The Bucket List

By Sara Spock

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I’m going to tell you a secret, my biggest secret. I have a super power. I make the most amazing lists. Lists that deserve to be in the List Making Hall of Fame. Lists that can bring order and control to the lives of many. Yes, I am… The List Master! 

If your task goes down on my list, it will be completed before you can say "flibbertigibbet"! I have lists for every day, lists for the week, the month, the season, the school year, the fiscal year, the actual year, 5-year lists, 10-year lists, and yes, a lifelong Bucket List.   

Most people use a Bucket List for major life goals, epic adventures, and career objectives.  Sure, a few of those mundane things end up on my big, bad list of life, but mostly I use this Bucket List to remind me where I should be and what I should be doing to get there. 

Exhibit A into my neuroses:

1.    Try not to traumatize my children by constantly turning life events into musical theater. They might laugh when they’re 5 and you’re singing to the tune of Mary Poppins “Feed the Birds,” “Feed the toads so they can grow! Two grubs, two grubs, two grubs a toad! Feed the toads so they can grow. Two grubs, two grubs, two grubs a tooooooooaaaadddddddd!”  But show tune time is running out and the Poop Song just won’t ring as true by the time they reach 10.

2.   Extend myself for others. It’s so much fun to crawl into pajamas at 5pm (while singing songs about llamas, pajamas, and mamas) but it would do my brain more good to invite a friend for dinner or get outside and talk to the neighbors. I know, I know. You’re tired from work, and kids, and laundry, and cooking, and cleaning, and singing, and making eye contact with grownups all day, but stop being a sissy! Make some friends and keep them, lady!

3.   Finish projects. Finish poems. Finish stories. Finish novels. Ideas are awesome. Brainstorming is the most creative you’ll ever feel, but writing the words THE END is even more amazing. Stay focused on a project long enough to see it to fruition.  Otherwise, you’ll be filled with wonderful ideas that will never come to – oooh, what’s that? A chocolate covered chili pepper? I wonder if I could bake that into brownies?  Or as a truffle? Or a cocktail? I could go for a beer. Hang on.

4.   Come back to center. Family, friends, work, writing, home, volunteering. So many obligations. I can just see it now. Everyone with a rope, pulling, and me in the middle getting spun around. Eventually, I’ll fall over because I’m a klutz with low blood sugar. Remember what’s important. Take a deep breath, go all Nancy Reagan, and just say NO. This way, you’ll have more time to sing. Llama, llama, llama. Listen to your Mama. Llama, llama, llama. Get in your pajamas.

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer, and Chocolate Addict. When she’s not crying because this is her last Erma Column, Sara can be found over on twitter where she discusses chocolate, reading, and football. Way too much football.

Summer Refrain

By Sara Spock

sprinkler soaks a sun-

drenched lawn while muddy feet squish

blades between their toes

eyes sparkle through paths

of forest shade while grubby

fingers reach for slugs

ice cream melts down a

dimpled chin while sugar highs

crash through toddler brains

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer, and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not reveling in the summer-time highs and lows, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.

The Black Cat

by Sara Spock

I used to have a cat named James. As in Taylor, Buffett, the band, and a guy from the 9^th grade that I had a massive crush on. During the heart of Pennsylvania winter, complete with three-foot snow storms and temperatures below zero, I found him outside the science lab at my rural high school. Even then, I couldn’t resist the siren song of a science lab. As I gazed out the window, longing to go skiing, build a snow man, or throw an icy lump of something cold at Mr. Slenker, a cardboard box caught my eye. The box was lodged in a pile of snow next to the back entrance near the lunchroom. Whoever left it there must have thought someone would see it, but it was almost the end of the day and the box remained untouched.

Mr. Slenker, my earth-science teacher, melted his cold heart long enough to let me go out and see what was in the box. When I lifted it up, a mama cat and 5 babies were sitting in the snow beneath the box. Nestled in that frosty white snow, I saw James who was jet black with yellow eyes and no more than 6 weeks old. Right then, I did the stupidest thing a ninth grader ever did…at least on that day. As my teacher went back inside to alert the office, I tucked that tiny little kitten into my hoodie. I don’t know exactly who took the rest of the brood and the mama, but the school found homes for them very quickly.

When I went home, my parents weren’t happy about another pet. Or at least they wouldn’t have been, if I told them. Instead, I just kept James in my room, brought him to school with him, and snuggled his brains out as much as I could. After a month of hiding my new little black kitten, I asked my dad if I could have another cat. He said no, he could never deal with another cat in the house (we only had one other!) That’s when I pulled James out of my jacket and told him that it didn’t matter because he had already been dealing with another cat for more than a month. I was keeping him.

