Author: Big Mama

  • Ch-ch-ch-changes

    WELCOME TO THE NEW HOME OF BIG MAMA.

    I decided to change the site because of multiple technical issues, but from here on out this will be home sweet home.

    There were multiple problems with my former webhosting service, but I’m now being hosted through Webex Domains and I cannot thank them enough for all their help.

    And, as for my fab new look, it’s by the lovely and talented Jules at Everyday Design. I adore it. In fact, it made me clap my hands when I saw it for the first time.

    So here’s what I need from y’all. Please re-subscribe to the new url which is thebigmamablog.com. Also, if you link to me on your blogroll I will love you forever if you’ll take the time to change the url there as well.

    I promise I’ll never put y’all through all these changes again. I was just in dire need of a total blog cleanse.

    As a reward, here’s Caroline singing an Easter classic.

    Well, it’s not really a traditional classic, but it’s Caroline’s idea of the perfect Easter song.


    Happy Easter from Big Mama on Vimeo.

    And in case you’re wondering, the hippo’s name is Butterfly.

    Apparently all the cool hippos are wearing hot pink, velour jogging outfits these days.

    Who knew?

    And remember, don’t forget to re-subscribe and change the link on your blogroll. Y’all are the best.

  • Edition 22: Fashion Friday

    I suppose I could discuss Easter fashions and whether or not I have purchased a new Easter dress this year. (I haven’t)

    Or I could talk about white patent shoes and how I believe they don’t really work for anyone over the age of ten.

    However, all that pales in comparison to this.

    “I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God. For he has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness” Isaiah 61:10

    Any hope, any peace, any joy I find in this life is rooted in the fact that He has dressed me in a garment of salvation through His sacrifice on the cross.

    And there is no fashion that’s better than that.

  • Remember the olden days when phones had a cord?

    In defense of my skiing skills after P outed me in yesterday’s comments, let me just say that it MAY be true that I was only on a Blue slope when I cried and tried to slide down on my bottom, but it felt like a Black Diamond and that should count for something. In addition, I don’t ski like a 90 year old woman but more like a spry, young 85.

    I just had to get that out.

    Also, several of y’all had comments about the amount of Charmin in the Target shopping cart. It was only two six-packs. Granted, they are of the super-size roll variety (with ALOE) but, in my opinion, toilet paper isn’t something you really want to run out of with short notice. And when you have a four year old who has no idea about the judicious use of toilet paper, it’s a good idea to stock up. Also, a good idea? To have a plunger in the bathroom.

    Now, let me tell y’all the reason we were at Target.

    I know! You’ve been on pins and needles!

    I have been experiencing some major cordless phone issues. And I say “I” because I am the only one who uses our home phone. For all P cares we could get rid of our home number completely, but the idea of that makes me twitch for reasons I do not myself begin to understand.

    Anyway, both of our home phones have reached the point where, even if they have been on the charger all night, they go dead after about ten minutes of use. Believe it or not, this isn’t really convenient.

    Yet because I have raised procrastination to a new art form, this has been going on for at least three months. I can’t tell y’all how many priceless conversations about various reality television shows have been cut short because my phone started to beep at me to let me know it was about to poop the bed.

    It’s been tragic. But, apparently, not tragic enough for me to do anything about it.

    Gulley has been offering to buy me a new phone for close to two months because it is hard to carry on a serious conversation when she’s saying, “I’ve been praying and know that…”

    BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

    “OH MAN, my phone is about to go dead. Can I call…”

    DEAD.

    Check other phone. Didn’t leave it on charger overnight.

    DEAD.

    Use cell phone once I find it in the bottom of my purse five minutes later. Call Gulley back.

    “What were we talking about?”

    I’m a good friend.

    The worst was a few weeks ago when Boomama and I were on a three-way call with our friend, Vicki. I had already hung up once to call them back using my other phone because the first phone went dead. They did the whole polite laughter thing and joked about my need for a new phone.

    Then, right before we hung up, Vicki said she was going to say a quick prayer. She was about halfway through and the line went silent. I promise it was a good, long three minutes before I realized she wasn’t having some deep moment with God, but rather that my second phone had gone dead.

