6710 Grand

My Great Aunt Maureen makes an amazing potato dish that she (or someone) always brings to family functions. We call them Aunt Maureen’s Potatoes. (Clever, huh?) I’ve been told that most people refer to them simply as Pot Luck Potatoes. I was actually really disappointed when I heard that. It made them sound generic. Like anyone could make them. I prefer to think of them as something exclusive to the Schleicher/Wirtel family (and now, a select few Olsons). We’re the only one’s who can make them because we’re the only ones with Aunt Maureen…and we’re not letting anyone else have her! The secret recipe will pass from family to family, continuing on the tradition. You can only marry into the family and therefore, learn the secret. You may come to a family gathering as a guest and get to sample the famed potatoes, but don’t ask for the recipe. We’re not telling. You may wonder how to get those crumbly crumbles on top to brown just right and not burn, or how the potatoes stay so white and s...

Brace yourselves--I've stopped drinking coffee. Dun dun DUN! If this were an episode of Law & Order, here's where you'd here the "Glung glung!" Yes, it's true. I've gone cold turkey. I know, what's wrong with me? Well, I'll tell you--I'm trying something new. I read a book called "Skinny Bitch". The title cought my eye. It's basically promoting an organic vegan diet. Yeah yeah--heard it all before. But then I thought, "I wonder if I can do it." You know, just to try it out and see how hard it is. Well, I'm here to say--it's not that hard. I can't do the vegan cheese--just not it for me. And even though all of my wonderful Coffee Mate creamers say that they're non-dairy, there is a milk ingredient in them (sodium caseinate), so that's out. I did have a soy mocha at Starbucks and it was good, so if I'm dying (not so far) I'll have one. But really, this hasn't been tough--a...

Tragedy has struck the Olson household. Yesterday morning after my daily trip to the gym, I came home at my usual 5:30. Nick hasn’t been sleeping well, so he hasn’t been up with me. It was no surprise that the house was still dark and the coffee had not been brewed. I set everything up and switched the pot on before heading up to the shower. Despite the insane heat, I am still enjoying 8-10 cups of coffee day. I have managed to cut out the sugar, though I’ve still not been able to go black. Perhaps cutting my cream with milk will help… As I showered, I pondered the different ways I might have my first cup. Are we out of whipped cream? I know there’s plenty of chocolate syrup. Should I finish off the vanilla caramel cream or open the French vanilla (which was all I could find at the store!)? As I stepped out of the shower, drying and dressing, I noticed something strange. I inhaled. Nothing. I took a deep breath. Nothing. Hmmm. I should be smelling fine Arabica beans by now. Something w...

Coffee is something both my dad and I have a taste for. That being said, however, we have very different preferences when it comes to coffee. I like mine flavored. If even a single flavored bean finds its way into Dad’s morning joe, he notices—Not a flavored coffee fan. At the very least, I put milk and sugar in my coffee. Most of the time, I add chocolate syrup and whipped cream if it’s available. I used to be fine with the powdered cream, but I’ve since upgraded to the liquid variety, favoring the Vanilla Carmel of Coffee Mate, but settling for French Vanilla when I have to. As you know, I’m quite the coffee drinker. I’ve also become somewhat of a nutrition junkie. Back in my Kansas days I was on a pretty restrictive diet of no more than 1000 calories a day (yes, I was constantly hungry!) followed by almost two hours on the elliptical every morning. I told myself that coffee was the one thing I would just let myself have. Well, no problem when my calorie intake was so low th...

There’s been a bit of hype recently surrounding Salary.com’s study that says Stay-at-Home-Mom’s would earn $134,000 if they were paid for what they’re doing. Well, I don’t know about that. Let’s face it ladies (and gentlemen—there are plenty of Stay-at-Home-Dads too), we’d all be doing laundry, cooking, cleaning, etc. whether we had kids or not. Back in Chicago, when I was waiting for Ivy to arrive, my housework took all of an hour. Most of the time, I was bored. Now, I didn’t have a two story house or even a decent kitchen, so I would imagine that my chores took less time than many other non-working people. That isn’t to say that when our bundle of joy arrived, I didn’t have more to do—I certainly did. Ivy is messy, if nothing else, but I’m not sure that my work as a mom should get me that kind of a salary. Being a mom is tough. There are days when I’d gladly trade my legs in for extra arms just so I could eat my dinner before it gets cold. I’m not sure a non-parent (whether biologica...

