Shrimp and Wild Rice Casserole episode:
Honestly, I felt so deflated after this experience that I sort of wanted to erase it from my mind. But I didn’t want to let you people down so here goes…
The truth is, I’d probably gotten a little too cocky about my culinary delights. I successfully made king ranch mac n cheese and this open faced pesto shrimp sandwich thing that was basically a masterpiece. I was feeling invincible in the kitchen.
And that’s when the nasty kitchen fairies getcha.
On Sunday I had Charlie by myself because Paul was working. Our whole house stayed clean all day long except for one little area in the living room. Until cooking time. I had everything timed perfecty with Paul’s arrival. Except I didn’t factor in my 1 year old who likes to either crawl down the hall and shut himself into bedrooms or pull everything out of the cabinet drawers as well as pull off every magnet on the refrigerator, the accidental purchase of unpeeled shrimp or the early arrival of my husband. So I peeled and peeled and kept accidentally putting the good stuff in the trash and the bad stuff in the bowl. Meanwhile Charlie showcased his trashy side by trying to lick the trash can. I moved the trash to the countertop so Charlie headed down the hall to attempt to close himself into one bedroom or another. Unfortunately for him all the doors were closed which left Charlie with no other choice but to pull the snap ware out of the cabinet. That’s fine but when he moved on to the heart shaped ceramic baking dish and it broke I had to break out the big guns and let him sit in his high hair with an after dinner snack of popcorn and sushi. Kidding. It was a teething biscuit. This is when Paul got home to what I’m sure looked like an explosion of crap.
A craplosion.
Things settled down from there and Paul really sweetly cleaned the mess up while I finished making dinner. Twice while I was cooking Paul asked me what was in the dish and twice I told him, “shrimp, RICE, soup, blah blah blah.” 45 minutes later I pulled a very liquid version of our meal out of the oven and cursed the magazine it came from for always making food look better in their photos.

It wasn’t until halfway through dinner when Paul once again asked me what was in it and again I began telling him, “shrimp, RICE, blah blah blah” that I realized I’d left the ding dang rice out.

This exciting edition of Cooking With LAB is brought to you by my friend Christy, Allrecipes.com, Pyrex and my SIL Becca for giving us a wireless keypad for our iPad so I could blog in the kitchen.
My friend Christy suggested I make turkey meatballs for Charlie because I am running out of meat to feed him and eventually it’s going to be weird to feed him chicken out of a jar and i feel guilty giving him processed deli meat every single day. Not that it’s done me any noticeable harm, but then again, maybe It has but you can’t tell because you’ve also had a lot of turkey sandwiches. I’ve never eaten a meatball except for the little ones in spaghetti but it seemed like a good idea.
It seemed like an especially good idea at 5:08 this morning when I’d already been awake for over an hour. Unfortunately last night when my thoughtful, wonderful, sweet husband put away the groceries (along with cleaning out the fridge and the pantry thankyoulordforthegiftofpaulbryant) he put the ground turkey in the fridge. I rarely freeze food. On account of I don’t plan ahead enough to buy food in advance. So I sort of freaked out. Like it was the worst thing in the world that the turkey was frozen. And for real I sort of thought I would have to wait a day to make them while they thawed. The thing you should know about me and the kitchen is that while I remain relatively calm in every other aspect of my life-the classroom, bad traffic, parenting- I FLIPOUT in the kitchen. I know this is hard for y’all to understand, but I really don’t know what I’m doing. So it was sort of a miracle when I remembered you can thaw things out in the microwave. Choirs of angels were singing and everything.
The directions called for a 9x13 dish. It’s a little annoying to me that recipes are so specific about the size of the baking dish yet baking dishes don’t have thier measurements on them. I grabbed the one that was a little less than a ruler on one side and a little more than a ruler on the other and then regretted it later because if I’d used the biggest dish I could have made all of them at once.
I decided to shower while the 2nd batch was in the oven. I took care of all of my personal hygiene in less than the 15 minutes they needed to be in the oven only to discover that for some reason I’d turned the oven off after I took out the first batch.
Now the 2nd batch is done and is way crispier than the 1st batch so I’m worried the 1st batch wasn’t fully cooked. I’m terribly afraid of giving people food poisoning. Mostly myself because that would suck but also Charlie because guess who has to clean that mess up.
So really, I’ve made twice baked meatballs..
Here is the recipe if you want it. My favorite part of the recipe is how the say “if possible” when suggesting rolling the meatballs out with an ice cream scoop. Why doesn’t the Southern Living King Ranch Chicken Mac n Cheese recipe say use a Dutch Oven “if possible” Because that’s where I’m stumped. Seriously? A dutch oven? What am I? Living in the Netherlands?
http://allrecipes.com/recipe/fast-and-friendly-meatballs/
I added the stuff the first reviewer suggested because she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. But now that I’ve tasted it I have to say turkey meatballs and spaghetti meatballs are not the same.
You probably already knew that.

Charlie’s photo shoot.  $100 for a 30 minute mini-session.  Because apparently that’s the going rate if you let other people take your kid’s picture.  Except Charlie has refused to pay me.  I’m taking it out in squeezes and hugs.  And I like those okay, but love doesn’t buy Mama new shoes so some little somebody is going to have to get a job soon.  I’m thinking about calling Tyra Banks.  

cooking with lab.
This just happened to me, so that’s fun.

