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Every other week or so I make crepes. My family goes nuts. You’d think I told them we were going to shovel sugar straight from the sugar bowl into our mouths. Of course, that’s not too far off reality. Crepes (once filled) are sweet. Crepes are also fattening.
Crepes are delicious.
In fact, when I’m feeling unappreciated, I simply pull out the eggs and announce a crepe night. They kiss and hug me and thank me over and over.
I suggest you learn to make crepes, too. What mom doesn’t need extra hugs and kisses?
Occasionally I’ve seen overpriced packages of pre-made crepes at the supermarket. There’s no need to buy those. Crepes are inexpensive and easy to make on your own. Once you get the knack of twirling your pan, you can wow your friends and family with your French culinery skills. Imitate Maurice Chevalier or Lumiere the Candlestick as you prepare the batter. Poof out your lips a little and say ”Voila,” and “Je t’aime.” Exclaim “Mais, oui!” and “Sacre bleu!” and “Oh-la-la!” often. They’ll be so impressed, especially if they are monolinguistic Americans.
Disclaimer: I am not French. I’ve never lived in France. I did not learn to make these from a French chef or even a French maman. I’m just making this clear in case any authentic French reader visits and frowns upon my Americanized methods. I am a self-taught crepe-maker. My family doesn’t complain, and I don’t think my blog readers will, either. I think you’ll thank me. And I’m pretty sure your kids will, too.
Speaking of authentic French readers, watch this short video of a traditional crepe maker in France. I want to warn you: the sous-chef slathers Nutella all over the crepes, so try to remain calm and relaxed. I’m telling you in advance so that you can get something to dab at the corners of your mouth, you know, in case of spontaneous salivation.
Tools:
Skillet
To make crepes at home, you don’t need the industrial crepe-machine or the little wooden gadget to spin the batter thin. You will, however, need a big skillet. If you have one with sides that kind of angle, that’s an easier design for slipping the spatula underneath the crepe.
My favorite skillet for crepes was a Teflon-coated number–Teflon makes flipping them much easier. I am, however, phasing out Teflon from my kitchen. I now use a stainless steel pan and have to spray it each time with something like Pam or wipe it with a little butter-paper to slick it up. If you use a stainless steel pan, oil or butter it each time. For each and every crepe. They like to stick, so I’m just telling you to do it every time because you might be tempted to skip just once, and then you can’t blame me if it tears. (If, however, you don’t listen and it sticks and tears as you try to flip it, eat it anyway. It’ll still taste good, especially with Nutella.)
My current stainless steel skillet is deep with steep sides, and I’ve been able to make it work for crepes, so don’t worry too much about the sides. Use what you have. If you use Teflon, you won’t have to be as diligent with the oiling.
Spatula
I use a regular old spatula you’d use for pancakes, but if you have a skinny one, you could try it.
Sifter
I rarely sift flour for recipes, but I find that I must for crepes. Otherwise the batter is lumpy. Crepes are so thin, they are unforgiving. No lumps allowed.
Whisk or Hand Blender
A whisk is the best tool for whipping up the ingredients by hand. I have an electric hand blender that I use sometimes to fluff up the eggs. I suppose you could use a normal blender, though I never have. It doesn’t seem as earthy as a whisk or as easy to pull out and rinse off as a hand blender.
Ingredients:
We have three versions–small, medium and large. My family of six can eat the large amount and more–I can hardly flip them fast enough. This is my own recipe–a combination of several that I’ve tried over the years.
Small
3 eggs (you can use fewer–some people use one large egg or two small)
1 1/3 C milk
1 t vanilla
2 T melted butter
1 C flour (I’m told you can swap in whole wheat flour, but I’ve never tried)
1/2 t salt
2 T sugar (optional, in my opinion, because you’re going to sprinkle sweet things inside before eating)
Medium (doubled)
6 eggs (you can use fewer)
2 2/3 C milk
2 t vanilla
4 T melted butter
2 C flour
1 t salt
4 T sugar (optional)
For Large, I add more flour and milk to the recipe without changing anything else. Because I know what consistency the batter should be, I just monkey around until it looks right. They turn out lovely, which is why the number of eggs is iffy. Once you become an expert crepe-maker, you can fiddle around with the recipe and let me know how you modified it.
