If my family had to choose one movie series to take on a deserted island with which to entertain our kids and not drive us adults insane in the process, it would be Disney and Pixar’s Cars and Cars 2.
Noah, at only two and a half, can name every character in either movie, and quote chunks of each movie by memory. His character collection is immense, and he can often be seen clutching a suffocating Mater or Frank in his fist.
Ali, despite her grand collection of Princess movies and shows, also adores Cars and Cars 2.
In my early teens, I spent three years in a row riding for five days from Alabama to California with all of my family in a truck, so I can relate to the scenery and characters in Cars. Plus, my Dad was the navigator in a China-to-Paris race when I was a teenager, so Cars 2 also has many familiarities.
(I even bought the Greek overdubbed version of Cars for my parents when we were in Tarpon Springs. I assure you – nothing is better than hearing the Greek-Redneck version of Mater.)
So needless to say, my entire extended family is excited for Disney’s Planes, a new film inspired by the World of Cars, to be released later this summer. Although I haven’t gotten to see the whole movie yet (dang it), I did get a sneak peek at the characters and plot of the movie.
It’s going to be fantastic.
Dusty, a crop duster, decides to enter an international race, but he has a small problem – he’s afraid of heights. He has big dreams, but lacks the courage to achieve them, which sounds just like my daughter. She’s got fantastic abilities and big dreams, but, much like I was as a child, doesn’t want to try anything new unless she knows she can do it perfectly.
(I, for instance, never learned how to dive. Because there’s no way to practice diving without the entire pool full of people seeing you fail first.)
In the movie, Dusty has several friends and coaches who use different approaches to help him achieve his dreams.
Dottie uses tough love.
Chug takes him under his wing and helps him train, perhaps being too soft on him.
Skipper barks at him like a football coach, telling him that if he’s going to do this race, he needs to do it right.
With Ali, I’m definitely a Chug. I don’t push too hard, I try to give her the tools she needs to succeed, and I back off if I can tell she’s getting panicked. Although this keeps us from having epic emotional events, she sometimes needs someone with a little more tough love to help her achieve her goals. I also use the strategy of acting nonchalant when she expresses interest in trying something that I know will intimidate her if she thinks about it too long – and wait until AFTER she’s completed it to tell her how impressed I was with her. This strategy worked perfectly on her first ever driving experience:
I just knew she was going to panic when she got in the car, but I said nothing. And when she got her car stuck, I still kept my mouth shut, even though I wanted to run out on the course and rescue her before she had a six-year-old panic attack. But I couldn’t, I didn’t, and she surprised me with her ability to figure it out and conquer her goal on her own.
I think that Ali is going to feel a connection to Dusty, and I hope that she can be inspired by his courage to try things – even if they’re scary.
Disney’s Planes comes out in the theaters on August 9th, and we will definitely be there to experience it on the big screen. If you would like to take your family, I have a $100 Fandango Gift Card to give to one of you! Just leave a comment telling me how you encourage your kids to achieve their goals.
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(Keeping up with six-year-old girlversation is hard, y’all.)
And, even though I said that it was time to retire her quote-keeping, there have been a couple of exchanges recently that have stuck around in the turnpikes of my brain.
~~~~~
When we were on vacation, Ali and I found ourselves sitting in a hot tub with a cozy couple. It was a small hot tub, so we could hear every word of their sweet nothings, and they could hear every word of her breathless flow-of-consciousness.
Somewhere in the middle of a how-to manual on acclimating oneself to a hot tub, she stopped, stared at the dude across from us, and said,
“He has blue writing on his arm. Like the bad guys in Tangled.”
“Yes. A tattoo.”
“I like it when guys have blue writing on their arms. It makes them look more like men.”
I peeked over at the arms of the girl snuggled up to that blue writing… “You know, sometimes women have blue writing on their arms, too.”
“Umm, yeah…it makes them look like men too.”
~~~~~
Her curiosity of what happens after bedtime is, at times, a bit unnerving. Such as when she told Chris accusatorily,
“Sometimes I hear you and Mommy working after I go to bed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Turn my noisemaker down tonight – I want to hear what you and Mommy DO after I go to bed.”
“No, I think it’s fine.”
“Well then tell me why you stay up so late! What do you DO so late at night?”
“Oh, you know…stuff.”
~~~~~
I was on my knees picking up the giant masses of food that her brother had deposited under the table. Ali looked at me and asked,
“Why are you wiping those crumbs off the floor? There are ALWAYS crumbs there!”
~~~~~
“I think I want Daddy to baptize me. But not until I finish swimming lessons.”
(She’s nothing if not a contingency planner.)
~~~~~
On Wednesday, I dropped the kids off at my parents so that I could get caught up on things (like writing this post.) As I was leaving, Ali said,
“I love you so much that you’re my FOURTH FAVORITE PERSON!”
“Who are your third, second, and first favorite people?”
“Gramamma, Pop, and Nick!”
“Where is Daddy?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “At work!”
~~~~~
Ali has rekindled her aspirations of becoming a Princess, once again striking her long time male interest Ethan off the list of marriage potential since he doesn’t have the pedigree to help her achieve her goals. But she’s starting to get impatient, not sure that she wants to wait for marriage to reach her dreams. Disney’s new girl-princess show, Sofia the First, (starring Tim Gunn, might I add,) is not helping her level of patience.
“Hey Mom, I want to become a princess as a kid like Sofia became a Princess. So…I need you to make that happen.”
”Well, what that means is that Daddy has to die, and a King’s wife has to die, and then I have to find and marry that King.”