The look on my dad’s face was a mix between “Touché” and “Oh crap, what have I created?” But he let me keep him, and that’s the important part. James stayed with me for eight years, not bad for a preemie that lived outside and had a penchant for midnight brawls. He used to scale the brick walls of our house and bump his nose against the window until I’d open it to let him in. James liked to curl up on my head to sleep, bring me dead things, claw my fingers when we played, pull the lid off my fish tank, eat my goldfish, and meow loud enough to wake everyone. He also loved to crawl inside my jacket, even when he was a 10-pound cat, knead his kitten paws into me, nuzzle his little pink nose against my neck, and lick my cheek. He was my best friend and my sounding board for those horrible high school years. Where ever he is, I know it’s kitten heaven. Or he was reborn as my 13-month-old, who loves to love me as much as he loves to torment me.

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer, and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not giving pets people names, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.

The Chocolate Mousse Mistake

By Sara Spock

The year was 1999. Christmas time. My Office Manager always made an over-the-top dessert for the office party; dishes like Bouche de Noel with handmade meringue mushrooms, German Chocolate Cake with her own cherry filling, and Chocolate Mousse Cake with homemade painted chocolate leaves. You know those desserts, when you take a bite and you’re suddenly dreaming of eating this one thing every day for the rest of your life or sneaking off to the supply closet with the rest of the McDreamy dish right this very minute. Paula’s Chocolate Mousse made me want to be a glutton, or a chef, or Julia Child. The recipe was clipped from a 1970s issue of Bon Appetit magazine. I begged her for the recipe, promising my firstborn, my car, and my Grandma’s heirloom earrings in exchange.

My chocolate addiction comes from my Dad, so I promptly attempted to make the mousse for him the very next week. If you take a minute to look at the recipe, you’ll see that it’s a 2-day affair. Day one consists of making the crust, the frou-frou chocolate leaves, whipping heavy cream into a frenzy, but stopping before you’re churning butter, melting a googolplex of chocolate, separating eggs, whisking the whites into stiff peaks, watching the peaks break and fall, speeding to the store for more eggs, separating the eggs, whisking the whites, and then making the mousse out of each carefully crafted ingredient. After everything comes together, you have to pour it into the chocolate crumb crust and put it in the fridge over night.

Yes, what I’m saying is that you’re going to have a vat of rich chocolately goodness and you’re going to have to wait at least 6 hours to eat it. Or you can throw caution to the wind, grab your biggest wooden spoon, and just go crazy. That’s not what I did, of course. I was making dessert for my dad and if I ate the whole bowl of mousse, I would have had to rush back to the store for more heavy cream, chocolate, eggs, and cookies, while praying to the gods of gluttonous girls that I used pasteurized eggs. 13 hours and two batches of mousse later, my dad said it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Good thing he enjoyed it because I never made it again. I couldn’t handle the temptation and can’t really cook from prison. Turns out, the authorities frown on selling your kids for chocolate.

If you’re brave enough to try it out, you can find Bon Appetit’s Chocolate Mousse Cake recipe by clicking the link. Enjoy!

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer, and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not looking for clever ways to use the word googolplex, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.

Advice to My 19-Year-Old Self

 

By Sara Spock

Standing at the baggage claim of the Lima International Airport, I was determined to avoid the eye of the man who was staring. He was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit with a brazen yellow shirt, unbuttoned to reveal thick black hair. He flicked ashes to the ground and walked toward me. His face passed just inches from mine as he grabbed his leather suitcase off the conveyor. Tipping his hat, he said, “Adios, gringa,” and walked off.  I was sure he slipped something into my carry-on, something to sneak through customs.

I was a naïve 19 year old, on foreign soil for the first time in my life. I often think back, wishing I could whisper words of advice into my untested ears.

While border-hopping, don’t carry fresh puffed cereal despite how crunchy and delicious it is. Peruvian border guards are edgy and like excuses to search bags. When they search your bags, if your best friend is smuggling whiskey for the bus driver in exchange for a free ride, it’s probably best not to argue with the guards. They carry real guns and will toss you into jail. Please stay out of Peruvian jails. They smell like urine, cigarettes, and beer-soaked sheep. Instead, try slipping a five into your passport. When he opens your passport, smile and say, “Gracias por su ayuda!” Ask if he ever plans to visit America. Smile. If you’re traveling through the Peruvian-Bolivian border and you don’t have the appropriate paperwork, sing. The Copacabana guards like Barry Manilow and single dollar bills. Don’t waste a five on them. Better yet, don’t forget your paperwork.