    I was totally prepared for her to speak some serious truth in my life because God was clearly giving her some deep insight into my heart and mind.

    The only insight she actually received that day was that I am an idiot. With not one, but TWO bad phones.

    Of course, in all fairness, it turned out her phone went dead at the same time, so it may have been her fault.

    Tuesday morning was the final straw. I was on the phone with Boomama and we were discussing some serious matters such as cute shoes and trouser jeans from Kohls.

    BEEP!

    Dead.

    It didn’t even give me the courtesy of a second BEEP! It was clear that it felt nothing for me, and my conversation about trouser jeans, except pure contempt.

    Of course, second phone? DEAD.

    I called Sophie back on my cell phone and, before I could say a word, she said, “YOU HAVE GOT TO GET A NEW PHONE. TODAY.”

    Reluctantly, I agreed. Although somewhere deep inside of me I have been holding on to the hope that my phone would be healed. I hated the thought of spending $50.00 on a new phone when that is money that could be spent on these shoes.

    But those shoes won’t do me any good if I don’t have any friends to go along with them.

    It would just be me, my cute shoes and my deadbeat phones holed up in my closet remembering happy times when a phone conversation could last for upwards of thirty minutes.

    And that’s why we were at Target. To purchase a new phone.

    But once we got there and headed over to the phone aisle, this is what I saw.

    Oh sure. Like I can make an intelligent decision with that many choices.

    My guiding factor was totally of the OOOH, LOOK HOW PRETTY AND SHINY THAT ONE IS!! variety.

    So, we left Target without a new cordless phone but with a surplus of toilet paper, three bags of dog food, and two new cordless phone batteries.

    I just can’t quit you Uniden 56MHz. We’ve had some good times.

  • Of course it’s still better than skiing down a mountain

    I’ve had some memorable Spring Breaks in my time. And I realize that statement makes me sound a little like Ma Kettle fixin’ to get to reminiscin’.

    In high school, everyone would drive down to the picturesque Crystal Beach, located about 45 minutes out of scenic Beaumont, Texas, to spend the week at various beach houses. We’d spend the day playing in the water and the nights trying to get the tar out of our swimsuits.

    In fact, I believe it was Spring Break of my junior year that I almost met my untimely demise while seeing how far we could drive Corby Crawford’s brand new Ford Mustang GT into the surf.

    As it turned out, not as far as we thought.

    Then in college, I spent most of my Spring Breaks lying by a pool with friends soaking up the sun. We would stay there all day, leaving only to run to 7-11 to pick up a 64 oz. Dr. Pepper Big Gulp or perhaps some Popeye’s Fried Chicken.

    Because what is the point of being twenty if you can’t eat fried foods and consume mass quantities of carbonated beverages while sitting poolside in a bikini?

    After graduation, I became a reluctant member of the real world. And here’s something no one told me, there is no Spring Break.

    If I’d had prior knowledge of this piece of news, I would still currently be in school working on my doctorate. I’d also be up to my ears in student loan debt because no way would my daddy have funded any more years of mediocre grades and above average social life.

    When P and I began dating, he was on staff with Youth for Christ. Thus began eight years of Spring Breaks spent chaperoning 75-100 high school students on ski trips to Durango, Colorado. Ski trips that required me to take precious vacation time from my real job. Ski trips that did not involve air travel, but rather a bus ride to Colorado.

    From South Texas.

    If this doesn’t serve as confirmation for how completely head over heels I am for P, then I don’t know what does.

    I don’t ski. I mean, technically, I can ski. I just don’t like it. All that riding up to the tops of mountains and then hurling your body down at full speed just seems foolhardy. Plus, I couldn’t ever figure out how to read the maps and would invariably end up on some Black Diamond slope wailing, bargaining with God, and trying to just slide down on my bottom.

    Which is why I had to be retrieved by Ski Patrol on more than one occasion.

    And why P will never ski with me again.

    More importantly, I don’t do seventeen hour bus trips. Or really any bus trip for that matter.