She got quiet and resumed eating her cereal.
“Okay. I think I’ll just stick to marrying a Prince so nobody has to die.”
Legoland. The day we heard it was being built in Florida sent chills through our spine. My husband was born to be a Legogineer (if only we wouldn’t have to move to Denmark) and has trained both of our children in the appreciation and art of the Lego craft. Ali can build a Lego set from the directions at a speed that would beat any teenage boy, and Noah will play with any Lego automobile for hours until it literally falls apart and I take it away from him amidst a gullywashing of tears. Then I put the pieces on the mantel to wait for his Daddy to get home and rebuild it into a completely new and magical automobile.
So, although I personally have zero Lego skills, we are a Lego family. And when we got turned away from Disney, we knew exactly where we would go next.
We walked into the park and the kids began frantically running from sculpture to sculpture, assuming I’m sure that the world had ended and we had been whisked off to heaven, which certainly has streets made of gold Legos.
Of course they could never run to the SAME sculpture, but fortunately, Legoland was infinitely less crowded than the maxed out 100,000 people at Disney’s Magic Kingdom, so I managed to keep my freaking out to a minimum.
The great thing about Legoland is that it is made for younger kids.
And I have younger kids.
So the rides were much less imposing, and had nice, achievable height limits.
Ali and Chris rode a rollercoaster that required 40”, and Noah and I went on a Lego train ride that required 36” (of which Noah was just barely.)
Of course, my risk-averse six-year-old hated the ridiculously tame rollercoaster, but Noah, after realizing that he couldn’t escape the rollbars of his ride,
really enjoyed it.
They had a lot of “typical little kid” attractions that seemed totally lame to me but my kids loved, such as a two-story carousel and a rope-treehouse area. I think they appreciated having familiar fun mixed in with the unfamiliar.
Speaking of unfamiliar, Ali was just barely old enough to ride the big kid lego cars (which still moved at a snail’s pace, making her very happy.)
They were for 6-13 year olds, so when they separated the kids from the parents, I was very nervous on her behalf. She’s not exactly the do-it-without-a-responsible-adult’s-help kind of kid.
But when they opened the gate, she ran, found a car, buckled up, lifted her thumb to let them know she was ready, then drove away.
…immediately crashing into a wall and getting stuck.
I just knew she was going to panic, with huge kids zooming up and almost rear-ending her, but miraculously, she unjammed herself and took off, showing a streak of independence that I was elated to experience from the sidelines.
Noah, meanwhile, was more than a little malcontent.
Because all he had wanted to do from the first mention of the word “Lego” was to be put in a quiet room full of Legos ready to be built. And he let us know that at least 256 times in the first hour on site.
Because that’s what you get when you build a theme park around an introverted activity – unhappy introverts.
Sure, he liked sitting in the big car,
But not without asking once more when he was going to get to build.
We distracted him for a bit with what ended up being the kid’s favorite part of the entire day: Miniland USA, where they had a stunning collection of Lego scenes, including a Star Wars area,
(which they didn’t understand but appreciated nonetheless),
(Especially Darth Vader,)
(Where Noah checked out things a little too close for Darth’s comfort,)
and many cities such as San Francisco, where Noah especially obsessed over the fire truck saving the crazy cat lady with curlers in her hair and dozens of cats,
(“But can I get in and play with them, Mommy?”)
(“No. FOR THE LOVE JUST LOOK!”)
Chris and I appreciated the San Fran Full House scene, although we thought an angry Alanis Morissette pining after uncle Joey would have really added a lot.
New York city was fantastically huge,
Washington DC was complete with a moving marching band,
Pirate ships floated along a castle wall,
Sunken ships were off the coast of St. Augustine,
The space program was represented well,
And a bunch of other cities in Florida that I didn’t photograph because I was too busy sprinting after my amazed two-year-old.
Also, each exhibit had buttons to prompt interaction, such as making a firetruck squirt water at the kids, the marching band play music, and so on.
Various other life-size Lego creations were spread all throughout the park, including this Ford SUV (if only it had been a flex),
And impressive Zebra butt.
Because what Lego creator doesn’t want to figure out the dimensions and make a plan for a life-sized Zebra butt?
But despite the double stroller, zero-to-minimal ride lines, firetruck water squirts, five-minute Orlando rainstorms, and the fact that my kids are from Alabama, the heat and the park exhausted them quickly.
Which is when we realized: we make kids like modern lightbulbs: low-energy. All they want to do is lay on their stomachs and build Legos. And that’s okay.
So we took them in a store to cool off, where Ali went crazy with her Dad at the Pick a Brick wall and Noah was SO RELIEVED to FINALLY see some Legos he could build, for Brick’s sake.
And ultimately, what they remembered most fondly were the water misters spread throughout the park.
But we came, we saw, we conquered,
And we didn’t leave until our kids were swimming in their own sweat and had adopted a perma-yawn.
Which took an entire three hours and thirty-four minutes.
Because we do theme parks like the little old lady that goes to the buffet to get half a chicken breast and nine green beans.
We had every intention of taking all of your fantastic Disney advice, but Orlando’s airport did us in.
Okay, really it started with the Birmingham airport, but I have fonder feelings toward my own airport than those of other municipalities, so I think I’ll begin the blame at the Orlando airport.
Us, looking optimistic upon arrival at the Birmingham Airport.
