do it. I gave your spot to someone else.”

“Wait. What? You said I had until Friday to let you know. It’s…Wednesday!”

“Someone else wanted it. I gave it to them. Good luck getting your cake.”

She was rude, did not apologize for her clear lack of integrity, and hung up on me.

I panicked.

I was at work when the tragic call happened. I hunted down my boss, burst into tears, and told her I needed to take the rest of the day off to handle wedding crises.

(Because that’s what engagement is, people. Endless Wedding Crises.)

(Also? Misery. ENGAGEMENT IS MISERY.)

I ran to my car, pulled out my travel Yellow Pages and began calling every other bakery in town.

(In my basement digging, I also found the above 2001 calendar. I can’t believe I put off deciding on my cake until only 40 days before my wedding. Clearly I’m to blame for this catastrophic cake hunt.)

I found a baker that would take me, then drove over to discuss the details. They refused to use fondant, but assured me they could make my cake just as well with regular icing.

That evening, one of the original horrible baker’s employees called me after he left her shop.

In a furtive whisper, as if she had bugged his phone, he offered to make my cake for me on the sly.

“I heard what she did to you. I’m so sorry. She’s awful. It’ll take some maneuvering on my part to make sure she doesn’t find out what I’m doing, but I don’t want you to be without a cake.”

I told him that I appreciated him putting his life at risk for me, but had already made other cake arrangements, and they had assured me they could make the cake I wanted.

But they were wrong.

I hated both my wedding cakes – they were so sweet that the first bite gave me a headache (hence why Topper survived), and they looked nothing like my cherished magazine picture. The color was beyond muted – just last month as we were discussing Topper, Chris said, “Wait. Our wedding cake was green and white?? There’s no way there was any green. It was white!!”

(And he was nearly right. But believe it or not, that cake is supposedly two-tone.)

The Groom’s Cake, although you could at least see the detailing and appreciate the off-center layer placement, skated the line dangerously between two shades of turd brown.

And I know that poo and chocolate both have claims on the color brown, but some shades are closer to one than the other.

But at least I had cakes.

Many years later, I was searching the internet for something on my iPhone as Chris drove down the road.

(SO much easier than that travel Yellow Pages.)

And I began that convulsive laughing that makes you choke on hiccups.

Because I ran across current-day internet reviews of the original baker – the one that did me wrong.

After I regained my composure, I shared over a dozen of them with Chris, in the form of a dramatic reading.

Here are just a few of the jewels describing her fantastic personality…

NEVER AGAIN

I used to love this bakery, but the last two cakes I bought from them were very dry. When I complained, you would have thought I committed a crime.

NEVER NEVER AGAIN

When the cakes were delivered it was terrible, the wedding cake had part of the icing separating and the grooms cake was not at all what I ordered, so I called X immediately because the delivery driver said you will have to call X. It took me over three weeks of going by the store calling and emailing before she finally responded and her response was as follows, and I hope you are sitting down. We can’t guarantee the delivery of our cakes as if it is too hot the cakes may melt and if it is too cold they may have problems. When I told her what all was wrong with the cakes she said well you ate it didn’t you. What was I supposed to do keep the cakes for 3 weeks before she finally called back.

”Stay Away!

X has hands-down got to be one of the worst businesses in the area. X herself is mean and ornery, and her staff is just as bad. They shout at each other across the store, things like “I have to go teetee!” Right in front of customers! If your order is wrong, and it often is, then they do not take responsibility for it. All of their cakes look like they were made in 1993. Unless you want a wedding cake that is distinctly redneck, stay away from this place and go to real bakery that is staffed with professionals!

If only I’d had full access to the internet’s glory back then.

Except without Pinterest. Obviously.

Where to Find Birmingham’s Sunsets.

June 3, 2014July 18, 2017 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I Love Birmingham, I Play at Photography, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Picture Birmingham

“Do you go to the same place every time you sunset chase?”

(Nope.)

“Do you take all those pictures from your house?”

(Not a single one.)

“Do you have to trespass to get sunset photos?”

(No. You don’t have to. And I almost never do.)

“Why are you so obsessed with sunsets?”

(That’s a long story.)

These are all questions I get asked regularly about my pictures, especially the location questions. And they’re good questions. The sun is setting later, the clouds are getting more interesting, and it’s beautiful outside. It’s time for everyone to start enjoying it again.