    But I did both every year up until the year I was pregnant with Caroline. Actually that’s not completely true. I rode on the bus every year, but on the last trip I chose to forgo skiing for spending time at the ski resort’s day spa.

    I’m not sure about the kids, but I’ve never felt closer to God than I did during those two days at the spa.

    Anyway, the last year the Campus Life ski trip existed, P took a busload of kids with just one other adult leader. I’ll never forget that year because a terrible blizzard hit right as they were heading home and I was so worried that I’d see the Daisy Tour Line bus on CNN News with a crawl that said “SPRING BREAK SKI TRAGEDY”. Because I am always calm and rational. And the pregnancy hormones didn’t help.

    So, this past Friday, around 6:00 p.m., I said to P, “Just think, this used to be the time we’d be counting heads, getting kids on the bus and listening to them all throw fits about who gets what seat. Does it make you wish we were there?”

    He said, “Just the thought makes me feel like I might throw up.”

    And at that moment we were of one mind. One heart.

    My point is that in all those years of Spring Break trips and leisure time, I never dreamed that a day would come where my Spring Break could be summed up by this photo.

    Shoe department at Target. Bunny ears. $1.00 bag of popcorn. Child with unbrushed hair. Riding in the basket.

    Oh, and that $1.00 for the popcorn also came with a medium Diet Coke because Target is running a Spring Break Snack Special for all the lame moms out there who take their child to Target for Spring Break.

    Sweetie, we can always do the Cinderella breakfast at Disneyland, but how often can you buy a bag of popcorn and a MEDIUM Diet Coke for $1.00? Not very often in today’s precarious economic environment.

    Close your eyes, hold on tight, and Mama will take this corner fast around the Crockpot aisle. It’s just like an amusement park.

    We’re creating precious memories.

  • Ding dong the twinkie is dead

    A few weeks ago I mentioned that I purchased some Hostess Ding Dongs at the grocery store. Despite my disappointment that they no longer come in the foil wrapper, I tried one anyway.

    And, honestly? Not really a fan anymore.

    I don’t know if the folks at Hostess have changed the Ding Dong recipe, but I found them to be drier than dirt. Once I bit into that faux chocolate coating, the inner cake just fell apart. I did something I never thought I’d do and threw away the rest of the box.

    Mainly because I knew, at some point, PMS would set back in and I’d eat the whole box in one sitting, all the while thinking how dry they taste but who cares because the chocolate? I must have it.

    I hostessed my own snack cake intervention.

    Then, at some point last week, P mentioned the Twinkie. Mmmm, Twinkies. Although I’m not usually a fan of the non-chocolate anything, it sounded pretty good.

    So while we were at HEB (pronounced H.E.B. for those of y’all who asked) on Sunday, guess what we bought?

    That’s right, baby. The Twinkie.

    I had barely gotten them out the grocery bag when P opened the box. The first thing we noticed is that there is actual oily residue on the inner plastic of the Twinkie wrapper. That does not bode well for the amount of trans fats contained therein.

    P opened one for himself and one for Caroline. I watched them to measure the Twinkie reaction. P said, “It tastes like white bread covered in butter and sugar and it’s leaving some sort of residue on my tongue.” Caroline took two bites and said, “I’m done with this, Mama.”

    She has never turned down sugar in the history of the universe.

    I took a bite of hers before I threw it in the trash and I immediately regretted my decision. My tongue had an oil coating that would rival the Exxon Valdez.

    So, the house of Big Mama? No longer fans of the snack cake.

    But at least now we know.

    On a tastier note, several of y’all asked for the recipe for Baked French Toast. I highly recommend it because it is delightful and much better than any pre-packaged pastry. And it’s almost as easy.

    I can’t remember for sure, but I think this came from Paula Deen. Best of all, you make it the night before so it’s perfect for Easter Sunday brunch.