Our flight was delayed slightly, thanks to the lovely weather that plagued the south for the Fourth of July weekend. We were supposed to leave Birmingham at 6:05 (Central) Wednesday night and arrive in Orlando at 8:35 (Eastern), giving us a decent window to get a rental car and make it to our hotel in time for the kids to get a good night’s sleep before an exciting day at Disney.
But our flight was delayed.
The bad thing about this was that it gave Noah the opportunity to collect every germ in the Birmingham Airport.
The good thing was that he was not able to wait long enough to achieve what I know he had been waiting for, the pinnacle of toddler success, something I predicted (albeit with a typo) to a friend earlier that day:
He tried to wait. But alas, thanks to the flight delay, he managed to only succeed in being an airport pooper, and not join the Mile High Poop Club.
We landed in Orlando around 9:15. Which still didn’t feel too bad, and the kids were so excited about flying that there was no malaise to be had.
But then we walked to baggage claim.
Which appeared to be a refugee camp. Or the Super Dome during Hurricane Katrina.
People strewn everywhere, looking as if they hadn’t eaten in days, groveling on the floor and loudly exclaiming how horrible the Orlando Airport was.
We quickly gathered that the baggage ramp had been closed approximately a half-millennia due to lightning.
(But yet our plane flew. Unsettling.)
At the one carousel to which we were assigned (out of the dozens of carousels in operation), there were NINE flight’s worth of passengers camped out, doing rain dances for their luggage, opening military food rations, and considering which one of the other passengers they planned to skin first when the food ran out.
Also, there was the guy with the unbelievable ear hair. A thick, impenetrable forest of black hair engulfing the entire outer rim of his ear. There is no possible way he could have heard through that ear bush, so the only reasonable assumption was that he had been waiting so long for his luggage (which housed his military-grade razor) that he’d grown dual EarBeards.
Chris quickly realized that he would be fighting with many of these people for rental cars as soon as that carousel started spinning, so he took Noah and left me with Ali and my friend Amanda (who travelled with us) to wait for the bags.
We staked out our spot at Carousel 12 with the rest of Gitmo and watched hopefully. After about thirty minutes, the first bags came around. There was palpable hope in the air, as people visualized what the outside world must look like.
Fifty or so bags made a loop, with very few people claiming them. I hypothesized that their strength was too weak to retrieve them.
And then the carousel came to a halt.
Groans and screams of death filled the air.
Ten minutes later, a voice on the intercom. “We regret to inform you that Carousel 12 is having problems. We are trying to get it restarted. Please bear with us, and if you are standing on the carousel, please get off.”
I began looking around. WHO THE PHLEGM IS STANDING ON THE CAROUSEL??!!
I saw no one standing, but about a half-dozen people sitting. On the Carousel. The very Carousel that offers us freedom. If only they would MOVE THEIR BUTTS.
Intercom. “We can see you standing on the carousels. Please move so we can restart the carousel.”
The sitters didn’t move.
I looked wildly around for the voice so that I could teach them the difference between sitting and standing, because clearly these people were staying on a technicality.
More trudging minutes passed, with people still sitting upon the broken carousel. Please recall that I was trying to keep hold of and entertain a six-year-old amidst the writhing throngs of malcontents.
Intercom. “For those waiting for luggage from flight 34 from Birmingham, please go to Carousel 14.”
We hauled off to an also-stopped Carousel 14, which housed five more flight’s worth of passengers, looking not quite as pallid as Camp 12, but definitely on their way.
A few minutes in, Carousel 14 began moving luggage. People were actually finding their bags! And leaving Airport Hell! We had hope.
Then, 14 stopped.
Our wait once again became interminable. At one point, I sprinted Ali out to Circling-The-Airport-Chris, because she was DONE.
Finally, finally, FINALLY, we got our luggage.
But it was too late. Literally.
By the time we got to our hotel, it was past midnight. And midnight for two small children is no easy feat to overcome.
So we decided to let them sleep in, and we would Disney as casually as possible the next day. And hey! If we went late enough, maybe we could stay late for fireworks.
So the next morning, we all got going quicker than I expected. We knew the park opened at 10, it was inexplicably a “green” crowd day (considering it was the 4th of July), all of the park apps showed light crowds and short waits, so we headed to Disney at 10:45, after letting the kids have a clueless, groggy breakfast.
We had never told Ali we were even in the city that housed Disney World. She’s never been, she’s wanted to go, so we knew she’d be excited.
Even as we were driving, I wasn’t sure at what point to tell her. But as we approached the huge “Walt Disney World” arch, I knew it’d have to be then. After all, she can read.
So I did what all parents do and recorded the moment.
…Forgetting that she doesn’t like being made a spectacle of when she’s excited.
We arrived at the parking lot of the Magic Kingdom and exclaimed to each other how beautifully short the lines were. It was going to be a good day.
Until we pulled up to pay for parking and the lady told us the truth.
“The park is maxed out for the day. We’re sorry.”
And we were speechless, as BIG FAT FAILURE PARENTwas stamped on our foreheads.
Yes, you all had told us to be there when the park opened. But midnight…and young children…and we thought we would be safe being 45 minutes late.
And so we had to explain to our daughter, one and a half minutes after telling her that we were going to Disney, that we weren’t, after all, allowed to go to the Happiest Place on Earth.
But never fear! We have a backup plan!
…after an hour of driving.
Again, I asked her to read the sign.
(Without recording it this time.)
“….Uhhh….Ruby Tuesday?”
“No! The other sign!!”
“Oh. Legoland!!!!!”
And so we spent the rest of the day at Legoland, about which I will write in another post.
BUT.
