THIS AND THAT--VAMPIRE BEST SELLER, EMERGENCY PREPARDNESS, PIONEER WOMAN and PLANE CRASH SURVIVORS

NON-SIGNED VAMPIRE BOOK: My--coughtotallyinsanecough--nephew--who I adore--promised his Sunday School class full of teenagers that if they read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year he would give them a signed copy of Stephenie Meyer's book, the last book in the TWILIGHT series, BREAKING DAWN. He thought it would be easy to obtain--coughdidn'tdoanyresearchfirstcough. He didn't know she's only had three book signings and signed copies of her book are $200 EACH, on EBay. Does anyone know Stephanie? He could send her some bookplates to sign if he had her sympathy. He certainly has mine.

EMERGENCY PREPAREDNESS: Are you worried that if we loose power you will freeze to death right in your own home. Go here and see some things you can do to prepare for emergencies. The link for foam clothing is there.

Phil and Kraut went to Jim Phillips' class years ago. Jim is the inventor of this amazing clothing. Who knows where the handouts are--somewhere in the garage--with the chairs. You can buy the clothing or make your own. There is a link to a video you can watch that explains the "Thermal Johns" and how they work. The test was done in a freezer at minus 18 degrees and the woman wearing the Thermal Johns started the test wearing them soaking wet.

The video that follows is about a portable composting toilet. It is called "Nature's Head." Honest, it is. I know you are thrilled to know this stuff. If you keep watching the video's you will see Jim give lots of good preparedness information. I've been watching for a l-o-n-g time. He said, "May we have the courage to create joy in our lives." That goes for more than preparedness, doesn't it?

You can click from one video to another by clicking on the second single forward arrow. He gives you information on everything unimaginable from a camping shovel and axe, bug spray, to the best books to read on survival. One short video is about a product called the Whiz Freedom. Yes, it's what it sounds like. Girls, you too can have the "stand up" experience.

PIONEER WOMAN: I know everyone on the planet knows about Pioneer Woman but just in case you don't follow the link and go see what she's up to. She has a cookbook blog, which I call the Add-Butter-Directly-To-Your-Thighs blog. She runs contests. My favorite was the one where people sent their recipes. When I'm bored I go read some of these. There are over 5,000. I've read about 200. It really gives you an idea of what people in America really eat, even though they say they steam their vegetables and eat whole grain bread, without butter, which Pioneer Woman doesn't believe in.

PLANE CRASH RECOVERY: Probably everyone knows about this too. In August a private plane crashed and burned in Arizona. The pilot died of injuries, the two passengers, Stephanie and Christian were burned badly. They have been recovering in Arizona while their four children were being cared for by Stephanie's siblings, here in Utah.

c jane enjoy it is a blog by Stephanie's sister. She has been giving updates on their recovery. Their recovery, by the way, has been nothing less than a miracle.

Their brother, The Jolly Porter has a blog too and it is good for a good chuckle. Only one problem with this site. He doesn't update often enough and he doesn't allow comments so people can't nag him about it. But he's in my ward so I nag every Sunday but I'm a failure though.

C Jane has links to Stephanie's blog which was written before the crash. Her posts are being re-posted. Stephanie is a lovely young mother who loved her role as wife and mother more than anything else in the world, even shoes.

You can donate to Stephanie and Christian's recovery efforts or even have an auction of your own and donate the money to this cause.

I wasn't going to write a book tonight or stay up this late, either. Don't tell Phil. He thinks I'm a reasonable person. Well, okay, he doesn't really think that but lets not add fuel to his list of reasons that I might not be reasonable.

KRAUT GETS EVEN--ONCE AGAIN--FOR THE HURTZ DONUT

Some time back I wrote about poor, donut-deprived Kraut being tricked by his mom, who I might add is a fine and funny jokster. Every child should have been lucky enough to have a mom like me. Kraut has "gotten even" with me what seems like hundreds of times. here is yet another instance of his diabolical revenge fine sense of humor.

I don't know the inner working of my first born son but I do know he is creative, smart and never, EVER lets a good idea go without follow through. I also don't know when he found the handy spool of wire or how long it took him to construct a fine looking EVIL, LARGE spider out of it. Nor do I know how he managed to be alone in my bedroom long enough to attach it to the ceiling above my side of the bed.