    Baked French Toast

    1 loaf french bread
    8 large eggs
    2 cups half and half
    1 cup milk (I use skim because I enjoy irony)
    2 tbs. sugar
    1 tsp. vanilla
    1/4 tsp. cinnamon
    1/4 tsp. nutmeg
    dash of salt
    Praline topping (recipe below)
    Maple syrup (I prefer Aunt Jemima, but if you have your own maple tree or something go for it, Laura Ingalls)

    Slice bread in 20 pieces. Arrange in a greased 9 x 13 pan in two layers. Combine other ingredients until bubbly. Pour over bread. Cover with foil and refrigerate overnight.

    Preheat oven to 350. (the next morning, not the night before because that would be a fire hazard)

    Spread praline topping over the whole thing and bake 40 minutes. Serve with warm, maple syrup.

    Praline Topping

    2 sticks butter
    1 cup light brown sugar
    2 tbs. light corn syrup
    1/2 tsp. cinnamon
    1/2 tsp. nutmeg

    I realize it sounds like it’s very fattening.

    And it is.

    I just wanted to clarify.

    **Edited to add that when you mix the eggs, half and half, etc. it will all get slightly bubbly. It’s some sort of chemical reaction or something. I don’t really know why it does this because I am not a chemist. Just trust me, you’ll know it’s ready.

    Also, I usually buy the thicker french bread rather than the skinny baguettes. There’s is no real trick to how thick the slices should be, but mine are usually on the thicker side along the lines of an inch to an inch and a half.

  • If it had been a picture of dogs playing poker, I would have reached for my Phillips screwdriver

    In a fit of spontaneity on Saturday night, P and I ordered “The Bourne Ultimatum” on Pay-Per-View. Yes, it’s true that we had already paid money to see this movie in the theater and yes, it’s also true it’s the only movie we’ve seen in the past twelve months that doesn’t feature animated bees or vegetables with no arms. But we are creatures of habit and we know what we like.

    What if we paid $4.99 for a movie that didn’t feature the awesomeness that is Matt Damon as Jason Bourne and were completely disappointed? It’s a risk that neither one of us was willing to take. And it paid off because it was totally even better the second time around.

    Anyway, as we watched the movie last night I found myself wondering what it would be like to live life as a CIA secret operative and undergo torture at the hands of people who want information from you. What would it be like to live life in constant danger and feel like you’re not safe anywhere you turn?

    I’ll tell you what it would be like, a trip to the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon.

    With a four-year-old.

    In a store filled with stuffed Easter bunnies, Disney Princess Easter baskets, and Marshmallow Peeps shaped like the devil.

    And my list was long, my friends. LONG.

    I mean what screams MUST GO TO THE HEB more than serving up hairy sour cream for your family?

    Caroline and I hit the store, grabbed a race car cart, and begin to make our way up and down the crowded aisles. I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. People were grabbing for avocadoes as if homemade guacamole was the only vestige of hope for survival.

    And as for the half and half? Let’s just say a lesser woman would have turned back, but not me. I forged ahead and grabbed that carton of half and half because, as God is my witness, my family will not go without homemade Baked French Toast for Easter.

    Because what says praise God for the resurrection of my Savior like some delicious, french toast covered in syrupy goodness?

    I mean other than the plastic eggs filled with gummy Lifesavers.

    Oh, and of course hollow chocolate bunnies.

    We made our way halfway through the store and were only sideswiped three or four times. Some poor lady ran over my heel, but since she was a fellow member of the race car cart brigade, I let it go because there but for the grace of God, and some serious navigational dexterity, go I.

    Just when I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and the Magic Eraser product (for my lavender toilet) at the end of the aisle, Caroline informed me she needed to go to the bathroom. I shouldn’t have been surprised because in her citywide tour of various public restrooms, she has found none that please her like those of the HEB variety.

    I hauled the race car cart across the store to get to the restroom. Caroline particularly enjoys the smell of the HEB restroom because, clearly, her olfactory senses are whacked. But as I stood in the stall with her I noticed something I have never noticed in my previous 107 trips to the HEB bathroom.

    There was a framed picture of some flowers hanging over the toilet. And it was screwed into the wall so that no one could steal it.

    Well sure.

    Because I know when I contemplate a lucrative future as an art thief, I always picture myself at the Louvre, or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the bathroom at HEB.