This post is about Disney. So let me bypass that for a minute and continue.
According to all of the crowd calendars, it was only going to get severely worse as the weekend progressed. So that had been, as outside-the-compound tourists, our one decent shot at getting into the Magic Kingdom. But fortunately for us, Ali had no concept of what she was missing, so we decided to go to Downtown Disney and soak up some edge-of-the-park magic.
And we were right. We ate at Rainforest Café and visited the gift shops, buying out of our guilt. She loved it, she thanked us for not making her walk even more, and she declared it to be “THE BEST DAY EVER!!!”
But at Downtown Disney, they have a fantastic balloon ride. It’s a helium balloon that lifts 29 people, which tells me that the movie Up is not as improbable as we all thought.
I so desperately wanted to ride it.
I love heights and I love good views.
So the next day, after giving Ali the option of attempting Disney again or going to the hotel pool, she very hurriedly chose the pool (where we realized that both we and our kids were much more relaxed and happier than walking around a theme park), then we planned our afternoon around going back to Downtown Disney and taking a balloon ride. There was no direct phone number on the website, but the balloon had been going up and down all day, so we assumed we could just show up and ride.
We arrived, found a parking place, got the whole family through the massive crush of people, only to read the sign.
“Temporarily closed due to thunderstorms in the area. Please try again later.”
I mourned my loss and we moved on, hopping onto the Monorail to give Noah the bliss of a train ride around the park that we couldn’t manage to gain entrance into.
Both kids were thrilled to see Epcot,
And to see Cinderella’s Castle from afar, in the air conditioning. With no walking or sweating required.
The next morning, as I let the kids play in the hotel, I watched the balloon go up, down, up, down, taking happy tourists in the air of Orlando. So once again, I drove to Downtown Disney, this time only with Noah and Amanda, as Ali had decided that she had no interest in flying.
As we pulled into the parking lot, the ride was coming down. It seemed hopeful – maybe we could get on the next ride up!
But it was also…very sideways.
We ran through D.D. once more, arriving as the balloon touched down Oz-Style.
But then they started roping the Balloon down. And the screen scrolled a message.
“This ride is currently closed due to high winds. Check back again later.”
We had missed it by that much.
Again, denied by Disney.
Three times rejected.
Left to lick my theme park wounds.
Left to acknowledge the fact that Disney is made for those who stay on-site, not for us steerage citizens, sinking on the Titanic of Theme Park Wannabes.
But my good husband was insistent – it had perhaps become a personal vendetta on my behalf. So the morning on which we were leaving, he encouraged me to rush to Downtown Disney.
And so Amanda, Noah and I headed off for one last attempt at Disney Glory.
We watched the balloon all the way over there. It was in the sky, seemingly happy.
We parked, we ran, and we achieved payment.
Early Bird Pricing even!!!!
The balloon landed to allow us entrance. We didn’t waste any time.
We hopped in and the ride took off, very wobbly and jerky.
We got up to 400 feet.
And it was beautiful.
Noah waffled between asking to jump in the lake, asking to get back on the ground, and enjoying the view.
I fumbled to take pictures through the rope while holding a two-year-old and not dropping my phone.
Chris texted me a picture of Ali watching safely from the hotel balcony.
After about ten minutes in the air, we came back down, feeling exulted and victorious.
Disney had tried to deny us at every opportunity, but Disney had failed.
(And as far as I can tell, I have zero readers in either city. Apparently I’m not popular in A-named cities.)
Anyway. It was wrong, and I realize that.
However, it was hard on me, too. Because I ate all of my chocolate from Atlanta, and I also saw no way of satiating my new need.
However, I did some research. And I took notes.
I found out that, although we do not have a local chocolatier like I my heart desires, there are places in town (and most likely in your town as well) to buy artisan chocolate.
Here are a few points I’d like to make first:
1. Yes, artisan chocolate is more expensive (the bars I bought were between $2-6 each, most around $3.50.) But you don’t need as much. Chris and I have split a bar every night, and we don’t even always finish our half bar. The richness satisfies so thoroughly that you’re eating less, and therefore saving calories.
2. Be prepared for this chocolate to impact your body chemistry. I am a firm believer that we’ve all been eating severely watered down genetic strains of chocolate, and the real stuff is powerful.
3. You can get artisan chocolates with mix-ins, or just pure chocolate. Although we have come to prefer the pure chocolates, the ones with the mix-ins are good also. Some chocolates call them “nibs” – they can be cocoa bean pieces, vanilla pieces, fruit pieces, or even pepper pieces. I recommend experimenting to narrow down your preferences.
4. Although you can get artisan chocolate in milk flavors, the dark chocolates are something special. Even if you’ve never liked dark chocolate, it’s worth trying, because real dark is nothing like “Hershey’s Special Dark” – I promise.
(We did not try any milk chocolates. Call us snobs. That’s fine.)
If I indeed did birth a cacao need inside of you, you should have at least one of these stores in your city, and I also found some of them online (although you’ll do better to buy in store – shipping temperatures are likely to hurt the quality.)
I have taken three chocolate shopping trips: Earth Fare, Publix, and Whole Foods.
My first was to Earth Fare, a new organic grocery store in town. Here is what I bought:
In order of our favorite to least favorite, here are how these fared:
1. TCHO “Nutty” – This chocolate was mind-blowing. Still one of my favorites, it had a nutty taste profile, but had zero nuts in it – it was just the natural flavors of the cacao beans. It was rich in flavor and luxurious, but completely smooth.