Perhaps he laid on the bed so he could pinpoint the exact spot my eyes would go to as I was lying down, after a long day of washing 86 items of clothing, folding and putting away all the clothing minus six socks that took a permanent vacation to outer space, all the while nagging the children to do their chores (that they had no intention of doing) until I nagged myself into a frazzle, making sure they practiced the piano, vacuumed the floor, cleaned up a fur ball from one of the interesting cats, thawed something for dinner, fixed dinner, said for the ten hundredth time "yes, you have to eat your vegetables," and "we don't need to have dessert every single night," cleaned up after dinner, made sure everyone had a bath or a shower and made sure everyone brushed their teeth, listened to everyone's prayers and finally said, "Thank goodness, one more day finished a normal day and was ready for some peaceful rest.

I later learned, from my patient, diabolical son, that I laid down under the wire spider many nights before finally looking up. But when I finally did look up I screamed. And then, as I was scrambling out of bed, dragging the sheets and blankets, and perhaps Phil, with me, all the while keeping one eye on the gigantic spider, I heard a familiar chuckle from the boy's room. It was Kraut. Then I looked up at the spider again and realized it was too evilly perfect to be a real spider. I stormed into Kraut's room, trailing sheets and blankets and perhaps Phil.

"What do you know about the spider on my ceiling?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"Nothing," the innocent-faced child said. "And it sure has taken you a long time to notice it."

Score: Mom 1 Kraut 212 and counting

PS Kraut's children should read this. Surely one of them will want to avenge their poor shell-shocked Grandma. And I happen to know they are a clever bunch. I'll bet there will be stories to tell soon. Thank you, kids.

SIX WORDS FOR THE FINE ART OF REVENGE

A punch, a whack, and laughter.

A PERSONAL HISTORY STORY--THE HERTZ DONUT: HOW TO TEACH YOUR CHILDREN THE FINE ART OF REVENGE

I had sent Kraut to the spooky basement in our Richfield house. He was trudging upstairs with the needed item for dinner when I got a brilliant idea. It was an old joke but I was pretty sure he hadn’t head it. He was the only one old enough to get the joke so I told The Brown Dot and Gilmore Girl, “Watch this.”

Kraut opened the ten-foot—or so it seemed—door and came into the kitchen trailing cobwebs—or so it seemed. The basement was a primitive place. The home was seventy years old then—it would be one hundred now and the basement seemed as old, and as spooky, as the tombs of Egypt.

“Hey,” I said. “How would you like a nice Hertz Donut?”

His eyes lit up. I could tell he thought it might have been a specialty pastry from Parson’s Bakery. He deserved a treat after going to the basement-of-dark-unmentionable-horrors.

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding and grinning.

I balled up my fist and punched him on the arm. “Hurt’s, don’t it? I said.”

The look on his little face! I regretted my actions immediately, The other kids thought it was hilarious and I encouraged him to laugh—after all, the advice my mother gave me most often was, “Learn to laugh at yourself, Lynne.” If I heard that once I heard it one thousand times. Thank you, Mother. I finally got the message.

Kraut did laugh. A little. And then he plotted his revenge. For years he plotted.

One day, when he was a teenager he came to me and said, “I’ll bet I can pull a hair out of your head and you won’t even feel it.”

No way. I have a tender head. I feel any little tug of a hair. Of course he planned his demonstration when everyone was in attendance: The Brown Dot, Gilmore Girl and there was a new audience member, Lord Bumhampton.

Kraut carefully picked out his favorite hair and just as he yanked he hit me on the other side of the head with his other hand. He was right. I didn’t feel the hair being pulled out. I may have seen stars.

“See?” he said. Of course I couldn’t hear him over the hysteria of the other three children and had to lip read. And then I couldn’t help it. I exploded with laughter.

He plotted for years and he was a success. We ought to keep this going, don’t you think? So, I’ve been plotting re-revenge for years, too. It’s almost time.

PS Twice, or maybe even three times I have taken a dozen of the best donuts I could find to Kraut as an apology. He looks at them with lowered eyelids. Can we say, "It's all right, Mom. It was a pretty good joke." After all, it's not brain surgery—which I may need someday from the whack on the side of the head. What sort of apology do you suppose I'll get?

I like "cream filled" and "lemon," Kraut.

PPS Kids, do you remember those "Alligators" from Parson's Bakery? They may have single-handedly been responsible for Gilmore Girl's romance with frosting.