Directions:
Blend the eggs with whisk or hand blender until fluffy. Add vanilla and melted butter. Sift flour (important step) and salt (and sugar) into the egg mixture, mixing as you sift. Add some milk and then alternate flour and milk, mixing all the while. Batter should be smooth.
Ladle the batter (or pour a 1/4 or 1/3 C measuring cup) onto a hot skillet, spinning the skillet for a very thin crepe.
The young lady in this YouTube video demonstrates the ladling and spinning step quite nicely, even if her camera operator’s giggling narration is a bit self-conscious.
Lift the crepe with your spatula to peek at the bottom and see if the crepe is lightly browned–refer to the French street vendor’s version in the first video as a doneness guide. Turn it with a spatula. (Some people like to flip them like an omelette, but why tempt fate? In fact, the previous video clip ends with a failed aerial flip–further evidence that using a spatula is the best beginner’s method for successful crepe preparation.) The edge of the crepe will lift up slightly from the pan–even seem a little dry sometimes–when it’s ready.
Note: I find that my first crepe of the evening often turns out odd in some way. Don’t be discouraged if your first few tear, get too brown or turn out irregular in some way.
Flop the finished crepe onto the waiting child’s plate or the serving plate. You can make several and keep them warm in the oven. You can also make them all in advance for company (trouble is, they’ll miss all the “oh-la-la’ing” and “Sacre bleu’ing”). Stack them with wax paper between each crepe and store them in the fridge. You can heat them briefly at the last minute in a warm skillet like you would a tortilla.
Fun Fillings:
Here’s the fun part: Filling and rolling (and eating) the crepes.
- Sprinkle brown sugar inside and roll up with a fork (you can fold into thirds like the street vendor, if you prefer)
- Spread a line of your favorite jam or preserves inside before rolling–you can even add some whipped cream (my Belgian-born-and-raised sister-in-law uses Reddi-wip)
- Nutella, of course
- Nutella with bananas
- Syrup, if you’re feeling rather American
- Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries–any berries (with or without cream)
- Lemon and sugar
You can Google for more filling ideas, but we use what we have on hand. The kids love it simple.
If my overly detailed instructions are too hard to follow, watch this guy’s step-by-step cooking-show-style instructions. The first four minutes are about making crepes (then he modifies the recipe to make pancakes).
Crepes work-for-me-Wednesday, as well as Saturday, Sunday, my birthday–any day!
The kids think so, too.
Please visit Rocks in My Dryer for more great ideas!
My previous Works-For-Me-Wednesday Ideas:
Let It Snow, Let Us Slow (Crockpot Steel-Cut Oatmeal)
Years ago I worked with Barbara. Barbara was old enough to be my mother. I was a young woman straight out of college on my first job in an administrative position that included some creative writing. Barbara answered phones.
I’d hear her at the front desk from my office next door. “Good morning and thank you for calling. How may I help you?” Her voice was soft, sweet, comforting, and relaxing, like water slipping along a creekbed. More memorable than her voice, however, was her disposition and overall attitude in life–her voice was a reflection or perhaps even a manifestation of her sweet spirit.
We only worked together a year or so, and then both she and I left that place and moved on to other things. I saw her a couple of years ago and she looked–and sounded–great. I learned a lot from her during those few months of listening and working next to her. She modeled something I needed to remember for life. She modeled a lot of important things, actually, but one in particular stands out to me.
“I may be foolish or naive,” she told me one time after dealing with a stressful phone call, “but I always give people the benefit of the doubt.”
When people were rude to her, she assumed they had a bad day. If they messed something up, they must be struggling with something. If they forgot a lunch date or deadline, they had a lot on their mind.
She called it giving people the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t simple, however, and required a lot of strength and depth of character. Barbara had learned to let things slide off her back. She was rarely offended. If someone hurt her feelings, she quickly forgave him or her and always gave people another chance. She didn’t judge. She wasn’t bitter. She seemed to practice the proverb, “A man’s wisdom gives him patience; it is to his glory to overlook an offense” (Proverbs 19:11). She overlooked many offenses–I heard her doing it. She was kind and loving, gentle and generous. She modeled a gracious heart every single day.