To help set you off in the right direction, I’ve compiled my collection of the best spots to get a sunset in Birmingham. At the bottom of this post you’ll find forty-eight locations in a nifty little interactive Google map with all the details, pictures, and links that you need to plan your own adventures. But first, here are my top ten favorite spots.

1. Ruffner Mountain – This isn’t a casual drive-by sunset – you will have to hike a mile. But it’s a fantastic hike, as you will feel like you’re an hour out of town when you’re really in the middle of town, and the view payoff is tenfold.

The sky from Ruffner Mountain is gigantic. Can you spot Birmingham out there?

2.Railroad Park – This park doesn’t have a bad angle. No matter what time of year it is, you will get a great shot, sunset or otherwise.

3. Vestavia Drive (Best in Spring/Summer) – This road has infinite fantastic angles.

You can photograph Samford from above,

Vulcan hanging out with downtown (this is a tricky spot to find but it’s mind-blowing),

And your kid holding the sun.

At the end of the street, Vestavia Hills Baptist Church has a playground. My kids call it the Sunset Playground. For obvious reasons.

4. The Tip Top Grill (Best in Spring/Summer) – this is the only place in town that you can buy a hamburger (or a delicious cookie) and a coke to enjoy while the sun goes down. And the lush view of Shannon Valley is indescribable.

(Kids like it, too.)

While you’re there, walk down to Lover’s Leap. Just don’t fall.

5. Downtown Overpasses (Best in Fall/Winter) – This shot typifies Birmingham for me. I grew up listening to trains and still find the sound soothing.

I especially love the mixture of downtown buildings, trains, and sunsets. What more could you ask for?

6. Quiet Residential Road [road name redacted at resident’s request] (Best in Spring/Summer) – This is the spot that started it all – my entire sunset obsession – with this picture:

(Nope, I didn’t even take it – Chris did.)

Since then, I’ve been continuously blown away with what this road has to offer:

It has so many beautiful angles,

And fascinating little nooks.

Even the street itself is stunning.

It is a public road and the residents are extraordinarily nice, but please only stay on the road itself, don’t litter, and respect their private property on both sides of the road.

Because it’s magical.

7. Quiet Residential Road [road name redacted at resident’s request] – I’ve known about this road for many years, as has most of Birmingham. Again, the road is public, but you cannot park there nor trespass onto the private property. Just drive through and enjoy for a minute.

They have a fairly straight shot at the city, big skies,

And beautiful flowers.

8. Bethel Baptist Church in Gate City (Best in Fall/Winter) – I was driving down the interstate one evening near sunset, looked to the right, saw the sun hitting this church, and veered off on the next exit and kept driving until I found the Church and its magical parking lot.

It’s not in an affluent section of town, but they have the richest view in our city.

9. Vulcan (Best in Spring/Summer) – Birmingham must, at some point, be seen from the top of Vulcan.

10. Vulcan Trail and 21st Street – Vulcan Trail has in its possession some great little peek-throughs,

As well as this magnificent tree that I adore catching with the sunset.

If you park in the Vulcan Trail lot and walk to the right, you will find one of the closest and lowest views of the city you can get.

These spots aren’t nearly all of the places I visit – there are thirty-eight more locations, pictures, and many, many tips on my interactive map – click on the markers on this map for information, pictures, and links, and save the map to reference on your next sunset chase!

Where do you like to go to see the sunset? I’m adding suggestions to my map as well.

All of my pictures can be found catalogued on my other site, Picture Birmingham, and many of them are for sale there as well, with 100% of the profits going to benefit The WellHouse, a ministry that rescues victims of sex trafficking. Please consider buying prints, canvases and/or note cards to support this fantastic ministry.

A Culmination of Sweet, Sweet Justice.

June 2, 2014June 1, 2014 Rachel Callahan I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Storytime

Chris and I have been on a date weekend in Atlanta for the past couple of days, and I was completely lazy, took a couple of naps, and wrote not. Plus, Atlanta reminded me of this fabulous, fabulous night that changed the status of our relationship forever.

Originally Posted January 25, 2012.

Chris and I went to Atlanta last weekend.

Friday night, we went out to eat at Taverna Plaka with Chris’ former roommate and Roommate’s Girlfriend.

If you’ve been hanging around here for a while, the name “Taverna Plaka” should conjure up images of Greek belly dancers, us dancing with belly dancers, and maybe even Chris and his blinky-tied uncle dancing on a table with belly dancers.

