#57 - Racist Babies

As many of you will recall, I once took it into my head that it would be a lark to write the words "Do not beat!" in the comments section of Oliver's My Day sheet at daycare. A hilarious little prank that resulted in much hand-wringing and many phone calls with the center's director.

Those of you who remember that incident might also be tempted to think I would have learned something from it.

But you'd be wrong.

Joy was performing in a dance concert last night so I was in charge of the boys. Often, when I'm left alone with Oliver (at least in the sense of conversation partners,) I will try to induce him to say funny things. A lot of times this works out fabulously. Once, I asked him "What time is it?" And he, without missing a beat, answered "30, 40 50!" and went back to eating.

Another time I said, "What color is your hair?" And he started grimacing and flexing his face in all kinds of weird ways. This puzzled me for a minute until I realized he was trying to figure out if, by looking up really hard, he could see his own hair.

I have taught him to deliver Conan's monologue in response to the question, "What is best in life?" and lately Joy has even joined me in trying to get him to memorize the chorus to the classic Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five song "The Message."

Don't push me,
Cuz I'm close to the edge
I'm trying,
Not to lose my head
Uh huh huh

Oliver's had some great success saying funny things. Once, we were at the doctor's office looking into a fishtank when Oliver had the following conversation with a woman:

Do you see the fish?
Yes.
Does the fish have a tail?
Yes.
Do you have a tail?
No. I have a penis and a bum.

How great is that? But I’m afraid last night I may have pushed it to far.

My goal was to teach him to slam his fists together and shout, “"I AM A NINJA WARRIOR!" Everything was going great at first. He liked the fist slamming. He liked the shouting. In fact, he got really into practicing the whole routine over and over and over again. The only problem was that the phrase got a little twisted up on his young tongue and in his baby brain so what he’s now running around shouting at random intervals is,

“I AM AN INJUN WARRIOR!”

I can’t get him to stop. He was still saying it when I put him to bed. And now he’s at school and I’m waiting for the phone to ring.

What Did The Connollys Have For Dinner Last Night
Because “What’s for dinner?” is the most important question most of us answer every day.

Crispy hammered pork tenderloin chops with carrots and green beans












At least that was the plan. Instead we had gummy, overly eggy, soggy, pork gummies with carrots and green beans.

I know the one in the picture above looks okay, but that was the only salvageable pork piece in the lot. (Yes, I gave it to Oliver.) My other attempts came out like this. Ahhhhh! NOOOO!












Normally, when I produce something inedible or barely edible, I’m very quick to throw in the towel and hit up Taco Bell. Once, I invited my friend Stretch over for a mushroom risotto that I was really psyched about. Stretch is a vegetarian (Except for one night a year when he goes to Hooter’s for wings!) (Yes. Hooter’s. Wings.) and I’d made a beautiful mushroom stock and bought a really good cheese and a good wine and I was going to knock it out of the park.

The only problem was the risotto I purchased was magically unquenchable! I stirred in the four cups of stock the recipe called for. Then I stirred in several glasses of wine. Then I stirred in water. I must have stirred every liquid in the house into that rice for about 90 minutes and it never softened up. It swelled up. The liquids were being absorbed. But the rice never lost its crispy rawness. I felt like Lucille Ball battling an overloaded dishwasher.

So, eventually, defeated, I emerged from the kitchen and took orders for Jack In The Box. And you know what? It was good!

I’ve never been afraid to fail with my cooking. I’ve been annoyed at some of my failures—like every single time I’ve ever tried to fry chicken--but I’m not ashamed of them. If you’re eating at my house and I criticize something I’ve made, it’s not because I’m modest, it’s because I’m displeased. Cooking is growing and failure is part of that.

Failure was also part of what should have been some lovely, crispy pork pancakes too. Sadly, last night, Oliver was screamingly hungry, Max was barely tolerating being sequestered in his bouncy chair, and the prospect of negotiating boots and coats and carseats was more daunting than the enticement of enjoyable food. So, in the end, O. got the one nice pork piece and I got a plate of veggies and an “Injun warrior” for a son.