A bit of squishy history: 1. When I was growing up, on my birthday some well-meaning aunt or uncle would ask "so, how does it feel to be eleven?" or whatever year was appropriate. I was always perplexed by this question. What does one say? How does it feel? My mother, in her wisdom, came up with the perfect response: "Squishy". A ridiculous question, does, indeed, deserve a ridiculous answer. It was perfect. 2. In the Midwest, after the rain, you may find your front sidewalk littered with worms. In the summer, they may fry if they don't retreat to the grass before the sun comes out. I remember rescuing many a worm in my younger days. In San Diego, earthworms are replaced by snails. I had never seen a snail until I moved to California. The morning dew is enough to bring them out. In my early morning trips to the gym, I'd often find myself faced with a walking path covered in snails. Though I'd do my best to avoid them, inevitably, I'd step on one. It...

I like my coffee hot. Unless it’s a frappe. Or iced. What I don’t like are those sleeves they put over the hot cups at coffee houses. As my friend El will tell you, since our Monday night coffee dates in Kansas City, I’ve always pulled them off. I’ve never had my coffee so hot that I can’t hold it long enough to take a sip. The double cupping doesn’t bother me, but I don’t need it. Just don’t put that stupid cardboard sleeve on my coffee. The sleeve dictates where I hold my cup. It’s always around the middle. What if I want to hold it at the top? Or the bottom? What if I want a straw? I don’t like to be told what to do—especially when it comes to coffee. Nick and have been loyal customers of Barnes and Noble and Starbucks since…well, always. Nick actually worked at B&N just before we got married. My Saturday nights at the airport actually began as entire weekends at Barnes and Noble. I could sit there for hours—and have. It’s better than a library in that there’s c...

Most people who know me now wouldn't believe it, but when I was in the 8th grade, I had a mouth like the inside of a trashcan--a really dirty trashcan. Like, the kind I use to dispose of my kitty litter. Naughty naughty. Today, I can't even think a curse word. But what's a curse word anyway? Words are offensive because people are offended by them, not the other way around. So, I've made up my own that are perfectly acceptable to shout, no matter who is within hearing distance. For example: Fruit! Schneikes! Schnoodle! I've been known to say things like "What the schmee?" and when I'm particularly amazed, "Schnoodle my doodle!" I remember a few years ago, I was doing something and got frustrated and shouted out "Oh fruit!" My mother didn't seem too pleased. "Stop saying that!" she said. When I first met Amy, her word of choice was crumb. One day, her mom told us that it didn't matter what word we substituted, we me...

Ivy's finally down. It took an hour of rocking and back patting but she's finally asleep in her bed. Now I can get into mine. Nick has been asleep for an hour now. It's almost 2am. I've brushed my teeth, washed my face and put on my night shirt. I slide silently beneath the covers and lay my head down. With my eyes closed, I listen for Nick's breathing. That's one. I listen for Ivy's. I'm listening... listening... I don't hear it. Maybe I'm breathing too loudly. I hold my breath and listen. Listening... I still can't hear it. 'This is stupid,' I tell myself. 'She's fine.' But I still don't hear it. I'll hate myself if I find her lifeless in the morning. I get out of bed. It's completely dark, but I know exactly where she is. I lean my head down, less than an inch above hers and listen. The faint hiss is there and her breath is warm on my cheek. I slide back into bed. Now I can sleep. It's now 5am. I wake up...