But despite our many past adventures, we somehow forgot how loud it could get, and went with the intention of catching up with an old friend and getting to know his girlfriend.

Hard to do when you can’t hear each other yell an inch away from your face.

We’d only met Roommate’s Girlfriend (R.G.) once before (and it was very briefly), so we were on our best behavior. We were polite, we were complimentary of Roommate, and we tried to actually hear every word R.G. said, despite the Greek Dance Music vibrating off of the ceiling and napkins being thrown all over us.

When our drinks arrived at the table, Roommate mentioned that it was a good thing that R.G. ordered water, because she was the most notorious drink-spiller in the entire world.

Chris and I smiled knowingly at each other.

I piped up, as Chris simultaneously tried to shush me.

“Oh NO! I hope you don’t spill a drink tonight!! Spilled drinks are Chris’ ONE pet peeve in the entire world!!”

Chris got embarrassed.

“Now, now, don’t tell her that. She’ll think I’m a terrible person!!”

But you see, it’s true. It doesn’t matter if a drink spill occurs three rooms away from him and was perpetrated by an innocent one year old or by his thirty year old wife, he WILL notice and he WILL huff and puff and get all bent out of shape.

I, too, was once a drink spiller. But because of his extreme issue with this particular character flaw, I have learned to NEVER spill.

The kids, however, are still learning. Which causes us to regularly have conversations about our differing philosophies regarding reactions to accidents.

I explained all of this to her.

Chris, albeit ashamed, couldn’t deny the truth. We all have our weaknesses, after all.

R.G. was amused, and a little glad she’d picked the right man for her situation.

She and Roommate told us the story of how she spilled an entire gigantic-Mexican-Restaurant-cup in his lap on their first date, and then toward the end of the very same meal, spilled an entire gigantic-Mexican-Restaurant-cup into her own plate. And how this trend had been a constant in their relationship henceforth.

Chris was amused, and a little glad he’d picked the right woman for his situation.

The music kicked up and our conversation died down.

And then, as we sat waiting for the opportunity to continue our conversation, it happened.

For the first time in thirteen years.

There aren’t enough superlatives in the English language to adequately describe it, but it was magical.

Chris reached for his Diet Coke, and his aim was a little off.

His FULL Diet Coke.

He knocked it with his hand, and every last drop ran for gleeful freedom in my direction.

My mouth hung open in shock as the world as I knew it spun off it’s axis.

The freed drink seeped from my bra to the tips of my socks, and quite literally puddled in my lap. An impressive number of especially aggressive drops made it all the way to the other side of my chair and showered my purse, with a particular concentration on my iPhone.

I quickly watched Chris’ face, waiting for him to implode and disappear off the face of the earth.

He was sitting there, gasping for breath, having a complete internal existential crisis as he watched the laws of physics as he understood them completely betray him.

“But…I barely touched it!! I didn’t even feel it!! How did that happen?!?!?!”

I began to laugh. Hysterically. Evilly. Gloatingly.

I gasped between waves of laughter.

“You can…never…ever…ever…EVER…get mad…at…another spilled drink….ever again!!”

He somehow managed to come back to earth and unwrapped all of our silverware in attempts to use the 0% absorbent pieces of useless cloth to soak up his mess.

I handed him my iPhone.

“You fix that. I’ll work on the rest.”

I blotted and laughed. I picked up my purse, watched Coke pour out of it, and laughed. I felt down to the bottom of my now-carbonated boots and laughed.

Roommate and R.G. looked on, confused.

“So…I take it this has never happened before?”

My eyes shone with the victory that can only be found in a long-fought battle. “I have been waiting for this moment for THIRTEEN YEARS. And it is glorious.”

Epilogue:

Roommate and R.G. now both think that we’re a little batty, especially since I continued to break out in spontaneous whooping laughter for the remainder of the evening.

Chris is beginning his process of acceptance of the world as it now is, which is crushing to his soul.

And I, still slightly damp and a bit sticky, am shouting “TAVERNA!” at the top of my lungs the minute anyone spills anything. FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.

Just Peel It.

May 30, 2014May 29, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Survey Says. . ., This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously.

Last week while we were at the beach, we went out to eat. I added a side salad to my dinner as I sometimes do. When it arrived, I went through my all-too-familiar Cycle of Salad Emotions.

CYCLE OF SALAD EMOTIONS

…The ranch looks homemade and thin…happy!

…The tomatoes aren’t completely juiceless crunchy tomato imposters…okay.