2. TCHO “Chocolatey” – This one was also fantastic. Smooth and dark, but not at all chalky like some dark chocolates can get. If you don’t like a nutty tone, this is the one for you.
3. Alter Eco Dark Twist – This bar actually has crystallized orange peels in the chocolate. It was different and a fun flavor, when you’re not in the mood for a simple chocolate.
4. Green & Black’s – This company recently got bought out by Kraft, and I learned at Atlanta Food & Wine that whenever a big company buys out a small chocolatier, they always replace the artisan chocolate with “stock” chocolate. So I was prepared for it to taste regular old chocolate, and that could have affected my opinion. But it was still good – very dark but very smooth.
5. Theo 85% – This one was too dark, but I did end up liking Theo later in the experiment.
6. Alter Eco Dark Blackout – This bar was just too dark. Somewhat like eating cocoa out of the can.
7. Chocolove – I really thought I was going to like Chocolove (I had heard good things), but was very unimpressed. Not sure why, but I have bought another bar to try for a second chance.
I realized after this trip that perhaps I was buying too dark. I love dark chocolate (and I believe everyone should, just like everyone should eat their steaks rare), but I decided I would keep it at 75% or below.
My next stop was Publix, at Chris’ suggestion. I didn’t think that a regular grocery store would have artisan chocolate, but they had a better selection than I imagined. Here’s what I bought:
We haven’t eaten the Chocolove or Lindt yet (although we’ve had Lindt plenty of times in the past, I wanted to see how it stacked up against the more boutique brands), but of the ones we have eaten, here’s what I thought:
1.Dagoba – This bar was perfection. I adored it. It was exactly what it claimed: rich and dark. Not a trace of bitterness – all smooth chocolate. It also had a quote on the inside of the wrapper that said “You can deprive the body but the soul needs chocolate.” I agree.
3. Green & Black’s – again, it wasn’t bad. It was smooth, dark, and still way better than Hershey’s, but (at least by power of suggestion) can’t compete with the boutique brands.
So although Publix’s selection wasn’t as good, it’s doable in a pinch.
However, I was shocked when I hit the choco-jackpot at Whole Foods.
Look at their chocolate aisle!!!
Look how much money I spent! All in the name of research. For you guys. You can send me thank you cards later.
This collection included some stunning chocolate, too. Chris’ absolute favorite was in this batch, so I’m going to list it first.
1. Equal Exchange Ecuador Dark (The top middle bar) – Chris raved about it. He had enjoyed most of our prior experimentation, but this one was special. It was very smooth without a hint of chalkiness, and was sweet in spite of it’s darkness. Chris described it as “having the richness of brownie batter.” This was also a single origin chocolate, which is supposed to make the flavor much better.
2. Madecasse Madagascar Sea Salt and Nibs (top left) – This company is owned by former peace corps volunteers who wanted to do more for Madagascar. So not only do they buy their beans there, but they actually have their factory and make their chocolate IN Madagascar – something that is quite rare! Their chocolate was delicious, too. The cacao bean nibs had a coffee bean quality.
3. Divine Chocolate – This one was very good. Smooth and thick, but still very dark. It had a richness that was very satisfying.
4. Olive and Sinclair Southern Artisan Chocolate (the bottom right and left bar) – this one reminded me of the ones I had in Atlanta, which was interesting since Olive and Sinclair is in Nashville. They claim to be the first Southern Artisan Chocolatier. They say that the defining ingredient of southern chocolate is brown sugar, and you can definitely taste the hint of molasses in the bars.
5. Theo Pure 70% – I think this bar would be the easiest to take if you normally don’t like dark chocolate. It was the smoothest chocolate flavor we’ve tried.
6. Theo Congo Vanilla Nib – This one had crunchy bits of vanilla mixed into the smooth chocolate. Great for when you want a little something extra in your chocolate.
7. Lily’s Dark Chocolate with Stevia – I got this bar as an experiment because it was low-cal, sweetened with Stevia instead of sugar. It really wasn’t bad! It didn’t have a sweetener aftertaste, but it also had a less rich flavor than the others.
7. Escazu – Although I was excited about this one because it was another southern chocolate (from Raleigh), Chris and I actually both strongly disliked this bar – neither of us came close to finishing it! It had a very strange after taste and really left an unpleasant coating on our tongues.
So. If you find yourself in a place with all of these chocolates, here is our top ten list, in order of preference:
1. TCHO
2. Equal Exchange
3. Dagoba
4. Madecasse
5. Theo
6. Divine
7. Olive and Sinclair
8. Alter Eco
9. Endangered Species
10. Lily’s
But of course, if you can get your hands on a locally produced chocolate, like those I ate in Atlanta, I am fairly certain that it will be the best experience your tongue has ever had.
Yesterday, I headed back downtown to get my heart monitor. I wasn’t remarkably excited about the errand, but I was distracted from that when I found everyone’s favorite word to hate, in graffiti form.
A few weeks ago, I had seen “Moist” on an interstate overpass, but I wasn’t quick enough to get a picture. As soon as I got the chance, I drove ten minutes out of my way just to get a picture of that original Moist – but to no avail.
The Department of Transportation, apparently, hates Moist as much as the typical American – they had painted over it.
So when I saw today’s Moistness, my heart jumped within me.
(Too bad I didn’t have my monitor yet.)
Then I had my appointment, where I had an awkward ten minutes with a younger-than-me unmarried male asking me to lift my shirt so that he could place five electrodes on my chest.
Then five more minutes re-placing them, because the machine was malfunctioning.