I thought of Barbara when I read a story in O magazine a year or so ago written by a life coach who worked with executives who had little sympathy for their employees’ actions. They assumed the worst–that their workers were lazy or didn’t care.
She told them a story in her seminars and classes. The story went something like this (if you can find a link, I’ll put it in; for the life of me, I can’t locate it online):
You’re waiting for a red light. You’re late and feeling stressed. The light changes, but the lady driving the car in front of you doesn’t move. You can tell she’s messing around in the car–she isn’t paying attention to the light. You tap your fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for her to start moving. You grumble. You honk. You finally shout, “Hey, lady, the light changed! Get a move on!” even though your windows are up and she can’t hear you. You honk again, exasperated. Then you can’t believe your eyes–the lady gets out of the car and flings opens the back car door! What, can’t she find her cell phone? Unbelievable! Thanks to this driver, you’re about to sit through another cycle of this light! Honk honk!
She’s leaning across that back seat fumbling around, and you realize that she’s unlatched a baby from its car seat–the child was choking, and she’s frantically clearing his throat.
There was a reason.
There’s almost always a reason.
I thought of Barbara, because Barbara would have given the driver the benefit of the doubt. “I’ll bet something’s wrong,” she would have thought. “Maybe she’s distracted with some bad news, or maybe her baby is in the back seat with a problem.” In fact, I’ll bet Barbara would have thought, “Maybe I should see if I can help.”
That’s how Barbara is.
That’s how I want to be.
As I was working on this post, I had to save it as a draft in order to meet a friend for coffee. The Boy was with me. The light changed at a major intersection and every car in the oncoming lane was at a standstill. Our turn. We accelerated to cross the road when a woman in a van blew through the light! I slammed on the brakes and pushed on the horn so that it wailed its complaint at her. She glanced over and offered a vague gesture–could have been anything.
“That lady ran a red light!” I exclaimed.
“That’s wrong!” The Boy remarked. “She should be arrested and put in jail.”
Here was my chance. I thought of the Baby in the Back Seat. I thought of Barbara. Then I said, “Well, maybe she was rushing to the hospital with her sick child. Or maybe she was distracted and just didn’t realize what she was doing. We don’t know, do we?”
“No.” he said. “Maybe…maybe there’s a fire.”
“Right. Maybe she’s rushing to help someone. We just don’t know. She probably shouldn’t go to jail,” I said. “It’s very dangerous to run a red light–she needs to be careful. But we’re safe and no one got hurt. That’s important.”
We don’t want the world to take advantage of us or Barbara or anyone who has a big and forgiving heart. But couldn’t we all use a break from time to time? I’ve had a baby in the back seat before, crying nonstop, needing attention. I know what it’s like to have distractions and not be thinking on my feet.
Thank you to anyone who has given me the benefit of the doubt and forgiven me for forgetting something or making a mistake. If I didn’t say what I should have said or missed an opportunity to listen well, I’m very sorry. Thank you for letting it go.
Thank you, Barbara. I probably tested your character every other day.
Thank You, Lord, for putting these reminders in my own life.
Like this post from Shalee’s Diner. She reminded me of that story in O magazine. Her thoughts reminded me of my lessons-in-living from Barbara. What Barbara called “benefit of the doubt,” Shalee calls ”perspective.”
I hope you take time to read Shalee’s post. She poetically prays for a heart that gives people the benefit of the doubt, that gets some perspective–even, perhaps, a bit of God’s perspective.
We don’t know the reasons behind people’s actions. We don’t know why they do what they do.
But He does.
We can trust Him to know and give us grace–and allow us to give others grace in return.
For about three weeks, I’ve noticed a big tree along one of the main thoroughfares. I noticed it not for its enormity, though I should have–it dwarfed the scrawny upstarts sprounting alongside it on the fence line. This one’s the grand-daddy. The Boss-tree. The Giant.
And it was going down.
I knew this because it was marked. In fact that’s when I first noticed it–when it was doomed, set apart by spray paint. People don’t spray paint enigmatic letters and symbols onto trees they want to keep.
As I sped along, I noticed circles, numbers and codes sprayed on the tree–huge sweeping motions were possible because the trunk provided a vast writing surface.
My heart sank.
I love trees.