…There are no telltale carrot shreds, giving away the fact that they just poured my salad from a bag. RELIEF.

…But oh. The cucumbers. The sad, sad, cucumbers. WHY the peels?? Do they WANT to ruin my night?

…Disappointment.

…Anger.

…Resentment.

…Removal of Cucumbers out of protest. Maybe they’ll notice and realize their grave sins against humanity.

…But at least the Ranch is good.

I vocalized a bit of my inner dialogue to our friends across the table. And I was shocked. SHOCKED I say. To find out that my friends did not feel the same way.

They said that they were indifferent as to whether cucumber slices were peeled or not.

My mind screamed at them.

HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?!?! HOW COULD YOU NOT CARE?? WHERE IS YOUR MORAL COMPASS?! YOU ARE PARENTING YOUNG CHILDREN AND THIS IS YOUR BELIEF SYSTEM??

My world had been shattered. Surely there weren’t really these kind of people roaming around freely. Surely they were just attempting to tear down my carefully built ideals and rip apart my soul.

It was time for another survey to restore my belief in humanity. So I asked you.

I knew you would agree with me. You would be on my side in this crucial issue. You would understand the importance of a properly peeled cucumber slice.

But instead. You were the Judas Iscariot of Salads.

Almost all one hundred and fifty of you came together and stomped on my heart.

How. HOW HOW HOW could 61% of you have Cucumbic Apathy?!

I understand that it is perfectly natural for 20% of the population to dislike a certain food and even that 12 of you would statistically be clinically insane.

(Seriously. Only people in padded rooms and straight jackets while singing in a monotone voice about Muskrat Love would actually prefer cucumber peels.)

But those of you who just don’t care. You were the ones who broke me.

I had no idea that apathy had escalated so rapidly in our nation. It’s one thing not to care about politics or education or world peace.

But to not care about whether your cucumber slices are naked as God intended or not?!

WHAT is WRONG with you people?

YOU ARE TO BLAME FOR THE STATE OF OUR NATIONAL SALAD.

Because nothing will ever change as long as 61% of you don’t give a peel.

And in the meantime, heinous cucumber peels will continue to worm their way between my teeth and cut into my gums like a dull razor blade while tasting like the bitter herb of betrayal.

And I will know who to blame.

Seven Years Comin’

May 28, 2014May 28, 2014 Rachel Callahan Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, The Blissfulness of Life, Toddlers: The Experience, Yes I'm a beach bum. What of it?

From our honeymoon onward, Chris and have I adored the beach. We would spend entire days laying on the sandy shores of Alabama, reading, napping, swimming, and living as if we had no responsibilities.

NONE.

It was our most freeing happy place in the world.

And then, six years into marriage, we had a baby. A highly anticipated, two-years-in-the-making precious baby girl.

We thought, naturally, that this baby would share our love for the responsibility-free beach trip. We were sure that this baby would also like to spend long days laying on the beach, reading, napping, swimming, and never, EVER throwing a wrench into our responsibility-free happy place.

This was stupid.

So, so stupid.

We mourned the beach. We worried that it would never be the same again. We had soiled our happy place forever and it was time to grow up and face the facts that we would never be free of responsibility ever again.

EVER.

Even as we regained other selfish freedoms of which we had also mourned, like, say, sleeping through the night, the beach was still work.

Each beach trip onward from that first treacherous infant beach trip (from which we came home and cried in the bathroom floor) has gotten easier and more fun, but our trips have still been inundated with children afraid of waves, afraid of sand, afraid of crabs, needing to nap, and wanting us to – PLAY – with them instead of laying like slobs on the beach.

But.

BUT.

I am here to proclaim, with joyous exultation, that IT DOES HAPPEN.

The thrill of the beach does in fact return.

I’m not saying that I read a novel while laying on the beach this year, but I did indeed feel that freeness from responsibility and thorough enjoyment of my once was lost but now is found Happy Place.

I had no idea that this would be the Year of Jubilee until I walked the kids down to the beach for the first time.

Chris was gone to buy groceries and I just wanted to check out the scenery, so we were all fully clothed and simply investigating. After all, last I knew, Noah still hated moving water of any sort.

Until he ran in and jumped with no reservations.

And Ali, my even more cautious child, also found great delight in the Gulf.

I finally did remove Noah’s polo shirt, leaving him in his khaki shorts clearly showing his Thomas the Train underwear through the thin cotton as if he were in an upside-down wet T-Shirt contest. But he didn’t care. And neither did I.

