5 Simple Meals for the Witching Hours

I love cooking, but I do not love cooking when I have a toddler hanging on my leg, a three year old whining for cheese and a five year old running laps around the kitchen island. My mother-in-law calls from 4 to 7 “the witching hours,” so meals for us have become simple to stave off child wizardry. I am not a food blogger, so you will not get pretty pictures or perfect measurements, but for what it’s worth, here are five meals that are making my life easier at meal time. I’d love to hear yours as well, so fell free to leave links in the comments here or on social media!

1. Frittata

I make this every single week. And yes, we buy 4 dozen eggs a week. I mostly use this recipe by The Pioneer Woman, but I’ve found that it is very forgiving if you want to use less eggs, more cheese, or different veggies. I’m not a fan of olives in my egg, so I skip that part. I make this at least once a week and find it’s a great “clean out the fridge” dish to use veggies that are beginning to wilt. Here’s my take on it.

Ingredients: 7-12 eggs, about 1/2 cup of milk, shredded cheese–whatever you have, even parmesean, works, about 1/2-1 cup, onion (1/2 cup), 1 clove of garlic, crushed, veggies like broccoli, spinach, kale, potato, peppers. Bacon or sausage if you happen to have it.

Saute veggies first, then add egg, cheese and milk mixture. Cook one more minute, then throw the pan in the oven for 10 minutes at 400 degrees.

2. Pasta with Garlic & Veggies

Cook any kind of pasta separately, then cook veggies like zucchini, grape tomatoes, Kalamata olives and sauté in butter or olive oil. Sometimes I add a can of diced tomatoes and thyme, oregano and basil. Combine with pasta, then top with parmesean cheese. Add browned sausage if you have it.

Also, plain pasta with butter, garlic powder, salt and parmesan cheese is a NO SHAME DINNER at our house. Bonus nutrition points if you scrape together a salad, though.

3. Italian Soup

(A little less “simple,” but you can make it ahead and freeze for later, so kind of simple).

Sautee veggies like carrots, celery, mushrooms, and zucchini with garlic and onion, then add salt and pepper and some spices like thyme, oregano and basil. Add 8 cups of chicken broth and a can of diced tomatoes and a can of drained white beans. Bring to boil and add in browned sausage or frozen meatballs. Add spinach or kale more toward the end right before you eat. Top with parm cheese, eat with French or Italian bread.

4. Black Beans and Rice

We have a rice cooker, which makes life so much simpler since I seemed to always mess up rice somehow. So cook white, yellow or brown rice and in a separate pot cook two cans of sodium-free beans. If you have more time, saute onion, garlic and pepper first, but if you need something quick, just use garlic and onion powder. I also add salt, pepper, cumin and chili powder. Bring to a boil. Again, if you have time, cook tilapia or any kind of fish, really, in olive oil, sprinkled with Cajun spice, or cook some chicken with salt, papper & garlic powder in olive oil. Top with cheese.

(Can you tell we’re not gluten or dairy-free…?)

5. Frozen Shrimp with Rice, Grits or Pasta

I just started liking shrimp last year, so while we don’t always have the budget for it, I try and snag it when it goes sale in the frozen section. I was surprised that my kids actually love it. I never thaw it out first, just melt butter in a large pan and saute 3 or 4 cloves of chopped garlic. Add the shrimp and cook about 10 minutes, then put on top of rice, grits or pasta. For each of those carbs, be sure to add a tad of butter so they’re not so dry.

I mean, butter + garlic = delicious, so of course this tastes amazing;-) You can google Cajun recipes to snazz it up a bit, but those don’t make the “simple” list. Eat with a salad so you get some veggies in there.

What are your most simple meals to make during the witching hours? Please tell.