Chile is beautiful, but sleeping in the park in any foreign country is foolish. Drunks and dogs roam at night, forcing you and your french fries to sit in a tree. When a drunk offers you chicken, don’t take it.  If he pulls out an American twenty, run like hell. Nothing, and I mean nothing good comes from money changing hands between two single girls and a drunk in the middle of the night, in an empty Chilean park. Handsome young men are worse. If he offers a free night’s stay with his grandma, say no. Don’t give the grandma your passport, she’ll only give you a “room” on the roof with eye-holes cut into the door, beds that are missing slats and sheets, and she’ll try to tell you that she gave the passport back the night before when you checked in at three AM. She didn’t. Look in the second drawer of the bureau in the entry way, it will be there. Grab the copies she made, too.

Stay with your friends during Carnival. I know you wear combat boots and think you’re tough, but the partying masses don’t care what you think. You will get the tar beaten out of you because you are so obviously American. You think you’re above it, volunteering and being a good person, but suspicion and prejudice run deep and go in many directions. Be aware of it and avoid a black eye and several dislocated ribs. Richard, the money changer who pulled you from the abusing crowd? Buy him a bigger gift, he will save your life. Twice.

And about 42 more things that are, perhaps, better left unsaid. A girl has to live, right?

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer, and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not running from Chilean drunks, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.

Unanswered Prayers

By Sara Spock

I decided to move to Florida to help my sick Grandpop about 10 minutes after I arrived home from living and volunteering in South America. I wasn’t prepared give up my freedom by staying under the proverbial parental roof and Pops needed some help. Many of my Peruvian adventures involved road trips with broken down buses, gun-point searches, cement jail cells, and old ladies with roving hands. A good ole American car ride promised to be much more pedestrian.

My little red Hyundai had a new transmission and was packed to the windows with all of my prized possessions with just enough room for a small passenger, my 10 year old sister, Lauren. My Dad and brother Paul were driving point in Paul’s pick-up truck when we headed south at the crack of dawn, stopping only for food, gas, and bathroom breaks. In a previous life, I must have been a long haul trucker because I can last about 18 hours before resting. After a brief stop over with friends in Hotlanta, we were cruising down I75 when the little red car chugged, sputtered, and nearly slammed to a stop. I popped that baby into neutral and coasted down a conveniently placed exit ramp in Arabi, GA. We landed at a gas station that’s only claim to fame was “dirtiest little bathroom in Crisp County.”

Within minutes, the gas station attendant, Bobby, determined my fuel pump died and it would take about 4 hours to replace it. My dad lit up a smoke and propped himself up at the counter to shoot the breeze with Bobby and my brother while Lauren and I sat on the curb in the sun. When faced with boredom, Lauren and I often amuse ourselves by singing show tunes, country music, and old time vaudeville numbers. We were about 10 minutes into Garth Brooks' Greatest Hits, over-singing our hearts out to Unanswered Prayers when a gas station patron interrupted us. He was going to berate us for subjecting all of Crisp County to our antics, ask us to please for the love of all that is good and pure, stop torturing the dogs with our high notes and the humans with every other note. We eyed each other nervously and waited for the tirade.

Instead, he pulled out a business card. Introduced himself as a record company exec and told us to call when we were ready for a career in country music. He turned around, got into his freshly fueled BMW, and drove off into the Arabi sunset. Time raced by: my car was fixed, we were back on the road, and landed in Florida before you could say “Yeehaw!” Somewhere between Arabi and Englewood, I must have lost that business card because it was nowhere to be found when I emptied the car, my glove box, my wallet, my pockets, my gas tank, my sister’s backpack, or my luggage.  I like to think maybe Zac Brown or Brad Paisley found it and went on to fame and glory. Yes, world. You can thank me and my pedestrian American road trip for discovering the next great country music act. 

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not inadvertently turning down multimillion dollar record deals, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.

The Bread Wars

By Sara Spock

I recently waged war on excessive gluten in my diet, but it wasn’t without provocation. Let’s be clear, gluten launched the first attack. I know how to cook, bake, sauté, soufflé, flambé, grill, and fry, but I never learned how to make bread. After asking around, I landed on a tried and true recipe for a plain old loaf of country bread. I stocked up on flour, yeast, and 5 pound wrist weights for kneading muscle conditioning.  