(Which was actually only the second most awkward situation I’ve had with a man this week, right behind last week’s doctor visit when the X-Ray tech, who looked like he would be much more comfortable in a pair of worn overalls and sitting on a tractor somewhere in the middle of a tobacco field, looked at me (still in my normal clothes) and said, “You’ve got to get out of that there braw before I can take this picture!”, then afterward, he motioned to my lonely bra on the table and said “I’ll go behind this here door so you can get that braw back on.”)
(I’ve got to find doctors with a higher ratio of female technicians.)
So after today’s episode of Fun With Men I Don’t Know, I walked out, trying to flush from my mind the humiliation. Which is when I saw this.
You might not be able to tell. It was hard to get a picture.
But THAT IS REPUBLICAN SMOCK.
Guys. In all my days of smock questing, I will never ever be able to top that find.
(Unless I run across Democrat Smock. Because Donkeys on a Bishop Dress would be fairly fantastic.)
The thrill of Political Children’s Wear made me nearly forget about my awkward encounter and I began considering it to be a winning day of fantastic photos. And as I was endlessly winding down the parking deck, I noticed that the view wasn’t so bad, either.
So I decided to wind the opposite direction and see what it was like on the top floor of the parking deck.
At first it looked closed – there seemed to be cones around, but I drove around them. And when I got past, I saw other cars, so I felt completely exonerated in my ignoring of conage.
And I was so glad I did.
Because the thing is, I usually peer at my city from the outside looking in, from atop the mountain overlooking the city.
But this was different.
This was something I’ve never experienced. I was in the middle of the city with a complete 360 degree view.
I parked and got out, heart monitor and all, and walked that parking deck, taking in every angle. The details were crisp, close, and intimate.
(And windy.)
To the north was what we’ll call the Financial District, Birmingham’s tallest buildings built in an era when the banking industry had many headquarters here. We still have a few, but the ones that merged and moved away were nice enough to leave their buildings behind for a pretty skyline.
To the northwest was a mixture of Old and New Birmingham. Liberty National, an insurance company long housed in Birmingham, towering over new loft developments, bringing a much-needed revitalization and young life into our downtown.
To the west was my Alma Mater, UAB, responsible for both my degree and my current medical care. Our city’s bare-butted mascot, Vulcan, can barely be seen to the left on the mountaintop.
The south was my favorite view. Vulcan to the right, the dreamy but underutilized Quinlan Castle sharing the center of the picture with the Red Mountain Expressway cut-through (wouldn’t it have been exciting to see that mountain exploded?), and throughout the view was a good representation of how our downtown doesn’t sacrifice foliage for construction.
The southeast view had one of my favorite downtown restaurants, The Fish Market, in the forefront and St. Vincent’s Hospital in the background. Along with some stunning skies.
The eastern view showed more new urban development, old buildings, and our National Historic Landmark, Sloss Furnaces, in the backdrop.
As I was looking east, I spotted some graffiti that caught my attention:
Upon further investigation, it was confirmed. Another Moist.
Some later-googling made me realize that I wasn’t the only one investigating this fantastic wording choice.
That’s right, people. Our city has a Moist Mystery. How about yours?
That evening after dinner, we took the kids back to one of our favorite spots overlooking the city.
It was still as breathtaking as always, but more intimate than ever before.
My husband required me to title my post by that name if I was going to show this picture.
So there you have it.
(And no. That is a completely legit breathing treatment.)
Last week, I got the pleasure of visiting many doctor’s offices. Besides still struggling with my eyes, I’ve had some other somewhat scary symptoms and happenings, and so I’ve been trying to track down the root cause.
(All while not barraging you all with vaguely dramatic tweets and statuses. You’re welcome.)
Last Sunday, I had my first visit, where I saw a lovely foreign doctor who ended up being a worse decision than looking up my own symptoms on WebMD. After doing blood work and giving me an EKG, he ended our time together with,
“I am not certain what is to be wrong with you. But the number of tests we can be allowed to do on the weekends are limited. So if you get worse, you should go to the emergency room…Eet coold be Pulmonary Embolism – you know, a clot in your lung? Or perhaps Hyperthyroidism. Or something else. Okay? I would call our office tomorrow and get an appointment with another doctor.”
Yes, he actually recommended I see someone OTHER THAN HIMSELF.
So I did.
On Wednesday, I spent a fantastic two hours at the doctor.
(The fantastic in this visit was brought to you by the presence of my two year old.)
We watched a lot of tractor videos on my phone, I tried to keep him off the floor (Praying that no one with tuberculosis had been in the room) and out of the drawers (praying that there were no sharp objects housed within), and of course, we played with the stirrups.
Why do general practitioners have stirrups? Nevermind.
On Friday, I saw a specialist, where I found some fantastic signs, such as this one left over from 1986,
(Ah, the good old days of Custom Conversions…)
And this one.
(But feel free to block the elevator button with anything else.)
I also discovered that you can actually check a box for “Belching.”
Which is when I considered donating my appointment to my husband.
At the moment, I’ve been diagnosed with Adult Onset Asthma, and am still having some other tests run (I get to stick electrodes to myself and wear a heart monitor this week – yay!), but I’m okay. I’m nearly positive that nothing is horribly wrong with me. Most of the time.
But because of all that, I got like…oh, at least a week behind in writing.
Which is why you’re getting this pitiful excuse for a post.
So as I try to get caught up on my writing and my inbox and my dishes and find my train of thought somewhere around here, it’s your turn to tell me about you.