***

Thank you for meeting me here in this space. The theme for March is “Simplify,” so you can start here to read posts you may have missed. If you are a writer or just a person with words burning in your soul and are interested in guest posting, email me at scrapingraisins@ gmail (dot) com. I’m looking for personal stories on this theme in the 500-1000 word range. If you haven’t yet, be sure you sign up for my mid-month and monthly secret newsletter for the latest posts and even some news, discount codes and book giveaway information that only Scraping Raisins subscribers get!

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March 12, 2018March 12, 2018

The IHOP Days of Motherhood (#threekids)

(I wrote this in February of 2017, but it still holds true.)

The IHOP Days of Motherhood

The middle-aged woman at the checkout aisle across from me quickly looks away as I glance up. My five-month-old is strapped to my chest, sucking on the side of the baby wrap; the other two kids are now riding the one cent plastic horse ride next to the lotto ticket kiosk. I wonder what the woman is thinking as she watches me drop coins on the floor, lecture children and bag my own groceries with a baby strapped to my chest.

It could be, “What a precious mom—she’s doing such a great job.”

But I suspect it was, “Thank God that’s not MY life.”

These are the days when my husband fears he’ll come home from work and find I’ve abandoned them all. I’ll call him from an IHOP off the interstate somewhere in Nebraska and say,

“Oh, that motherhood job? I quit. I decided I can’t do it anymore.”

And so instead of running away forever, I’ve escaped for two hours. It’s seven degrees below zero today, but the sun is streaming through the window, spotlighting the stardust lazily floating in the air. For once, this coffee shop is nearly empty and I have the couch spot by the fireplace with the mosaic table all to myself. Men are talking loudly in the back room. They began their meeting with prayer and I hear church words punctuate their conversations like “Old Testament,” “Bible” and “Communion.” I don’t even mind, because—for once–the voices do not belong to anyone related to me.

These are the weeks when my nose is right up against the oil painting of my life and all I see is a blob of sticky paint. I can’t get enough distance to know that this week, this day, this moment of juggling a sick, crying infant while my other two children beg for more milk, more cheerios, more love, more attention, more, more, more is a mere dab on the canvas. A stroke of grey on blue.

Nap times, Monday through Friday, look like this: We finish lunch and my two-year-old hands me a board book about an acorn, while my son chooses The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I swaddle the baby and get him situated to nurse, guarding his head with my hand as the other two scramble onto the couch, all bruised elbows, knees and wet noses.

We read a picture book about a small acorn waiting on the ground as each animal approaches and asks that the acorn serve it in some way: scratch its back, provide shade, shelter or food, which it promises to do when it becomes a big, strong tree. The acorn begins to break apart, sending roots down and leaves up. Eventually, the acorn disappears entirely and a tree stretches out and up. The other animals run to make good on the promises made in it’s infancy.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Edmund is playing hide-and-seek and thinks he is following his sister into the wardrobe when his feet crunch on snow. He discovers a magical world in an ordinary closet. I slide the bookmark into the binding, easing off of the couch without disturbing the still-nursing baby. My older son protests, begging me to read more.

“Time to go potty,” I say.

I momentarily lay the baby on the guest bed and hoist my daughter into her crib, making sure she has her baby dolls, water and blankie. She immediately turns on her tummy, hugging her water cup to herself.

“Goodnight, Mom,” she says, pretending she’s a teenager instead of a two-year-old girl with pigtails.

I scoop up the baby and meet my son in his room, waiting for him to wriggle his feet under the sheet before bringing it to his chin. He turns and snuggles closer to me as I sing the usual three songs, pray and receive “two kisses on two cheeks,” all with a baby attached to my breast.

By the time I close the door, I feel the baby go limp and gently lay him down in his bassinet in our room. Pausing, I smile at the miracle of three children in three beds, quiet. Creeping down and pushing the button on the hot water kettle and throwing a tea bag in an oversized mug, I sit down at the computer. Just as the aroma of black tea infused with cardamom and cinnamon begins to seep into the room and the thoughts begin to flow, footsteps echo in the hall.

“Just need to use the potty,” my son announces. I hear soft cries coming from our room. Sighing, I get up from my chair to retrieve the baby.