The question I keep getting, am I going to let Ivy eat meat, is no big shock to me. The answer, no I'm not going to feed her meat, seems to be a shock to people who ask. Once the shock wears off, I get this question: "Well, you're going to have Thanksgiving turkey, right?" Again, the answer is no. I'm not going to preach on the merits of vegetarianism. Nick and I are both at the point where eating meat makes us physically sick--not because we're so nauseated by the idea of eating dead cows or soup made with what's left over after boiling a chicken, but because our bodies are no longer able to process the enzymes present in meat. Trust me, it's not pretty. So, our precious little Ivy will be raised on a veg diet, including Thanksgiving. So, then, what's on our menu? Oh, let me share! We'll be having the standard mashed potatoes. In the place of turkey gravy, I'm making a veggie version from vegetable broth. I have my mom's recipie for t...

Yes, that’s right—I’m back in my size 2. Ok, so I’ve never been a size 2, but that’s beside the point. I’m in my real clothes again! After only ten days post pregnancy, my jeans fit—sort of. They’re on and they’re buttoned and zipped. I can sit, stand, and do anything else I want in them. That’s all that matters. I still have a bit of a jelly belly, but now that I can work out again, I don’t think it will hang around. Ivy has had a busy three weeks of life. She’s met both sets of grandparents, been a tourist in downtown Chicago, and been on her first airplane ride. What an ordeal it is to get through airport security with a baby! I’m not sure I could do it alone. It was just a short jaunt to St. Louis and back, so we decided not to check any bags. MISTAKE! We were then carrying two roller bags, my purse, Ivy’s diaper bag, the stroller, the car seat and our coats. The smart thing to do would have been to check as much as possible. Now we know. Since Ivy is so little and does not yet hav...

I’ve survived the first week—actually, the first ten days. So far, this mom thing is a piece of cake. Maybe I have an exceptionally good baby. Little Ivy sleeps at four hour increments at night, waking only once for a short feeding and then it’s back to bed for all of us. It doesn’t make sense to me for Nick to get up with her. He can’t feed her (not yet anyway) so why should we both be awake? He’s the one who has to go to work the next day, so I take on all of the nightly responsibilities. Labor was easier than I thought too. After nine hours of pitocin induced contractions, I caved and asked for an epidural. Three hours later, I pushed for half an hour and out she came. The worst part of giving birth was the stupid blood pressure monitor! Mine was high, so they took my vitals every fifteen minutes. That sucker clamped onto my arm so tight I thought it would pop off! Hospitals are horrible places. This was the first time I’d ever been admitted to a hospital. Sure, I’d been to the emer...

Yes, that’s right, someone out there thinks I can write! Ha ha! Fooled them! No, really. My obsession with nutrition is paying off. After sending numerous versions out to numerous magazines, The San Diego Family Magazine is publishing my article on cardiovascular fitness. Whoo hoo! I’m expecting it to show up in the November issue. If it doesn’t make it there, the January issue is all about health and fitness, so it should be in that one. Either way, I don’t care. I think they’re paying me for it and I’m expecting all of about $5. (Do I have to declare that on my taxes?) So, if anyone out there in America’s Finest City is reading my crap, the SDFM is a free publication, available in most grocery stores. Enjoy!

I didn’t become a vegetarian until a little over two years ago. I used to think it would be absolutely impossible for me to do—I’m in love with chicken! Can’t give that up. No way. Well, clearly, I did give it up (although so many non-vegetarians say things to me like “you eat chicken, right? Chicken’s a vegetable.” Um, no.). I often encounter someone that is unaware of my food lifestyle and after the initial shock wears off, they want to know if I miss meat. The answer is a resounding no. I hardly notice it at all. I won’t go into why I don’t eat meat (not now anyway). There are different types of vegetarians. I am what is known as a lacto-ovo vegetarian—I eat eggs and diary but nothing that used to crawl, swim, walk or fly. No chicken, no cow, no pig, no lamb, no fish. (Nick and I went to a restaurant today that basically wanted to know how you want your beef cooked, but did include two of what they called “Meatless sandwiches”. They included fried fish and baked fish....