I attempt to have a “your turn” post at least once a year, because I absolutely adore getting to know each and every one of you.
After all, what’s the fun of blogging if it’s not two-way?
So today, whether you’ve never commented, commented once in 2008, or comment every week, I want you to tell me the following – answer whichever questions you want (or all of them if you’re feeling especially jolly.)
1. What state (or province or country) do you live in?
2. What is the most bizarre or interesting thing that ever happened to you, or at least that comes to mind when asked by a blogger?
3. What is the best television show, book, or movie that was ever made?
4. What was your least favorite subject in school? (Elementary, middle, high, or college – you pick.)
5. If you’re done having kids, what name do you regret not getting to use on an offspring?
This is a guest post by my Dad. Besides being an expert mechanic on all things and especially those antique, he is a writer, an artist (one of his pen and ink drawings can be seen below), a Tech Inspector for the Le Mans racing series, a beekeeper, a Chicken Coop Designer, an adventurer (I’ve been begging him to write abouthis 45 day race from Beijing to Paris, including Tibet and Iran – y’all help me convince him,) a former Air Force sergeant and radio repair technician, and a former police officer.
(And I’m pretty sure I left off at least a dozen other occupations and talents.)
Noah and I went to visit a couple of days ago, and afterward, Dad immediately wrote this guest post.
I grew up around motorcycles. Literally. Some of my earliest memories involve them. My Dad was a Harley man from his youth, owning his first before World War II, and was a motorcycle policeman at Fairfield when I was born.
I remember going to T.D. Howton’s Harley dealership in Bessemer with him, where I had what I thought was my very own seat in the back room. It was a huge old Harley seat on rollers that was used by the mechanics to service the bikes. It was made out of leather and even today, if I smell leather, that is where my memory takes me.
Dad kept a Harley even after he left the police and used it to ride to and from work. I vividly remember waking up in the middle of the night when he arrived home.
(Harleys were not quiet bikes even then.)
I was in the first grade when my Dad first let me control the Harley by myself.
(Or at least let me think I was in full control – I was the only one touching the handlebars.)
To feel the acceleration of the bike when I twisted the throttle was a thrill that is as vivid today as it was when I was six years old.
Dad bought his last Harley when he was eighty. It was a 1951 EL that a friend had stored in a basement since the early 70’s. We brought it home and it didn’t take much to get it running. He would sit in the garage for hours polishing that bike and remembering happier times, times before cancer. He was unable to kick start the bike, so occasionally I would start it for him to hear, feel and smell. I actually had him on it one day and he would have ridden it, but my Mom pitched a fit.
I got my first two wheeler when I was 12. I had a paper route and saved up to buy an Allstate scooter. It was not running, and I bet my sisters and I pushed it more than we rode it. It was also the first engine I ever rebuilt. I had to replace the piston, rings and do a valve job. The sense of accomplishment when it fired up was, for a 12 year old, something special.
It was about this time that the Japanese bikes came to America, giving people a choice. Harley’s dominance was challenged. Heck, even T.D. Howton started selling Hondas. There was also the beginning of a cultural shift away from the outlaw image of motorcycles and those of us that rode them. Honda had an ad campaign that stated “You meet the nicest people on a Honda.”
When my wife and I got married, we had a Honda 450, the largest bike they made at the time. I was stationed with the Air Force in Biloxi, and we rode back and forth to Birmingham on the weekends. Some of the old image remained, even then. Sara remembers a Sunday School teacher while we were dating that, when she learned that I had a motorcycle, said: “I didn’t think you were that kind of girl.”
I, personally, am glad she was, and still is!
My kids grew up around motorcycles, too, but I’m not sure how ingrained it is in their lives. I, too was a police officer for a while, first at Fairfield, then Birmingham. I did not ride for the department, but had an extra job riding funeral escort. I also helped set up one of the first, if not the first Motorcycle Safety Foundation courses in the state. All of my kids were on a motorcycle while they were still in diapers.
J.C., my oldest son, got his first bike at 17. Soon after,we decided to take a trip to Chattanooga. I loaded Nick, my youngest, on back of my bike and we struck out. However, the skies looked threatening, so we changed direction. We ended up that night in Ocean Springs, Mississippi.
Yesterday, I had occasion to relive some of those memories, and to see some of the excitement in the face of the next generation.
I don’t know if motorcycles will be as big a part of Noah’s life as they have in mine, but he decided that he wanted to ride Pop’s motorcycle – the motorcycle that I bought, incidentally, the month that his mother was born.
And before anyone gets upset, we did not go on any public roads, and didn’t go even 10 mph, but the moment was special.
And I am pretty sure that he has inherited the gene.
I’m not sure exactly why, except that maybe this is the first summer after a “real” year of school, and it’s also the first summer that we’ve had two KIDS, not a kid and a baby.
And we’ve been relishing in it.
Noah’s been learning a lot. For instance, that looking cool
can lead to meeting girls.
And that pistachios make fantastic train passengers.
And all about the way our bunnies “play” with each other.
(G-Rated rabbit photo only – you’re welcome.)
And that if you develop a tic of squinting and shaking your head,
then you’ll land your much-needed haircut quicker.
And that it is super exciting to read his sister’s “die-wee-wee”.
I’ve also been learning. I now know that my “golden age” is toddlers – it’s easiest for me to love and relate to our kids when they’re between 18 months and 4 years old. So I’ve been trying to learn how to effectively reach Ali at her mature age of six.
In pondering these things, I had an epiphany: she loves to leave me notes, so I bet she’d be just as thrilled to get notes from me.