***

Last Thursday I got everyone out of the house after much weeping and gnashing of teeth to go to Bible study, but found an empty, unplowed parking lot when I arrived. It had been cancelled. No way was I going back home.

Plan B was a coffee shop where my children made such a shrieking, toy-snatching scene while I was nursing the baby that an irritated man snarled at them, “This is a COFFEE SHOP.” As if that means anything to a two-year-old.

So Plan C was to brave the snowy roads and drive an hour to the children’s museum because even if I had to drive 20 miles an hour, they’d be STRAPPED IN–the only legal way to physically bind my children for an hour. The car was quiet the entire way, which I counted as a gift from God Himself. At the museum, I sat dully watching the children play, too exhausted to even pull out my phone. I enjoyed the hours of not having to say “No,” “Don’t” or “What were you thinking???”

The baby screamed the entire ride home and my daughter woke up in hysterics when we pulled off the interstate at our exit. I convinced my husband to meet us at a restaurant because I still couldn’t bear the thought of going home.

Friday I dragged all three children to the doctor’s office and let them play with the germy toys in the lobby. An hour and a half and 75 dollars later, the doctor confirmed my suspicion: all three children had colds and no, there was nothing he could do. The baby had a fever that night resulting in neither of us sleeping and my son threw up all night and morning—of course this all happened AFTER the doctor’s appointment.

I talked to my high school best friend on the phone, who is laps ahead of me in the motherhood race, with an 11, 13 and 15 year old. After venting about my disobedient, selfish, irrational, unkind children, she sent me a string of texts, which I read when I got up with the baby at 2 am.

She reminded me of the time her four-year-old daughter poured water on the head of a girl during the girl’s birthday party. Her daughter had also been responsible for breaking up the playgroup my best friend started because she was such a terror. Plus there was the time her teacher had informed my friend that her daughter was the worst student in class.

But then my friend detailed what her now-thirteen-year-old had done that day. She woke before everyone else, got dressed, made breakfast for her daddy, did homework and then helped her younger sister with her homework. She cleaned up the living room, then played the piano for the congregation at church that evening.

My friend ended her text with this: “My take is that your son is going to be the brightest, most successful in his class. And since daughters are amazing, your daughter is going to be your future bestie. And the baby, well, he is bound to turn out wonderful because … well … as my mom always said [my friend is the third born] … the third is a charm.”

Eyes burning with tears, I stood in the darkened kitchen, phone in one hand, sleeping baby in the other. Friends like this grab my arm and drag me back for the distance needed to give me a view of this life canvas I’m living. One day my children will provide food, shelter, comfort and shade for themselves and others. One day they will be strong, tall and be able to stand on their own.

But today, they are tiny and vulnerable. And the lifespan of an acorn is a stroke of the brush in the huge painting of their life and mine.

Today, though it is cold outside, the sun is shining in this coffeeshop and I have the gift of a morning to breathe. A sliver of space to remember what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I step into the ordinary wardrobe and for just a short time, I remember the magic and feel the crunch of snow at my feet. I am gathering strength. I glance out the window at naked branches, then write:

Bare trees showcase blue sky.
Branches weighted with snow sigh
in joy of bearing their beautiful burden.

On Motherhood: Bare trees showcase blue sky. Branches weighted with snow sigh in joy of bearing their beautiful burden.

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I am ready to go home, to do this. I am ready to be a mom again.

***

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These are the days when my husband fears he’ll come home from work and find I’ve abandoned them all. I’ll call him from an IHOP off the interstate somewhere in Nebraska and say, “Oh, that motherhood job? I quit. I decided I can’t do it anymore.”

March 7, 2018March 7, 2018

Mom Fail #3,477

I forgot pajama day. I picked my son up from preschool (*yes, we started preschool in January) last week and I watched, horrified, as all the children filed out of the classroom wearing PJ’s. My son came out wearing jeans with torn knees and a batman T-shirt. Now, on the scale of world catastrophe/human suffering/poverty, this ranks low, but when your full-time job is mothering, then missing PJ day at school feels like ultimate failure.

