I have been a princess of 3 acres, a warrior of a sand stricken dessert, a survivor of the slimy green pond scum, all without leaving my backyard. You could say I was a wild child, you could also say I was a princess; a garden warrior princess would be the correct term if I had to crown one.
Growing up in Jersey I ruled a total of 7 acres with an iron fist, well probably more dirty fingers than iron fist. My neighbor Trevor, who is 3 years to my senior, decided that I was the closest thing to a little brother he would get and let me tag along everywhere. Our two yards together were more than enough land to race dirt bikes, climb trees, fall out of trees, ride skateboards, build ramps and jumps in dirt mounds, catch toads, and everything else little kids like to get into. We made forts in the pussy willow trees, and ran through the tall corn stalks in the field s behind our house.
I am sure my mother was worried. I am an only child, an only daughter, and here I am coming in the house barefoot with grass stained knees, knotted hair and blood gushing from at least one cut or another. I preferred mountain bikes over Barbie cars, football over dolls, and god forbid, shorts and a t-shirt over a dress.
I went through clothes like a monster. All of my clothes; it did not matter if it was t-shirts, shorts, pants or socks. I distinctly remember on a rainy evening running around in my neighbor’s basement, I had socks on to maximize the sliding on the hardwood floor. Of course being the kid I am, my socks caught on something and a hole was ripped in them. I continued the night unfathomed, they were socks, who cares I had a bin full in my bedroom these would not go missed. When I got home and took my shoes off my mother saw the hole, I must have caught her on a bad day, or maybe I pulled the last straw. She freaked.
“Lauren, do you care about your appearance what so ever? Do you like the clothes we give you! Do you care at all?” my mother yelled. It went on for what felt like hours. The high pitch of her voice made the cat hide, made my fish jump and made me feel even more rebellious. Of course I shrugged her off, but on my way to throw my socks out my mother made a threat, a threat that no kid ever wants to hear, and a threat that still haunts me today like a never ending nightmare. “Lauren, you are going to sew that sock back together or you cannot have ice cream for a week!”
NO ICE CREAM!?! I am a chocolate fiend; I cannot live without my daily nightcap of chocolate ice cream, it soothes me, makes me forget my problems, if I was a cat it would make me purr. I did not know how to sew; I knew where my mother kept her sewing needles and thread but never knew what to do with them.
It was a disaster. First of all this little thread, why does it have to go in this tiny eye like thing, and how is it supposed to stay when it gets there? Why is the needle so sharp and why must I poke myself in the hand on every pull. With no instruction I went at it.
I sewed them once, put the sock on and went to show my mom. By the time I walked down the hall to her bedroom it had come undone. The dread on my face must have been one of a kid without presents at Christmas. I had to do it all over again. I redid it, this time going back and forth the length of the rip at least 4 times, but my mother did not approve. She sent me back. The third time I put a little knot at the end so it did not come undone and ended with a knot as well. With my pride shortly slipping away I put the sock on my foot, slowly with my eyes glued to the floor, I walked the death march down to my mom’s room. I sat down on the bed and raised my dirty, yet one piece of a sock in the air to show my mother, expecting to be sent back. She took the sock off my foot, kissed my check and threw it out.
I cried. What the hell! I worked so hard on that! Why the hell would she just throw it out? Apparently that was the point, the lesson learned, the outcome in my trial. My parents worked so hard to provide for me and I was a menace to everything. She taught me that for all the things I had, hard work was behind them, and I had no right to go through clothes like Godzilla in the city.
That is how my mother tried to teach me to have a better regard towards my clothes, instead I think she taught me that socks are over rated.
White Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies
Next to Ice Cream my day is not complete without something sweet. These white chocolate chip oatmeal cookies have become my staple oatmeal cookie recipe. The white chocolate chips can be substituted with any chip of your liking.
Makes roughly 24 cookies
1/2 Cup unsalted butter, room temp
3/4 Cup brown sugar
1/4 Cup granulated sugar
1 Large egg
3 Teaspoons vanilla
1 and 2/3 Old Fashioned rolled oats
1 Cup all-purpose flour
½ Teaspoon baking soda
A bag of white chocolate chips to taste
With a stand mixer cream the softened butter and the sugars, add the eggs and vanilla and mix.
Beat in the oats, flour, and baking soda until combined. Stir in the chips.
Preheat the oven to 350. Line pans with parchment paper and bake for 10 minutes or until golden
Questions or Comments? Please email NotSoCulinaryGraduate@hotmail.com