On more than one occasion I’ve fought for trees slated for destruction in the name of “progress.”
Most recently I phoned the mayor to speak up for a gorgeous old tree slated to be sawed down to make room for a roundabout. I argued that the tree was a part of the city’s history–living history–nobly exhibiting its will to live in spite of encroaching pavement and building projects. I urged him to preserve the few big trees that are left. Here’s how that plea concluded.
As I wait to hear from a publisher regarding a book contract, a passage from Jane Yolen’s book Take Joy: A Book for Writers, stood out to the tree-lover in me:
As we write, each of us has to believe that our books are worth a tree. That our labor–and the labor of the unremarked editors, copy editors, book designers, printers, binders–are also worth the tree. Or worthy of that tree. (p. 40)
Are my words worth a tree? Are the ideas given me that I’m called to pass on to others–are they worthy of a tree? These are questions I never before asked myself in my publishing pursuits.
I’ve grieved the loss of three trees on our own property. In the past seven years, we’ve lost two to insect damage and one to ice.
I fight for trees. I phone civic leaders and the Department of Transportation about them. I write letters to the editor and essays, all inspired by my appreciation and respect of trees.
It only just now occurred to me, thanks to Jane Yolen, that any book I might be privileged to write must be both worth a tree and worthy of it.
On a sunny day last week I drove past the grand-daddy tree on my way to drop off The Boy. A tree cutting service parked alongside the road, waiting as a small digger shoved aside snow that inhibited the work. I sped past wishing I had my camera.
By the time I passed by to pick up The Boy, it was limbed. It seemed lame, naked, shaved, stripped of all dignity by destroying its stately form. Many of those limbs were bigger than most ordinary trees. That old tree predates most of the city–maybe all of it? Now it was bare, weakened.
Tomorrow I’ll pass by again. The tree will be gone. Over a hundred years of growth–buzzed down in a matter of hours.
Whatever is going up on the other side of that fence–whatever required its removal–was it worth it? Was it worthy of that tree?
And my words. Now I must ask myself the same question. Are they worth it?
Last night, sheets of icy rain slapped against the windows and mixed with slushy snow to form what I coined “celestial snot.”
Nasty stuff. It’s a half-frozen, ankle-deep mixture not solid, yet slick. Like the snowstorm two weeks ago, it is forcing us inside, into the “slow zone,” as Phil called it; though with none of the beauty or grace we saw in the pure white blanket that muted our world around Valentine’s Day.
That week, when the snow finally stopped dropping, we opened the door to a world of shimmering diamonds atop an unbroken, undulating vision of near-angelic white. I’m not fond of winter, but even I have to admit it was beautiful.
This–these razors slicing through the air–it’s like opening the door to a street gang with knives in hand, threatening to cut into you. “Get inside–or else.” When that happens, you slam the door shut, lock it, and hunker down with some adrenaline zinging through your system.
That’s exactly what we’ve done.
The door is locked tight against the snotty, slicing sleet.
We’re inside.
Again.
And I’m thinking about slowing down.
Again.
Seeing as it’s Sunday, however, I’m also thinking about resting.
Can one truly rest when a gang with switchblades is lingering just outside?
We’re going to try. I don’t think we’ll be able to slide and skid to church this morning, so it’s as if we’ve been given a break. A rest break. A forced family Sabbath, if you will.
Profound, true, spiritual rest is found by faith in Jesus Christ–the only “work” I can do is to believe in Him.
When we stop, slow down, and rest from our labor, our efforts, our nonstop frenzy to produce and consume, we can consider this.
We shall, today. We’ll consider it all, and believe.
And believing, we’ll truly rest.
The Boy got his coat and shoes on without being nagged or even reminded. “You are so responsible,” I said.
“I am?”
“Yes!”
“Oh. That’s bad.”
“No, it’s not. It’s good! When you’re responsible, it means I can trust you. It means you’re doing big-boy things and taking care of yourself sometimes.”
“I thought being ‘responsible’ was bad.”
I thought about it a moment. “Well, I guess it’s true that if something bad happened–something broke–and you did it, then you would be ‘responsible.’ So I guess sometimes it means you’re responsible for doing something bad. But it can also be good. I mean it the good way.”
“Oh! Well, then, I like being responsible!”