Charlie’s Failed Life Lesson #1:
How to be an elephant.

When someone asks you if you are warm, you should never say, “No, but I’m a really tiny person so I’m always cold.” because that’s just annoying and one day one of us huge people is going to punch you in your tiny nose.

We are going to the Christmas Eve service at our church in 50 minutes and that is why Little Man is still asleep, needing to be fed, dressed up and appropriately hatted (you know, putting a hat on his sweet head) before hand.  

So I will attempt to blog because that is the thing that always magically wakes him up.

We’ve spent the past few days in Grapeland where Charlie contradicted everything we ever say about him and instead of showing off his funny disposition showed off his ability to fuss and cling.  In all fairness he had an ear infection so at least we could give people an excuse.  

Still we had some sweet time with “nu-nuh nonna” (Other Mama).

She gave him this hilarious playhouse that I’m sure is meant for much older children but he loved opening and closing the doors and windows.  

The only reason he is willingly out of my arms is because he had that ding dang pacifier and because he is in love with my little cousin Callie who is behind him in the house.

He tolerated my grandmother singing him to sleep.  And by “to sleep” I mean “to cry” until I put him in bed.  He does not appreciate being rocked.  

Speaking of rocking, my grandmother has decided to start driving again.  It has been almost a year.  The doctor told her no.  Until she called his wife over and over and he finally said yes, one would assume just to get her to leave them alone.  I’m going to have to remember that method when I’m 88.  

Here we are before we got in a fight about driving:

Just kidding.  We didn’t fight.  I just decided any cars slamming into the bank building will be the doctor’s fault.  What I’m not telling you are some hilarious, but equally horrifying stories about a shoeless woman my grandmother swears she knew named Aunt Jemimah. That right there is reason enough to keep her off the road.

When he started feeling better he spent some time in my pouting chair.  Yes, that’s what it’s called.  No, he doesn’t get put in time out yet.  But in a year or so when he acts up this will be his fate.

We drove home late last night and Charlie is definitely feeling better because he played willingly out of my arms while I mixed up some snacks for Christmas Day.  This is how I found him after I turned around for 1/42 of a second:

Don’t tell his dad because he just got this drawer back on it’s tracks last week.

I started this post in the middle of nap and he has since woken, been Christmas Eve Serviced and put back in bed.

I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas Eve.  May visions of sugar plums dance in your heads. I hope tomorrow brings the wonder of The Greatest Gift ever given and the unfathomable knowledge that regardless of your circumstances, you are loved by the One who is True Love.

Let me begin by saying that I don’t need a Christmas present.  I don’t.  You know what I love?  Christmas cards that kids make and write in.  They are hilarious.  Here is one I got this year:

This was especially meaningful as it was from a kid I have never taught.  That’s how good I am.  Kids I have never taught still think of me as their best best best teacher.

And I can see, as awesome as I am and as equally fabulous as your kid’s teacher is, why you would want to shower me/them with presents.  So let me help you help your child’s teacher out.  

Let’s  remember that the person you trust your little darling with every day has probably not had a raise in three or more years.  Your gift is sort of like an ambassador to this teacher saying, “I appreciate you so much and am so thankful for the influence you have over my dear little Betty Sue.” or, “I am really really sorry that I failed in my attempt to raise a respectful, self-controlled little person and recognize that my spawn may cause you bi-weekly anxiety attacks.”  That doesn’t mean it has to cost a lot of money, it just means it shouldn’t be crap.

So when your think to yourself, “Everyone could use a mug” or, “she’s a teacher, she’ll love this witty Hallmark shirt that says, ‘You can’t scare me; I’m a teacher’.” You are a liar and providing your beloved teacher with a spacial predicament that might carry over into the classroom and cause them to yell at the school librarian or maybe even your kiddo (but not me; I don’t do that).  

Did you see that?

Crappy Presents = Yelling.

Bad Idea.

That’s how many mugs I already have.  Just the ones inside my house.  And neither Paul nor I drink coffee, hot tea or really even hot chocolate all that often.  

Another trend in gift giving I’ve noticed in recent years is giving your child $1 and letting them run into The Dollar Tree by themselves to pick out anything they want.  Fact:  6 year olds have really bad taste.  Listen, when I told you I don’t need a present I was being serious.  I really don’t.  I’m totally stocked up on snow globes, figurines and plaques.  

The 3rd most popular gift giving situation leaves me with cold-guilt-sweats.  Parents, please check your kid’s backpacks for stow aways.  You know we don’t need a gift but your child doesn’t.  So we end up with stuffed animals, toys and ONCE I was given a ruby ring that was a family heirloom.  Sticky fingers.

You may have a personal problem with gift cards and that’s okay.  But I’m here to tell you that a $5 gift card to that coffee place we can’t normally afford to go to?  uh-maze-ing (don’t be all, “but you don’t even drink coffee” because I will suck down a frappuccino like nobody’s business).  

And if you’re rich and/or generous and/or have the child who causes the bi-weekly anxiety attacks and you get your kid’s teacher a bigger gift card so they can go shopping at Target or buy something fun at their favorite store or get to go on a date with their husband?  Perfection.  Seriously.  

So to recap, the best gift is a gift card, the next best gift is something else, the next to worst gift is crap and the worst gift is anything that immediately identifies them as a teacher if they wear it in public.