tollipop

little miss somebody...tollipop giveaway

 
Dear reader, I hope your week is getting off to a lovely start.  Here in the United States we are celebrating Memorial Day...with lots of apricots, bike rides, cousins, and hours at the piano. 

In other words, we really know how to throw a party.

I honor the notion of remembering the dead, especially those who gave their lives in service to country.  And, of course, loved ones who are dear to me.  I would say they are rarely far from my mind. 

In fact, I truly hope my mom is helping Sophie (and me) get through this piano exam.  It is odd to have such distinct memories of being the daughter in this situation, and now to be sitting here as the mother, coaxing my child along...sometimes firmly, but also with great love, humor, and encouragement.  It runs me through the gamut of emotions, drawing me closer to the circle of life, if I may use such sentimental tones. 

It probably makes Sophie feel like clobbering me over the head with a metronome. 

Ah, nostalgia.

Anyway, it's been awhile since I hosted a giveaway.  Here is a wee Tollipop original, very sweet, though presently without a name.  I hope she reminds you of someone special.

To play along, simply leave a comment at the bottom of this post.  I will draw and announce a winner perhaps on Friday...

i just love a girl who wears pearls to play mozart

 
Dear reader, how is your weekend going?  My husband took the younger girls for a quick trip out of town while Sophie and I opted to stay home and practice for the Tour de France of piano exams. 

I use "opted" in the grimmest sense of the word.

Oh, it's high times around here, dear reader.  You can't put a price on this kind of bonding.  Or if you can, please tell Sophie, because I'm sure she'll scrape up the cash one way or another.

I'm not quite sure how this escaped my stamp of approval, but somehow her teacher submitted ten pieces for the exam. 

Ten pieces. 

In case you didn't know, Sophie escaped to the Land of Volleyball six months ago.  You don't see many pianos in that neck of the woods.

Ten pieces, franchement.

In other words, as they say, it's time to pay the piper. 

And oh, we are paying him, alright. 

But what we really want to do is sock him in the gut and take off running.

hypothetical friday

 
1.  Would you like to come across a county fair on a lovely day, with giant pumpkins, blue ribbons, and all the ice cream you can eat, or would you rather discover a folk music festival on an enchanted summer evening, with a blanket for the grass and a sky full of stars?

2.  Would you like to have exquisite handwriting bordering on an art form, or would you rather have the beautiful ability to express yourself through sign language?

3.  Would you like to have an old greenhouse with that wonderful earthy, growing smell inside and a cool stone floor with bits of moss here and there, or would you like to have a cobblestone courtyard with an ancient cistern, one that connects to an endless spring of fresh, sparkling water?

4.  Would you like to own a flock of fat, gossipy hens and therefore a daily source of fresh eggs, or would you rather own a sweet Jersey cow with big brown eyes and therefore a daily source of creamy milk?  Either way, you get the barn and meadow to properly care for your new pets.

5.  Pick one of the following summers with a best friend: 

a) you are both ten years old and every day is full of adventure.  There is a creek to explore and fish in, a nearby lake, a canoe, a warm sun, forts to build, frogs to catch, a country store with an ice cream counter and penny candies, a campfire, and sleepovers out beneath the stars.  It is a classic childhood summer filled with innocence, laughter, discovery and fun. 

b) you are both nineteen years old and have a free summer to backpack across Europe.  Everything you see is something you'll remember forever.  There are train rides, markets, sorbets, breads, chocolates, yogurts, cheeses, villas, ancient cathedrals, pristine lakes, and one completely comfortable, neverending conversation between you and your friend.

Wishing you a lovely Memorial Day weekend...

late may

 
It's hard to believe the last day of school is almost here, yet at the same time I feel I'm coming in for my signature end of the year landing--losing power in one engine, hitting the tarmac early, skidding like a maniac, and coming to a stop five hundred feet from the terminal.  At the wrong airport.

I'm tired. 