A PERSONAL HISTORY STORY~~FLOUR WATER~~

I stood in front of the milk display at the grocery store. We were almost out of milk and would be for sure, after dinner. Would my milk delivery service have milk there by the time we got up in the morning? Have faith, I told myself, they’ve promised. Again and again they’ve promised. I decided not to buy milk.

The next morning, as I stood on the front porch in my bare feet, looking into the empty milk box I thought, you should have put your faith in the grocery store.

Cereal was out for breakfast; we’d have to have eggs and toast. Kraut, who was about twelve years old, decided not to have eggs. He inherited his Grandma Snyder’s stubborn gene, going back through generations all the way to the stubborn Danes—whom, I might add are also great qualities--just in case anyone from Denmark might read this, which I doubt, but you never know.

“I’m not eating eggs. I’ll have cereal,” he said in a tone of voice I had heard before. It was an exasperated, The Brown Dot-threw-his-socks-at-me-from-the-top-bunk-again-last-night-and-I’m-mad-about-it-and-nothing-you-say-will-make-me-change-my-mind-and-eat-eggs, sort of voice.

“There’s no milk,” I said.

“I’ll use powdered milk.”

“It’s not cold,” I said.

I had been “mixing” milk for some time in an effort to save money and also to use up the fifty-pound bag of non-instant powdered milk I had in the basement. As soon as it was used up I would buy a new fifty-pound bag so we would always be prepared in case of an emergency. I made a quart or two of powdered milk at night and then mixed it with “real” milk the next morning—that is if the milkman delivered. We weren’t supposed to be able to tell the difference between “real” milk and “mixed” milk. Or so the “food-storage” experts said. They were wrong but it was hard for me to admit as I wanted to be prepared.

“Just make me some,” he said, “because I’m not eating eggs!”

I mixed him a glass of powdered milk. I took a good look at it before handing it to him. It was separating, just like each batch of this milk I had made since I had opened the new bag of powdered milk. Even when it was mixed with store bought milk there was always a layer of sludge in the bottom. I had to shake the pitcher before pouring the milk. There was also residue left in the each glass. I’ll never buy this brand of powdered milk again, I thought.

Kraut poured the milk on his cereal and ate it, even the sludge.

After the kids left for school I reluctantly called the Milk delivery service and asked them again if they couldn’t get the milk to us before the kids left for school. They couldn’t. They had too many customers, they said. I thought that their milkmen liked to sleep in so I gave the milkmen the opportunity to do so by canceling my service. I then went to the store and bought milk and came home and mixed up a fresh batch of “mixed” milk so it would be cold by dinnertime.

I looked in the bottom of the pitcher. Sludge. Again! This wasn’t right. I was tired of having sludgy milk.

I opened the Rubbermaid container that I kept the powdered milk in and smelled it. It didn’t smell like anything. I rubbed a bit between my fingers. It’s didn’t squeak like the non-instant powdered milk did; it was silky smooth. Then I tasted it. It tasted like flour. I looked in the pantry and there, behind the oats, was an identical Rubbermaid container. This one had squeaky white stuff in it that tasted like powdered milk. I had been mixing our milk with flour. For weeks I’d been feeding the family milky-flour-water.

As soon as Kraut got home from school I ruffled his hair and apologized. I was grateful that besides inheriting Grandma Snyder’s stubbornness he also inherited her spirit of forgiveness. He hung his head and grinned and then hugged me back when I hugged him. Kraut could give awesome hugs and I felt some of my “I’ve-been-feeding-my-family-bad-food guilt” dissipate.

I never finished using that bag of powdered milk in the basement. I didn’t have the heart to mix milk anymore. Several years later we threw it out. If a catastrophe ever occurs we will drink flour water, just like Kraut.

THE ABC'S OF GRATITUDE--E THROUGH G

E--Eggplant Parmigiana from Ottavio's restaurant--69 East Center Street, Provo, Utah. It is truly delicious. I brought half of mine home and told Phil he couldn't eat it. Sorry honey. I'm only selfish with this one thing. And computer time. And...well, let's not talk about it. F--Farmer's Markets. We went to the Provo one today on 5th West and 1st South--open through October 25th, starting at 9:00 am. There are all kind of vendors, not so much today because it rained all day but I found what I was looking for, which was bell peppers for my chili sauce. We were there three minutes after they opened because I needed to get home and get my tomatoes picked before Conference started at 10:00. I love farmer's markets. So many lovely people, selling things to make a little cash or as a business. Everyone is friendly and the prices are always great.