My husband dropped him off at school and neglected to mention it to me, probably because he knew I would have rushed back to school with PJ’s for my son. But instead of telling my son how terrible I felt, that I was an awful mother, and I’d make it up to him by buying him ice cream, I waited to see if he’d mention it. He didn’t. I looked at his little face, scrutinized it for sadness and saw a happy little boy with a construction paper craft dripping with glue in his hand. Phew, deep emotional scars averted. I hoped.

I don’t know if it’s because I used to feel capable and reliable—in my pre-kid days, I mailed notes to friends, called my nieces and nephews on their birthdays, sent out Christmas cards, and brought meals to new moms. But something about having three children has made me the worst friend, housekeeper, wife, neighbor, cook, and Christian person. And it’s not even making me the best mom. I win at nothing. Guilt strangles me at every turn.

I took the kids on a walk in the afternoon, pushing my one year old in the stroller as the other two kids rode far ahead on the sidewalk. I didn’t even feel nervous that they were out of sight because the roads in our city have such wide shoulders.

Moving from Chicago with her narrow lanes, Colorado’s wide roads used to feel strange and unnatural to me, but now I’m thankful for the extra space. As I thought about this, something hit me.

Mothers are gifted with wider roads. We are given the largest margins possible that allow us to veer off the sidewalk and not get run over because of our carelessness. God gives mothers more space.

There are times in life when we will be able to make meals for friends, send Christmas cards with hand-written notes, lead book clubs and groups at church, teach Sunday school, be the room mom, the soccer coach or the friend who watches friend’s kids on a regular basis, but these years when we have tiny kids at home are not those times.

Last year I went to an elaborate Christmas party put on by a friend.

“I wanted to do a party, too, but when I saw you were throwing one, we decided to just come to yours,” I said, embarrassed by my laziness.

She looked at me hard.

“I would have never attempted a party like this when my kids were little like yours,” she said. “I just started doing this last year when my youngest turned eight.”

It’s taken me nearly six years, but I am ready to say yes to support, self-forgiveness, and grace, and no to guilt. I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am.

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And I’m ready to let myself off the hook, put my achievements, abilities, and education in storage for the season, and pat myself on the back for getting dinner made, children clothed, occasionally bathed, and teeth brushed (okay, so my husband mostly does the teeth).

Yes, I forgot PJ day. But if my son reads this one day, I hope he doesn’t hold on to all of my missteps and foibles, but remembers how I read him books, sang him songs, let him “help” make waffles, tickled him relentlessly, danced with him in the kitchen, told him about Jesus, took him to parks and museums, and occasionally even got down on the floor and pretended to be a wolf, tiger or octopus caught in hot lava.

If you are on the other side of this season and see one of us at the grocery store wrangling our one, two, three or more kids in the cart, will you please smile at us? And will you tell us something we really need to hear?

Can you please say, “Mama, you’re doing a GREAT job.”

At any rate, I know God sees me, holds my guilt and smooths my hair like the tender Father he is, whispering as I fall asleep, “I know, honey. I know you feel bad, but I also know you’re doing the best you can. And you know what? That is more than enough.”

***

[*Aside: For those of you thinking, “Wait, I thought they weren’t doing preschool this year” … turns out my very structured little boy didn’t appreciate my free spirited/unstructured/spontaneous ways, and afternoon preschool three days a week during the (theoretical) naptime of the other kids = a (theoretical) break for me. I still follow too many #unschooling moms on Instagram, though, wishing I were that mom … wait, this post was supposed to be about letting go of mom guilt/comparison … and I’m actually off Instagram for Lent, so that helps 😉 ]

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Mom Fail #3,477. "I’m ready to stop comparing myself to the super mom I think I should be and accept the human-person-with-limitations that I am." --Leslie Verner