But I'm going to miss my morning walks with Caroline.  For whatever reason, walking hand in hand somehow allows me to tune in to her steady stream of chatter on a frequency that doesn't seem to make itself as available throughout the rest of the day. 

Which is probably my fault, but I am telling you, that girl has a way of unfolding the same story from three different angles.  Her ability to describe how Jonathan cut in line in front of her compares to the way a sportscaster uses several camera shots to expose an egregious foul. 

I find this very difficult to follow when I'm driving in busy traffic.

Anyway, when it's just the two of us on a beautiful May morning, somehow I can just listen.  I can hear her tell me all about the thousand details of her classroom.  Who said what to whom.  What was said in response.  Who got a yellow card.  Who wouldn't stop bothering her.  How she tried not to be a tattletale.  How she would like to see more of her dad and wouldn't it be lovely to throw him a surprise party?  Because he works so hard?  How she can't decide whether she wants to be a cellist, a librarian, or a bakery girl when she grows up.  How we need to make a list of all the things she's going to learn to bake this summer, and first on the list is monkey bread.  Then coconut cupcakes.  Then cakes.  And it all needs to be written down on a list.   

for the gluten-free among us

 
Dear reader, I thought you should know that rapscallion Trader Joe is back at it again with new ways to cause even the most proper among us to loosen a few hairpins.

I'm speaking of his gumdrops, of course.

 
As well as his salt water taffy.

 
And the fact he packages it in such a way you're simply dying to know what's inside...

::::::::::::

p.s.  I emailed Trader Joe's the other day to discuss the possibility of them inventing a peppermint version of their salt water taffy and...wait for this...a guy named Anthony responded within the hour to assure me such plans were indeed in the works for a special holiday release!!!

::::::::::::

Also bringing to your attention:  the lovely Jeanette from Everton Terrace is hosting a giveaway that involves the use of a torch.  Anything involving the use of a torch is at least ten times more exciting than what I'm doing at any given moment, so I suspect you don't want to miss out on this, either.

coconut cupcakes

 
Dear reader, oh yes, we did.  Three days after making our first attempt at coconut cupcakes, we tried our luck once again.  Why?  Why would I purposely tamper with such madness twice in one week?  What can I tell you, darling? 

I live on the edge. 

I actually have this weird, pretentious notion that once I've completed a trial run of a new recipe, I immediately think of ways to make it better.  You know?  As in: Hey, King Arthur Flour Professionals ~ let me take a whack at correcting your years of experience in the kitchen. 

 
So here is what I did to make the coconut cupcakes even more dangerous...I browned the coconut both in the batter and in the icing! 

Because I suddenly realized a timeless truth, dear reader (and you may want to jot this down): whatever can be made amazing by plain coconut can be made addictive by browned coconut.

On top of that, my girls thought it would be brilliant to add chocolate to the icing.  It turns out they were so right.

Do you really want me to describe in detail the extra nudge of nuttiness, the crispy play of texture on your tongue?  Because this blog is family friendly, dear reader, despite yesterday's mention of an emergency swear word.

It would be better if you lived nearby, then you could try them for yourself.  Because you can't leave so much succulence laying around the house, dear reader ~ you may as well start your own opium den while you're at it.  So we reluctantly packaged up our goodies and made some deliveries to friends in the neighborhood.

Only now these people keep driving by our house and knocking on our door.  Now we keep "bumping into each other" in the most unexpected places, like at my doctor's appointments or when I'm getting out of the shower.

So you have to be careful, dear reader.  You have to treat this like a controlled substance. 

You have to give browned coconut the respect it deserves. 

p.s.  I looked for the recipe online and it wasn't offered.  But this one is close. 

caroline's definition of fun is my definition of a panic attack

 
Dear reader, what a week.  My husband made it home safe and sound, but not before my car managed to break down for the third time this month and not before I managed to get locked out of my house in the middle of the night with my sleeping children inside. 