“I like it when you are, too.”
Later in the day we had to go out again. He was ready before I was. “You’re on the ball! There you are being ‘responsible’ again–in a good way! I’m impressed.”
Big grin. “I like myself!” he said quite simply and honestly.
Later he said something funny in the car. I can’t remember now exactly what it was, but I said, “Well, now, aren’t you a clever boy.”
“I like myself!” he repeated matter-of-factly. I wish you could hear the tone. It sounds like healthy pride, not bragging.
“You should,” I said. “I’m glad that you like yourself.”
“But you shouldn’t just like yourself,” he clarified. “You should like others, too. Right?”
“Oh, yes! Definitely. Both. We should like ourselves and we should like others.”
He nodded.
As we drove along in companionable silence, I thought about how many people don’t like themselves. How many people don’t have any sense of healthy pride in their abilities.
And then I wondered about The Future Boy. The world can be rough on tender-hearted boys. Will he hold onto this confidence? Will he still “like himself” in junior high? High school? When dating? How about on his first job?
What does it take to like ourselves?
In light of yesterday’s extra-long post–in an attempt to provide balance to the blog–I am merely going to point you to an article I wrote entitled, “Are You Content with Your Content?”
I have this other life, you see. When I’m not doing mom-stuff, composing a post for this blog or working on books and magazine articles, I’m a corporate freelance writer. For a wide range of clients, I’ve written advertorials, ads, newsletters, brochures, press releases, packaging copy, scripts, and text for websites.
In addition to serving my own clients, I’ve also teamed up with fellow writer Ellen Olivetti to form WebWriters (www.yourwebwriters.com), which specializes in professional web-writing services.
You may laugh when you read the article, to note how often I ignore my own advice here on this blog.
If you or someone you know needs some help with web content, have them contact me or point them to WebWriters.
Content Counts.
The Boy has three sisters who have a lot of trophies.
Since we joined the soccer rec league eight years ago, they’ve been handing out participation trophies to every kid each season–spring and fall–clear up until last year, the year that The Boy could finally play.
That fall, they decided to hand out medallions.
After staring at the dozens of shiny trophies gracing the shelves of his sisters’ rooms, receiving a medallion attached to a ribbon was a bit of a let-down. We pointed out that the top Olympians all get them, that it was an athletic honor, isn’t this gorgeous, wow, a gold medallion, let’s hang this up in a prominent place in your room, look at it gleam…
Our encouragement fell on deaf ears. He was happy enough, because he’s a pretty happy boy, but the medallion just wasn’t a trophy. We couldn’t change that.
Last night was the AWANA Grand Prix. AWANA is kind of a Scout-inspired program that emphasizes Bible memorization as the primary activity. They schedule games and special events throughout the year to add some energy and excitement to the club.
Every year about this time, the AWANA Grand Prix rolls around–a pine car derby. Our first year, we didn’t know anything about it. We bought the kits–just a block of wood and some wheels on axles–and drove home wondering what on earth we would do. We’d never seen a pine derby race. We’d never designed or built a car. The kids were all excited as The Belgian Wonder revved up his power saw to try to form something car-shaped out of a rectangle of pine. We let them paint the cars in pale pastels and put stickers all over them. They were simple.
When we arrived, we realized how inexperienced we were. People came with extravagant designs including clever detailing or amusing shapes. We saw bathtubs and tanks and a few very realistic race cars designed by our own friends who worked as engineers with GM–an unfair advantage. They did win, by the way, applying their intimate understanding of physics, friction, weights, and I don’t know what all, because I don’t understand physics.
We celebrated our friend’s win that year, but our ride home in the van was very quiet. Tears dropped onto the cloth seats that night. It’s hard not to win. After two or three years of defeat, one daughter decided it was too difficult to lose. She opted not to participate and just cheer on her siblings.
Although our kids never won, each year The Belgian Wonder’s pine derby design abilities improved. He grew more knowledgeable and confident, taking mental notes on how people attached weights to the cars and what designs performed the best.
Last year, our middle daughter actually won! She won with a black VW Beetle design. I was flabbergasted. I’d already prepared them all with the thought that–as usual–they probably won’t win, so just have fun watching the races. But she won. Amazing. And she brought home a trophy.