I was right.
I’ve started shoving notes under her bedroom door after bedtime about once a week or so,
and it makes for a very happy morning.
Noah has spent this summer shocking me with how focused he is. He can do the same thing for way longer than I can.
Then again, he hasn’t let Twitter ruin his brain. Yet.
I have no idea what’s going on in this picture (aside from Club Crackers), but I love it. I also love that it gives a sneak peek into how oddly cool our Alabama Spring was.
I am also loving how well my kids get along right now. I keep telling myself “It’s only a phase,” because it’s very easy to get addicted to sights like these.
But they truly seem to adore each other*.
Ali reads to Noah,
And Noah takes care of Ali’s Princesses.
We’ve been visiting an elementary school near our house. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to, but we’re doing it anyway. They have their playground in the middle of the track, so Chris (and sometimes I) can run while the kids are playing.
I hope that this will encourage me to exercise more, but it might take more of a miracle than a track around a playground.
Despite Ali’s firing from swim lessons, we’ve been spending a lot of time at the pool, where she is more than happy to wear flotation devices.
(Even in the baby pool. When her brother is not.)
(She is the definition of risk averse.)
But the wrap-up of pool time is always my favorite time to snap happy-kid pictures.
(Before they start acting like this.)
She’s probably happy because she survived another day of swimming without a dreaded water-in-her-eyes experience.
And he’s happy because…he’s snuggling with her.
So that’s a snapshot of our summer so far. And if this happened to you sometime during the middle of this post,
I understand. But sometimes, you’ve just got to have a Photo Parade.
After all, it’s summertime.
* The day after I wrote this, Ali hit her brother for the first time, and then lied about it. This is why I shouldn’t tell you good things.
My Father didn’t (doesn’t) approve of the concept of the casserole, nor did his father before him. There are long-held male beliefs in my family lineage that women sneak things into casseroles that should not be there, and so they have been denounced for many generations.
So in 2001, when I made my first casserole and presented it to my newlywed husband with much disclaimer and meekness, I was shocked at his exuberance and delight in my creation.
“But, but…I thought guys weren’t supposed to like casseroles!”
“This casserole has meat and creamy goodness and is topped with POTATO CHIPS AND CHEESE!! What’s not to like? What’s not to LOVE?!?”
That first casserole went on to become one of his favorites, ubiquitous chicken casserole though it may be. But Mansserole is somewhat of a unique creation, birthed from his subsequent scouring of my family cookbook for more casseroles that he might be missing out on experiencing.
“Hey! What’s this Smoked Sausage Casserole?”
“I have no idea – my Mom never made it. You know, Dad, casseroles, and all.”
“Well will you make it?”
“I hate smoked sausage.”
“Trade out the smoked sausage for cocktail smokies, then!”
And so I did. But I added another meat, another sauce, and basically changed the recipe completely from it’s original intent, and so was able to continue respecting the tradition of leaving the casseroles mentioned in our family cookbook untouched, only serving the purpose of being placemarkers of the History of Casserole Sufferage.
So here’s my recipe for what was dubbed by my husband as Three-Meat Casserole, and then later renamed to Mansserole. I don’t know the calorie count and I don’t want to know, but I do know the quantity of joy that it births in the heart of my husband, and that’s good enough for me.
(And I find it pretty tasty as well. But don’t tell.)
Mansserole
2 cups of rice
1 large onion, chopped
1 bell pepper, sliced
2 tbsp butter
1 pound ground beef
1 pound breakfast sausage
16 ounces of cocktail smokies, or some other third meat that your family likes.
1 can of Cream of Mushroom soup
1 can of Cream of Celery soup
16 ounces of sour cream
Shredded cheese
1. Cook the rice according to package directions, then throw in a big bowl.
2. Sauté the vegetables in butter, then throw those in also.
3. Cook the beef and sausage in the vegetable’s former pan, then add the cocktail smokies until warm.
4. Drain the meat well, then throw them into the bowl with everything else.
5. Add the soups, sour cream, and salt and pepper to taste and mix into a giant conglomerate of man-pleasing goodness.
7. Place mixture in a baking dish, then cook on 450 degrees for 15 minutes.
8. Offer the cheese to your man as garnish to complete his joy.
I especially like it topped with a healthy dose of cracked black pepper and a tasty vegetable like Zucchini Sticks:
Which is also easy to make, and thankfully makes up for the unknown calorie count of Mansserole, coming in at only four calories per Zucchini Stick! I got this recipe from my friend Debra and love it.
Baked Zucchini Sticks
2 Zucchini
1 Egg White
1/4 Cup Milk
1/2 cup Shredded Parmesan Cheese
1/2 cup Seasoned Breadcrumbs
1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
2. Cut Zucchini into sticks, approximately three inches long.
3. Create a wet mix and a dry mix in separate bowls:
Wet: whisk the egg white with the milk
Dry: Combine the parmesan cheese and breadcrumbs.
4. Dip Zucchini sticks into wet mix, then roll generously in dry mix, patting on a good outer coating.
(This is a great process to do with kids, even mess-averse ones – I just got Ali to drop the sticks into the wet bowl and she was happy.)
4. Generously grease a baking sheet with your preferred grease (I used Olive Oil Cooking Spray), and line up your Zucchini.
5. Bake for 25-30 minutes until crispy. I don’t turn my Zucchini Sticks, but I do rotate my baking sheet to help encourage even baking.
And there you have it. Something for him, something for you, two things you can both agree on. Or at least we do.
, (starring 