How is this accomplished, you ask?  Well, I can't speak for the car, but listen--let's not get bogged down in the details.  Let's not trouble ourselves over the deep, philosophical ramifications of why and how someone gets locked out of her house and instead focus on the bigger picture that allows us to accept such a person may still be considered a fit parent, after all. 

As long as your definition of fit is not overly stringent, nor possibly even approaching mediocrity.

Suffice it to say I nearly performed an FBI raid on my own home Friday night.  I was ringing the bell like a maniac, using myself as a human battering ram, lobbing fist-sized rocks at the bedroom windows, yet still my sweet angels slept on.
 
It got to the point where neighbors were shouting at me to be quiet, including one gallant swell who actually climbed my wall, shirtless, with the presumable intention of challenging me to a duel.  And trust me, dear reader, in that moment a round of fisticuffs might have suited me just fine.  In that moment I nearly broke the glass vial containing my emergency swear word, the one I've been saving for just such an occasion...but then I remembered the infinite lines at the post office, so I grit my teeth and hung on.

Sorry if this fleshes out my character a bit more than you'd hoped for, dear reader, but I've alluded to my wild upbringing in the past.  I've given you fair warning.  Indeed, I was practically a child arsonist, wanted in three neighboring municipalities. 

These days I would like to think I am more Jane Austen than Captain Jack Sparrow, but when I'm locked out of my house in the middle of the night braving gale force winds, when it's been one long week without my partner in crime, when cars are breaking down right and left and there remains a litany of music recitals, peformances and birthday parties to test the limits of parental endurance, then yes. 

You are going to see another side of the Tollipop headmistress. 

You are going to see the side that sets down her embroidery hoops and practically clobbers the living daylights out of her house.  And I won't lie to you--breaking and entering has long been a secret fantasy of mine, only I always pictured myself doing it with more finesse.  Indeed, I always saw myself as more Jason Bourne than marauding Norseman.  However, the second I jimmied the door handle and it refused to open I realized that no, I do not own a safety box filled with passports and no, I am not repressing memories of my secret training with an elite task force. 

I'm just a mom who is trying to kick her door down and trust me, that stunt only works in the movies as well.

The next day I woke up looking like something the cat dragged in.

And then I was off, ferrying children here and there until only Caroline remained and she made it clear nothing but a trip to the park could console her for not having a party to attend.

But I was just so tired.  And it was still so windy. 

So I told her we could do anything else, as long as we didn't have to leave the premises.  She thought for a moment and said, "Can we organize the kitchen cupboard above the phone?"

The kitchen cupboard above the phone?! 

Franchement, dear reader, I would rather spend the night in a graveyard than venture within a hundred feet of the kitchen cupboard above the phone.  And trust me, the events of the previous night practically qualified as such.  However, she had me at my word and there was nothing to do but first bribe her with a pony and when that failed, dig deep into my waning reserve of fake enthusiasm.

And as we were sorting through five years' worth of receipts and expired medications and random first aid supplies, and as Caroline squealed and cooed over every single item, she looked up at me and said, "Organizing is so fun, isn't it, Mom?"

 
And I know this is the point where I'm supposed to say my heart melted and the sting of my status as neighborhood pariah was instantly eclipsed by this terrific bonding moment with my child, but please allow me to remind you, dear reader: this is not the movie version of my life.  This is the version wherein I leaned against the counter feeling I would give anything to prick my finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, but instead I looked down at Caroline's bright little face and said, "It's fun when I'm doing it with you."

..........................

p.s.  In case you are wondering, these are not pictures of the kitchen cupboard above the phone.  This is Caroline enjoying herself in another corner of the room.  Also, in case you are wondering, I finally made it into the house Friday night...and all without the help of a stunt double.

baby shower

 
Last night my friend and I hosted a baby shower for a dear friend.  When it comes to parties, I love collaborating with this particular girl.  Have you ever wondered what would happen if Martha Stewart was bionic? 