That brings us up to last night. We misunderstood the date of the race–we thought it was next week. Thankfully, someone sent out a reminder e-mail two days ago, so The Belgian Wonder whipped together a car for The Boy.
For years I’ve been urging the kids to consider what I believe to be one of the simplest and cutest designs possible: a pencil. Well, my second-best idea is to not carve it at all, but just paint it a bright color, glue a ribbon and bow around the rectangle, and make it look like a gift all wrapped up for a birthday party. You could put a cute tag on it–no sawing or carving required. No one’s bit on the gift idea.
But I was able to talk The Boy into the pencil. ”You’re probably not going to win the speed contest,” I said–
“But I might!” he interjected.
“You might, but there will be a lot of cars, and you probably won’t. So why not make a cute car like this pencil?” I suggested. “They give out an award for the Most Creative Design and maybe the pencil will win that.” Maybe, but probably not. The Boy agreed to the pencil.
The Belgian Wonder worked late Tuesday night gluing the wheels in and putting the finishing touches on. I drove to a craft store to buy weights. At AWANA, The Belgian Wonder stood beside several other dads who were slapping on weights to get as close as possible to the limit. He had to attach a long, unattractive weight on top of the cute yellow paint. I thought this lowered the chances of the pencil winning Most Creative Design, but I couldn’t argue. After all, The Belgian Wonder’s weighted car design won last year. He tasted victory and wanted it again. The weights were key.
Three large trophies sat on the table for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place.
The heats began, and cars that lost were handed back to their owners with a participation ribbon. Faces were drooping. Tears were falling. Why do they do this? I kept thinking, watching those heartbroken kids shuffle away with the car they’d spent hours painting–their loser car. Why do they set it up so that only three win and everybody else goes home sad?
The pencil won the first heat. The Boy was delighted. “I won!”
“It’s great that your car won just the first heat,” The Belgian Wonder explained, “but now it has to race three more times against other cars. You haven’t won the whole thing.”
The Grand Prix dragged on and on (not unlike this post), until finally it was down to the last two. The pencil was still in! He was racing against a normal-looking car made by a much older kid. They raced twice, switching the tracks. The pencil lost on the right track, but won on the left. They flipped a coin to determine who would choose the track, and let The Boy call it. He didn’t know what that meant, so several minutes were lost trying to explain “heads” and “tails.” He finally said, “Tails!” It was heads. The older boy picked the faster track, and his normal-looking car won.
The pencil got 2nd place. The Boy squealed! He shrieked! You’d have thought he won the whole thing. “I got second! I got second!” He exclaimed. They invited him up, and he ran to the table. They congratulated him, shook his hand, held out the trophy, which he embraced with dreamy eyes. He hugged it. He held it out and gazed at it, then hugged it again. “My trophy!” he exclaimed, “My very first trophy!” He sighed.
The Boy went home with his very own trophy! His first-ever, gleaming gold trophy with a car on top!
But wait, there’s more. They announced the Most Creative Design winner: The Pencil!
The pencil won! He was almost shaking from the excitement, running up to the table again to receive that award–a gift certificate to a hobby store. “I won something else!” he told us. He wasn’t even sure what happened.
“You won Most Creative Design. They liked your pencil!”
He handed me the gift certificate and hugged his trophy again. “My trophy,” he murmured.
Before leaving that night, the kids had to gather with their peers one last time in another room. The Boy toted his trophy up the stairs with pride. A little girl sat on a leader’s lap, sobbing. She wanted a trophy. Her car lost. The Boy leaned over and said, “If you want to come over to my house sometime, I’ll probably let you touch it.”
He meant well.
The girl’s face distorted and her sobs got louder until she buried her face in the leader’s vest. Another leader turned to The Belgian Wonder and me and said, “The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. Right here….but that’s life, isn’t it?”
Yes, I thought, but does it have to be AWANA, too?
I was proud and so happy for The Boy, but I remember the way I felt when my daughter shuffled to the van years ago with her pine car shoved deep into her AWANA bag, hoping to forget her loss.
“Um, maybe I could keep your trophy safe,” I suggested to The Boy. He didn’t want to let go of it. I got up and whispered in his ear, “I think it’s hard for the little girl next to you to even look at your beautiful trophy, because she didn’t get one. Let me hold it where she can’t see it, and then you can carry it all the way home.”