And then their friends AJ and Tessa arrived – those with whom we would spend our vacation – and it only got better.

They played together, gloriously un-high-maintenance, as the sun set.

It was a beautiful, glorious thing.

We had regained the blissfulness of The Beach Trip.

And they were fully experiencing it as well – perhaps for the first time ever.

Tessa was even kind enough to stand RIGHT IN THE SUNSET BEAM – without me posing her. These kids are the best.

(For all four night’s sunset photos, click here.)

The next day, when we actually were responsible enough to put our kids in swimsuits, they played for four hours straight – while we mainly sat in our chairs in the surf and watched them.

We basked in the glory of what had to be one of the Top Ten Parenting Moments of our career.

When we got hot, we’d increase their joy and take them out past the waves for a float, where we got to watch sting rays and dolphins swim by.

(In the above picture, the dolphins are to the left and the Dads and Kids are to the right.)

(The sting rays got much closer and I stepped on two of them, which is when I learned that they present a mild electrical shock to people who step on them.)

(I’m not saying I enjoyed the shock at the moment it happened, but it is a sensation I recommend everyone experience at least once. Just to say you’ve been shocked by a living creature.)

The house we rented, Alcedonia, brought just as much joy to the kids as the beach did.

…As it should have, with three stories, three decks, plenty of play space, and a couch so vast and comfortable that it made me want to buy a beach house just so I could have that couch in it.

(I might have considered stealing it. More than once.)

The four kids paired off, giving everyone a partner for play. On our last trip, Noah was too young to be an acceptable playmate for Tessa. But now, at 3 1/2 and 5, they’re the exact same size and were both fooled into thinking they were the same age as well.

Noah kept luring Tessa out to the deck with the temptation of “I have some Cheez-Its I want to share with you…”

And his charming generosity worked.

Every time.

And now we know. 3 1/2 is the age at which a boy realizes that it is not at all a bad thing to be outnumbered by women.

By the last day, we all knew that we never wanted to leave. This life of no responsibility and pure fun was absolutely meant for us.

Sure – we guarded shell collections and built a few sandcastles here and there,

But this trip. This is what the beach is supposed to feel like.

Everyone equally experiencing pure and fantastic joy.

Loving the waves,

Embracing the surf,

Allowing it to rush over us,

Oh wait – maybe too over us.

Yup – definitely too over.

I should probably never admit that I saw this coming and still chose to take pictures. Should I?

But after the wave passed and he found himself sitting on the ocean floor, he thought it was kinda cool.

Kinda.

He just needed some wave-jumping training from Ali and AJ,

Who not only have the skill perfected,

But also have the facial expressions to match the activity.

Both mid-jump, pre-jump,

and post-jump.

Although AJ did seem to take the task a bit more seriously than Ali,

Because athletic pursuits should always be taken seriously.

And one should always look like they’re smelling something especially unsavory when in the middle of their sport of choice.

Tessa watched their performance studiously,

Then did a stellar job of pursing the sport herself.

But at five, it is impossible to achieve without sticking one’s tongue out.

As far as possible.

The entire trip was perfection. From morning to sunset,

And every photobomb in between.

I’m not sure we can wait two years to make it happen again.

Because I’m ready to return. Right now.

The Beach Trip of Dreams.

May 27, 2014May 27, 2014 Rachel Callahan The Blissfulness of Life, Yes I'm a beach bum. What of it?

Six years ago, we teamed up with our friends David and Ashley to take our toddler daughters, Ali and AJ, to the beach.

They had been best friends since near birth, and at 1 1/2 years old, had grown to look quite oddly alike.

Two years later, we decided to repeat the trip – this time with 3 1/2 year olds…

and they had a new addition, Tessa.

The girls, still inseparable, loved every minute of their vacation together.

By 2012, we’d decided that our combined beach trip could, would, and should be a biennial event. The original two, now 5 1/2, wholeheartedly agreed.

That year we had the new addition – Noah.

The four of them together were an absolutely adorable mess.

It is now 2014. And for the past few days we’ve been on our fourth beach trip together. The girls, now 7 1/2, still have great odds of being each other’s Maid of Honor.

And before you ask, no – no new additions this trip.

But we have thoroughly enjoyed vacationing with the four we have.

AJ,

Ali,

Tessa,

And Noah.

I’ll be back soon with the full report. Just as soon as I dump all of our suitcases into the dirty clothes.