The first step was to bloom the yeast. How hard could it be? I’ve got thumbs that are greener than Kermit The Frog and can bloom just about anything. My water was the appropriate temperature and soon, little bubbles started to appear. I was in the bread baking business!  After mixing up the perfect ratios for a delicious dough, those massive muscles came in handy. A cookbook informed me that kneading was the most crucial step for perfect bread. Being nothing less than a kitchen perfectionist, I attacked that dough the way Magnus, the Swedish Masseuse, attacks the knots in your spine. Gluten was developing, I felt it in my gnarled fingers. Press. Push. Fold. Repeat.

The dough was shiny, smooth, and ready to rise. I found a draft-free spot, covered my bread and walked away, dreaming of fluffy mounds of warm, fresh baked bread. After 60 minutes of data analysis, I was ready to punch that dough right in the face. Perhaps as a self-preservation tactic, the dough refused to rise. I went back to my tedious Excel sheet in the hopes that the dough would grow up and take the hit.  It didn’t. Hours into this process and I was no closer to my dream of fresh bread. I pressed the dough into a rectangle, topped it with some olives, and made foccachia. It tasted like a brick. An olive-covered brick.

I bought new yeast. I changed my flour. I used bottled water. I tried three more times. Three. More. Times. My dough refused to rise. I took it personally. I tried a bread mix. It flopped.  I bought pre-made dough. It burned. I gave up. I know my limitations and baking bread does not fall within the spectrum of what I can do. Perhaps one day, years from now, when the dough forgets how hard I wanted to punch it, I may get a rise out of it. I refuse to eat another slice of bread until I see the white flag of defeat rising from that well-oiled bowl. Gluten and I are at war until that day. Or until I smell the bakery’s fresh baguettes. Whichever comes first.

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not looking for punchable dough, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.

Gluten-Free Glutton

By Sara Spock

A few weeks ago, I made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner; fresh bread and a side salad seemed to round out the plate. At some point during my fourteenth slice of bread slathered with butter and my sixth helping of pasta, I realized I could feed a small nation with my gluttony and that perhaps I was eating too much pasta. This realization spurred my decision to try something new, gluten-free. That’s right folks, no pasta, no bread, no wheaty goodness to brighten my life and bring joy to my belly. Gluten-free. The words rang through my house like a death sentence, but if I was going down, my family was coming with me.

I started by taking a week to lower our gluten intake by filling at least half our plate with veggies at every meal and trying out different grains to replace the gluteny ones. With just a week of modified eating, I felt lighter than a pre-gorge elephant and had more spring in my step. Once our adjusting week was over, I kicked it in to high gear. Our first dish was a tasty Lemon Garlic Chicken, Orange Carrots, and Red Quinoa. Fork in hand, my 5 year old eyed the quinoa with suspicion.

“This looks like fish eyes,” he said.

“Mmm, and just as tasty! A little less gummy than fish eyes, though” I replied.

His own eyes nearly popped out of his head as he grabbed a forkful and chowed down. The fishy quinoa was a hit! Added bonus, I liked it for breakfast, too! Toss a handful of toasted nuts, dried cherries, and a squeeze of honey? The quinoa could have been oatmeal, if oatmeal looked like fish eyes. We continued to stretch our menu and come up with new ways to eat.

We are now 2 weeks into our totally gluten-free lifestyle and looking back on the changes, I have some pros and cons.

Cons: No pasta!  No bread!  No beers! Nothing breaded! No food coma!  Honestly, there have only been a couple days when I craved something gluteny and found myself in the bakery department licking the glass cases in an attempt to get a little cake. Those days were rough, but not horrible. When the store manager peeled me off the floor behind the cookie counter, I realized I had extra room for chocolate. I had to buy more toilet paper. Let’s just say, big changes in little digestive systems don’t always go smoothly. Or maybe they go a little too smoothly… Be careful making drastic changes in your kids’ diets. M’kay?

Pros: I don’t ever feel like I ate a brick. I have more energy, mostly because I’m eating more fuel-type foods. Instead of snacking on a bagel or toast, I’m having a handful of almonds, an apple, three or four bars of chocolate. My skin has a fresh glow, which could be the diet or the routine chemical peel I get from scrubbing the bathroom. While I haven’t enjoyed my favorite beers, wine is gluten free. Did you hear me? I said, WINE IS GLUTEN FREE!!! I rest my case.

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer and Chocolate Addict.  When she’s not torturing her family’s digestive tract or looking for gluten-free booze, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. recipe. at. a. time.