I was jittery on opening night. This could be the moment to make or break us. How we did tonight would determine the success or failure of our plan to cure boredom. I didn’t expect to wipe it out in one night, but a disaster on our first night would mean we’d wasted our time. At least that’s what I thought. Crazy Angie was not so pessimistic. She was jubilantly sweeping the floor. “I think I’ve finally got this down, Robin. Take a look at all of my piles!” She was so proud, I hated to burst her bubble. “That’s great, Angie. Now, if you can sweep them together into one big pile, we can put them in the trash.” She frowned. “Why would I do that? If I got rid of the dirt, I’d have nothing to sweep up tomorrow.” She went on sweeping. I decided not to respond. I didn’t want to ruin her good mood. Nick seemed equally in good spirits. Why shouldn’t he be? It wasn’t his business on the line. “Stop worrying. We’ll be fine,” he said. “I hope so. I just keep thinking no one will come. I mean, we c...

No, not the baby. Sorry. Fall! Whoo hoo! I have missed the fall. The day after Labor Day, traditionally the end of summer, brought fall to Chicago. Maybe this will be enough to alleviate some of my dislike for my new home. Maybe... It's been raining and chilly--even a few tornado warnings today. Our leaves aren't changing yet but I know it's only a matter of time.

Nick and I like to spend time sitting at Barnes and Noble, sipping coffee and reading books we wish we had the spare cash to buy. I came across one on Wednesday that WILL be my next book purchase. It's called 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die . I'm always hesitant to try a new author, mostly because I'm afraid I'll hate the way he/she writes and will feel like I've wasted valuable reading time when I could have been reading something worthwhile like The Great Gatsby or Moby Dick. I will try a new author if one is recommended to me by someone I trust (which happens all the time) and I'm always glad to have found a good contemporary read. That's how I found Nicholas Sparks and Isabelle Allende. I suppose I just don't trust my own judgement when it comes to new authors. I've often found myself at the library, craving a new story and just unsure of where to look. Generally, I end up finding a classic--can't go wrong there. But even the classics...

Last Friday, I attended the ten-year high school reunion of Central Visual and Performing Arts High School's Class of 1996. What a blast! It's really a fluke that I even got to go. The reunion committee couldn't find me. They were looking locally and under my maiden name. They didn't find Amy, my best friend, either. She was local, but now a Smith, and therefore a little tough to find. A friend of ours just happened to be at an event that used the same photographer that I used for my wedding. The photographer posted the photos on his website. When my friend went looking for her own photos, she found mine. Not many Schleichers around, so when she saw that name, she must have recognized me. There I was, in all my wedded bliss. We'd been emailing ever since. The reunion committee found her, I guess, and she found me. Isn't it funny how things like that happen... It was more fun than I'd thought to see everyone and hear about their lives and familie...

About three or four months into my vegetarian lifestyle, Nick and I went to my grandmother’s house for a family gathering. Just about everything served had meat in it. No big deal. We were new at this and a lot of people simply weren’t aware of it. I was sitting with one of my aunts and my older brother, eating when my aunt took notice of the lack of meat on my plate. When I told her I was a vegetarian, she said, “You can’t do that.” My brother laughed. “Don’t tell my sister she can’t do something.” He’s right. It only makes me more determined. I am my own person and no one knows me better than me. A close second is my husband, followed shortly by my mother. I suspect that she doesn’t like me at times, but at least she knows me. Isn’t that true of all mothers? I also don’t think she’s worried that I won’t love my children or that I won’t be able to cope with labor or motherhood. She knows how tough I am. She knows that I won’t let anything get in my way. (Mom, if you’re shaking your he...

My alarm went of at 3:00 in the morning. I jumped out of bed and smacked Tweety on the head to shut him up. I crawled to the bathroom and stepped on the scale. 152 pounds. Almost there. It was December 11, 2003. I had five days to loose those last two pounds. I was going on a cruise to Mexico with my boyfriend, Nick and his family for Christmas. I’d never been on a cruise or to Mexico and it would be my first Christmas that I wasn’t spending with my parents, but it had motivated me to get off my butt and into the gym. I was certainly not bikini ready in December. I’d gained about 30 pounds since college and had lost 28 of it in the last several months by prying myself out of bed at the butt crack of dawn and limiting myself to an insanely restrictive diet—but it was working. I ate 1000 calories a day and burned 1000 calories on the elliptical every morning. My apartment complex had a 24-hour gym and I usually had it to myself in the mornings. Sometimes I’d run into a Europ...