He reluctantly handed it over. I kept it safe, winked a few times, gave him a thumbs up. He gave me a thumbs up and smiled.
On the drive home, The Belgian Wonder told me he was invited to a dinner that night with his boss and several VPs.
“What? You came to AWANA instead of dining with some executives? What were you thinking?”
“I couldn’t miss this!” he protested. He glanced behind him at the little boy clutching his trophy. He whispered, “He just got his very first trophy, Ann. I wouldn’t miss that for anything.”
I looked at my sleepy little boy in a state of bliss. I looked at The Belgian Wonder grinning as he drove.
I knew that the moods filling most other vans driving home that night from AWANA were very different from ours, and that made me a little sad.
But I know one thing: The Belgian Wonder may not get a promotion this year, but he sure has his priorities straight.
Well, now, this post about organizing laundry promises to be light and airy compared to yesterday’s, doesn’t it?
It’s just that I’ve been wanting to share with you a laundry idea that works well for me, and here it is Wednesday. I’d rather write something deep and thought-provoking. Instead, I’m going to write about folding and putting away laundry.
I’ve never liked doing the laundry–especially for six people–but what aggravated me the most were two particular steps in the process: finding a temporary location for the clean-and-folded clothes, and getting the kids to put those clean-and-folded clothes away.
One day I bought something like this:
Mine has a fourth drawer so that I have one for each child (clearly labeled with their names and decorated with stickers-of-choice).
Now when I’m doing the laundry, I pull the drawers open, staggered, so that as I fold, I can simply place each item into the appropriate drawer. When I’m done, I shut the drawers and move on.
Later, when I call the kids to put their clothes away at a more convenient time, say, at bedtime, they trot down to the laundry room, pull their personalized drawers completely out of the cart and easily carry their clothes upstairs–the drawer doubles as a lightweight basket, or tote. The kids put away their very modest clothes and carry the drawers back down, slip them back into the cart, and the cycle continues.
I like this system because the kids don’t have to be ready to put their clothes away at the instant I’m done with laundry. Also, I don’t have baskets–empty or full–stacked here and there in the laundry room. This stackable system looks neat and tidy whether the drawers are empty or full.
And here’s an amazing bonus use:
We use them for camping vacations instead of duffel bags or suitcases.
We have a pop-up camper, so it’s good to go vertical with storage whenever possible, yet whatever we use has to travel somewhat compressed. The stackable unit we bought is perfect for this. We have the kids pack their clothes into the drawers (sometimes they have to use an overflow bag for some category of clothes, but for summery trips they can still fit it all in their drawers), unstack them for transport so that they fit in the back of the van or the camper.
At the campground, when the pop-up camper is cranked up and ready for us to move in, we stack the drawers on top of each other again and set them on the countertops. Everything stays much more contained and organized during the week than when we used bags.
I even have one extra drawer for some of my own things.
Double-duty drawers for laundry and vacation.
They really work for me.
** Updated to link back to Rocks In My Dryer **
Please visit Rocks in My Dryer for more great ideas!
My previous Works-For-Me-Wednesday Ideas:
Let It Snow, Let Us Slow (Crockpot Steel-Cut Oatmeal)
The American Psychological Association (APA) Task Force just released a report on the se*ua*lizati*on of gi*rls. I’m removing a few key letters to avoid drawing unwanted attention on search engines when creepy people are looking for this kind of information (Shannon at Rocks In My Dryer explains).
But guess what the task force determined? You’re just never going to believe it until you read it yourself:
The proliferation of se*ua*lized images of gi*rls and young women in advertising, merchandising, and media is harming gi*rls’ self-image and healthy development.
How about that? Yep, it took a task force of seven people, most with PhDs, to determine this. Here’s the Executive Summary. It’s interesting, but I didn’t need a task force of professional psychologists to tell me that it’s harming gi*rls’ self-image and healthy development. I can see it in my own developing tw*e*ens.
And I hate it.