If Only God Had Expounded.

May 22, 2014May 21, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Just My Luck, Parent of the Year, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously., Utter Silliness

I think we can all agree that God could have been more detailed.

I mean sure, He wrote the #1 bestseller of all time and it is QUITE voluminous. But there were some items that He could have really made our lives smoother if He’d fleshed out a bit more.

Sprinkle or dunk?

Wafers or bread, grape juice or wine?

If we watch Lady GaGa do embarrassing things while she’s drunk and [nearly] naked then proceed to talk about it, do we get cursed like Noah’s son Ham?

As God, what would you say your personal number of points is when it comes to Calvinism?

Should we stick with hymns or is Chris Tomlin okay? And does that new version of Amazing Grace fall under “hymn” or “Chris Tomlin”? And while we’re at it, why does Chris Tomlin only know how to use three chords?

But besides these ever-crucial issues, I feel like He didn’t really flesh out the whole curse thing.

Childbirth will be hard, snakes will slither on their bellies (and presumably cease talking), and plants won’t grow as easily. We got that part…but I think there’s more to it. At least to Eve’s portion of the curse – I won’t speak on behalf of Adam or reptiles.

If He had expounded, I think this is how it would have gone.

The whole “Pain of Childbirth” part is not a one-time thing, Eve.

First of all, it starts before childbirth. Pregnancy Glow? That’s another lie from the serpent. You will be a puking peeing crying sweating pimpled bloating cankled beach ball of hormones. FOR MONTHS.

The curse upon your offspring will be one of great distress on a daily basis when they realize that you have to do other things besides play Hello Kitty Bingo or roll Thomas the Train back and forth all day long. This will cause them to gnash their teeth and heave great wails.

Those precious children will regularly smear your bathroom and their bodies with toothpaste when they seem to be quietly brushing their own teeth. You won’t find all of the toothpaste for days – either in your house or on their person. Make sure you buy them a flavor you don’t mind smelling but not being able to track down.

Naptime will be a greatly hindered blessing. If only you had stayed in the garden, Eve, your babes would have taken four-hour naps, falling asleep immediately, sweetly cooing and never waking up screaming.

However.

The curse upon naps will be a great issue of elusive timing. If you put them down too early, they won’t nap. If you put them down too late, they won’t nap. If you put them down at just the right time but directly following a fun activity, they’ll need too long to unwind and fall asleep so late that their bedtime will then fall under this portion of the curse as well. In fact, there is only a three minute window per day that will provide you the nap you will so desperately crave. And those three minutes change daily.

Also, you will always be out of underwear for your children. Which means that you will be eternally washing clothes. And as dryers do literally eat underwear and socks, the more you wash the less you will have.

…But you could run a really flourishing Single’s Ministry for Socks.

Potty-Training will haunt you all the days of your life. You will never forget the hellish sensation of cleaning poop out of underwear. Take Heed, my children. Hell is full of poopy underwear.

Mommy Guilt will besiege you continuously. If you’re doing something else, you’ll feel guilty for not playing with your kids. If you’re playing with the children, you’ll feel guilty for not doing something else. Mommy Guilt might possibly be more agonizing than the pain of childbirth – because at least I semi-repealed that curse and gave you the gift of Epidural.

Speaking of Epidurals, Mommy Competition will also plague your days. Do you cloth diaper or disposable? Did you have a natural childbirth or heavily medicated? Do you make your own baby food or let Gerber do that for you? HOW long did you allow your toddler to have a pacifier?? Motherly Coexistence, especially after the invention of the internet, will be your curse.

Your progeny will find your glue. And sharpies. And scissors. And will play quieter with those items than any toy you ever buy them.

You will have to bathe your little people. Need I say more? Oh yes – one more thing – some lucky parents will have the extra curse of birthing Bath Poopers.

Your children will be obsessed with a certain food until you buy it in bulk. Then they will refuse to eat it with great screaming.

Your offspring will be overcome with sickness and disease, pain and suffering. Until the moment you step into the doctor’s office or emergency room.

Your progeny will beg for apples, refuse to let you cut them up, and then once they’ve slimed it completely by taking a bite from every angle, will then accusingly demand that you cut up their fruit as you should have done in the first place.

But don’t worry, Cursed ones – I’ll make them so adorable that you can’t help but love them anyway.

Most days.

If only Eve had known. Maybe she would have had second thoughts. For our sakes.