We bought a tamale from this vendor. It was really good. These giant peppers were two for a dollar, for the green, and a dollar each for the red. I didn't grow bell peppers and if I did they wouldn't look like this. They'd be pathetically puny peppers.
I chopped all the vegetables and put it all in a turkey roaster and put it on the porch! It had to cook for four plus hours and I decided the neighborhood should smell like chili sauce instead of everything in my house. It rained all day so the neighbors didn't even know it was there.Bottles, being sterilized. I am grateful for a mom who taught me how to can. I got seventeen half-pints. It is delicious and looks like liquid jewels. G--I am grateful for grandchildren. Here are just two of them, eating at Ottavio's tonight. Phil was at Priesthood Conference so Gilmore Girl and I sneaked away for dinner.

We stopped at the grocery store on the way home to buy ice cream and root beer for root beer floats and the store was full of men and young men in suits. Priesthood Conference had just ended--the men watched Priesthood Conference at Stake Centers--and a good lot of them were buying ice cream and root beer!
We didn't start out to eat at Ottavio's but the Heap's parking lot was FULL and so we drove off and one of the grandchildren--that I'm grateful for--wanted to eat where we could hear the accordion player and that was at Ottavios. The accordion player was a delightful gentleman.My dad played the accordion and Kraut inherited it. I hope he is learning to play* because I could think of nothing nicer for him to do, in honor of Grandpa Rasmussen. And he could have a nice retirement job somewhere, playing for hungry restaurant customers, maybe even in Italy. By the way, President Monson announced today that a new temple will be built in--among other places--Rome, Italy.

*Just in case Kraut reads this--hint, hint, nudge, nudge. I am also grateful for obedient children. Wink, wink.

SIX WORDS FOR GOTCHA.

Noisless Kraut, causes sock snowfall, indoors.

THE HORRIFYING PUTT PUTT DRILL AND THE PRE-TEENAGER

I was in the family room, watching TV—a horror film. Sigourney Weaver was being tracked by the Alien. She--the Alien--was a yellow toothed, stringy-spit, mucus-dripper who planted it’s young inside any handy human being and then, when the young matured, it exited from the human's stomach. The human died.

I was folding a whole laundry basket of mate-less socks. Folding socks didn’t take any mental capacity and I didn’t have any extra to spare.

Enter Kraut, about twelve years old. Kraut didn’t walk; he glided. He was also invisible. He could go anywhere in the house and Phil and I were always startled to see him there.

“Where did you come from?” we would ask.

He always looked baffled and shrugged his shoulders. He just walked in, like any normal, noiseless, invisible kid.

So Kraut--the noiseless one, was behind me. Naturally, I didn’t know he was there. Kraut notices the Putt Putt Drill, just sitting there, as if it were fate.

The Putt Putt Drill was a toy, built of orange plastic in the shape of a drill and it made an irritating burring noise. It’s the kind of toy grandparents buy for the grandkids. With continual use of toys like the Putt Putt Drill the parents nerves slowly disintegrate until the toy disappears—mysteriously. This usually happens exactly one day after the parent’s permanent facial twitch appears.

Kraut picks up the irresistible Putt Putt Drill.

I pick up a white sock with a red band and match it, slowly, with a white sock with a blue band, two sizes smaller.

The Alien opens its sharp-toothed mouth and drips slime.

Sigourney sweats--I could say she perspired but, let's face it, she was sweating. She had a sweaty look the whole movie.

Kraut glides behind me.

I slowly reach into the laundry basked for a double handful of socks.

The Alien knows Sigourney is there and moves in for the kill.

Sigourney sweats more vigorously.

Kraut puts the Putt Putt Drill next to my ear, not the drill end, just the noise part.

I hold my breath.

The Alien is poised. The time is now. Sigourney is going to die.

Kraut pushes the trigger.

Socks fly in the air like startled pigeons.

Kraut snorts in a very satisfied, "I gotcha" sort of way and disappears, fast as lightening, upstairs—out of reach—where he displays his youthful mirth.

Sigourney defeats the Alien.

Socks settle on me like snow.

And that is why parents loose their minds. Their kids drive then to insanity. In. One. Creative. Way. After. Another.