Well, wonder no more.  And make a mental note to meet my friend Teresa.

She falls asleep at night dreaming of themes and color schemes and foods that fall within her themes and color schemes.  Then she calls me first thing in the morning and starts speaking so fast I think for a moment I've been pranked by a Sicilian grandmother.  Her energy and enthusiasm come right through the phone and actually make my pulse race. 

We are going to have the grandest party!  We are going to swing from chandeliers!

So we had a theme (baby shower) and color scheme (pink and black, with an emphasis on our friend's favorite candy: allsorts), a menu nailed down, jobs divided, and everything in the works, when suddenly I went to Ikea and saw these:

 
And I just knew I had to make coconut cupcakes.

Well, at first I didn't know I had to make coconut cupcakes, per se, but I knew I had to make something wonderful.  Something from scratch.  You see, lately I've been following this baking blog by a girl named Gesine and you simply cannot look at that many pictures of what happens when you mix butter, sugar, eggs, and flour, and not have a spiritual awakening of your own. 

So I got out one of my husband's cookbooks.  Yes, my husband's ~ he who transformed into a bread whisperer over the Christmas holidays.  He who scours the internet in search of mystical flours, who measures ingredients with a NASA grade scale, who is seemingly oblivious to the havoc he wreaks when he leaves me alone in the house with a batch of his chocolate chip cookies. 

And I came across a recipe that quite captured my imagination.

Without further ado, I proceeded to brown some coconut. 

Dear reader, do you know how lovely it is to brown coconut?  The smell wafting from the oven reminded me of my mom, of all the exquisite desserts she created as I was growing up.  I know I often allude to my wild and uncivilized childhood, but that only accounts for the moments I managed to escape my mother's watchful eye.  Indeed, it was just as common for her to ask me to make buttercream icing as it was to request my presence at the pianoforte. 

 
Then I turned on some scintillating music, gathered my ingredients, tied on an apron, and imagined myself right into a scene from Chocolat.  You know?  It's a wonder I didn't paint the kitchen a mesmerizing blue and make the acquaintance of a disapproving count.

 
And the baby shower?  Well, it was lovely.  It really was.  I love that our girls were involved in the displaying of food, the greeting of guests.  I love that people came and just seemed to relax.  I love that there were many good things to eat, conversations in every corner, smiles and laughter...and all of it going late into the night.  I love when people linger at the end of a party, when there is just one more thing to say, one last cupcake to sample.  

And now I can't wait for my friend's baby girl to make her debut.  Her name will be Norajane and I really can't imagine anything more perfect than that.

number one daughter

 
The other day Isabella, who loves to read Tollipop on my phone as we drive to music lessons, brought it to my attention that I rarely mention Sophie on this blog.

As in, how unfair of me.

Luckily, I made it clear to my children from day one that fairness does not rank high on the list of motherly attributes I am striving to attain.  You know?  Scrambling to ensure uniform treatment of one's offspring is a one-way ticket to You-Can't-Winville, as far as I'm concerned.  So I don't even bother.

But actually, that has nothing to do with the fact I rarely mention my number one daughter on this forum. 

I think it has more to do with her crazy schedule, her looming mounds of homework, her sudden disappearance into the world of volleyball, not to mention her recent request for creative control over any related images I'd like to publish. 

In other words, Sophie's life is like the perfect storm to my capsized dinghy of a blog.

But please allow me to assure you she's still here, dear reader.

 
Still making the other team wish they had more than a flimsy net for protection.

 
Still creating her fantastic art.

 
Still filling the house with nocturnes.

 
Still my sweet girl growing up so fast. 

stiff upper lip

 
Last night I was unable to attend Caroline's cello recital because the science to clone myself has not yet been finessed.  But I have it on good information she did very well.  Indeed, my sources tell me she took things quite seriously.

Despite her feeling the rose on her head bore a striking resemblance to a teacup.
 
The nice thing about Caroline is she was willing to wear it anyway.