When we were all watching “American Idol” one night, The Belgian Wonder told us to mute or change the station during commercials. “The show is okay, I guess, but the commercials aren’t at all sensitive to family viewers,” he warned me. “Some are just terrible.” Unfortunately, I was not always on the ball and a few excerpts were seen by people in our household whose “sense of self is still developing,” to borrow a phrase from the report. They saw some ads that: “portrayed [wo*me*n] in a se*ua*l manner (e.g., dressed in reve*aling clothing, with bo*di*ly postures or facial expressions that imply se*ua*l readiness) and are objectified (e.g., used as a decorative object, or as bo*dy parts rather than a whole person). In addition, a narrow (and unrealistic) standard of ph*ysi*cal beauty is heavily emphasized. These are the models of femininity presented for young girls to study and emulate.”
We don’t watch TV much these days, so I’d forgotten. I was disgusted by the ads–the kids only caught glimpses before I muted and switched stations, but they saw enough to catch what was being communicated.
After two of these timing slips, I turned on the computer and found the Dove ad that shows the normal woman transformed by makeup, hairstyle, and computer editing before appearing on a billboard. I muted the TV and said, “Kids, whenever you see an ad on TV or pictures in magazines or online, just remember that they’re lying to you. The models and actresses aren’t looking or behaving normally. In most cases, they’re not even real, and they certainly don’t reflect our value system as Christians. You want to know how fake everything is? Watch this.”
So they watched this:
“What are they doing?” “Whoa!” “That’s not even the same lady anymore!” “Look at her neck!” “That’s weird!”
Yep. Remember that. Please, please remember that when you see the skinny models and flowing hair and botoxed lips and airbrushed thi*g*hs.
I wish that our society could stop being so shallow and focus on attributes that matter. I wish we could celebrate outstanding character, high moral values, purity, faith and joy. In the meantime, while the Victoria’s Secret ads still run and Cosmopolitan remains prominent on the supermarket checkout racks (and Glamour, Self and Seventeen…), we have to deal with our girls feeling all mixed up inside. They want to be strong and not care what the world is telling them, but the voices (and augmented chests and pouty lips) are practically surrounding them. Pictures plastered everywhere, even showing up in animated shows and video games, are confusing them in critical stages of development–in some cases, confusing and haunting them clear into adulthood. The APA report explains that “[a]mple evidence testing these theories indicates that sexualization has negative effects in a variety of domains, including cognitive functioning, physical and mental health, sexuality, and attitudes and beliefs.”
It’s all in direct contrast to the truths that their parents and pastors are trying to instill in them: that “charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30). Beauty isn’t about weight or hair color or the size of our noses. It’s about what’s inside. Strength. Dignity. Noble character. A heart that is devoted to the Lord.
But try telling that to a group of tweens or teens at the swimming pool in July.
It’s so frustrating. You can pick apart the Dove campaign if you like, but the ads touch me every time. I’m raising daughters, and I see the world’s lies creeping in and poisoning the way they think of themselves. You’ve probably seen this ad, but maybe not this version:
This is the more commonly posted version with the children singing “True Colors.” The innocent voices get me every time.
If this APA report gets people thinking–better yet, gets them talking about the se*ua*lizati*on of our daughters….if it can bring about change–then it was worth it to devote those PhDs to thorough analysis. We need help. A few lone voices won’t be enough. If our voices are all that my daughters hear, it will leave them shrugging. “Oh, she has to say that, because she’s my mom.”
Everyday Mommy started a Moms for Modesty campaign last year, and composed this mission statement:
Moms for Modesty Mission Statement
As a Mom for Modesty I believe in common-sense modesty for girls and young women.
I believe in refraining from sexualizing our girls and young women.
I believe that it is unwise and unfair to taunt boys and young men by permitting my daughter(s) to dress in an immodest manner.
I believe that true beauty comes from within and I strive to teach my daughter(s) this truth.
I will loyally shop at retailers that provide girls’ and young women’s clothing that is modest, affordable and stylish
She’s received 1208 “signatures”(as comments to the post) so far. Clearly, I’m not alone in my frustration.
If you’re reading this or getting ready to compose your own blog entry today, consider this article from The Wall Street Journal.
Are you addicted to technology? Do you “fast” from it?
I wonder how it’s changing us, and if we should do anything to counteract the effects?
How do you think accessing your e-mail, voicemail, blog, Blackberry or website is affecting you, for better or for worse?
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