Tales from the Shark Tank

I think I’m ready to declare at least temporary victory in the matter of mice in the kitchen. After about the fourth time I completely emptied my kitchen drawers, washed the entire contents, cleaned the drawers themselves and sprayed them out with disinfectant, I decided it was time for action more drastic than mint oil soaked cotton balls to repel the resident rodents. So I loaded the contents of the drawer with the most problem (full of plastic storage containers, so I don’t know what the mouse was finding so attractive) and pretty well paved it with glue-traps. I chose those because if there were going to be mousetraps in my kitchen cabinets and drawers, I didn’t want the type that might attack unwary fingers.

About two weeks ago, a few days after I’d put all the traps in a single drawer, I opened it in the morning to see the boxes bumped all over the place. So I started picking up the boxes and looking inside. When I peeked into the third one, a sharp little face with black eyes and whiskers looked back. It happened to be trash day, and I promptly consigned Mickey’s cousin to the barrel for collection in due time. The I washed the drawer out yet again and put the traps back. After a week of nothing caught and no residue or eau de mouse, I took out the traps, put them away, and put my plasticware back.

It’s been another week, with nothing untoward in any of the drawers and no sounds of gnawing in the night. So for the moment, I’m ready to declare victory. And while I’ll admit to feeling sorry for the little creature, I won’t be writing elegiac verses lamenting its demise.

Christmas keeps me remarkably busy for a holiday that is not mine. Technically, there’s a week to go, but I’ve already baked multiple batches of bread and cookies (with more to go), and now spent the weekend with my husband’s family. One of his sisters lives in Colorado. She comes in to Indy no more than once or twice a year, so a visit from her and her husband is the signal for as many siblings as possible to gather. This time three out of four were there, along with spouses and kidlets. Our son was the oldest of the small bodies in Brownian motion; the youngest was two, and doing his very best to emulate the biggest kid present. So we were treated to the sight of both boys side by side on a large ottoman, lying on their stomachs with chins propped on hands and feet up behind, crossed at the ankles. It was hilarious. In between were our two nieces, one of whom turned five in September and the other of whom turned four yesterday. I was delighted to hear the older girl make Barbie (in a blue rennaisance gown) tell Ken “I have court today, so I’m not sure what time I’ll be home.” In her world, there are no limits on what girls can do. I do not take that for granted, and it was wonderful to see.

It was a busy weekend, entirely overwhelmed by family. Next weekend, when the sister from England and her family come in it will be more of the same. My mother-in-law made dinner for Saturday night; I was supposed to help, but by the time I got there it was done. She didn’t have to do it alone, though; my husband’s sister L. was there, and did a lot of it. Our son got to play checkers with his uncle D., and got a magic set from his Auntie L.. Next weekend it will be S. and her family.

Their brother T., youngest in the family, actually lives in Indianapolis, so they’re always about. I’m glad for my in-law’s sake. T. is the one with 3 children and another on the way, so with him in town they have the majority of their grandchildren. I wish J. could grow up playing with his cousins.

I love them beyond belief, but they still can wear me out. Our son, too; he slept most of the trip home this afternoon. I used to wonder, as a kid, what it would be like to have siblings. I’m getting a pretty clear idea, watching my husband’s family. Any topic is fair game between them. Everyone talks at once, most of the time. They care tremendously about each other, but will tease each other mercilessly. There’s no doubting that they love each other, no doubting that each of them is more comfortable with their siblings than anyone else in the world. They take in those of us who have married their brothers and sisters with equally open arms and hearts. I’ve been married to my husband for 18 and three quarters years, and I’m still getting used to it. It’s crazy, and chaotic, and warm. And mostly, I become aware of it at Christmas, when all the family comes home.

My husband has often said that he knows of no one who spends more time reading cookbooks and less time following them, and as a general rule it’s very true. Today, though, I had a project of a sort unfamiliar to me, and so once I chose a recipe, I actually followed it. The recipe in question was for soft sugar cookies, and in theory it was supposed to be possible to roll the dough out to be cut with cookie cutters.

The gap between theory and practice was huge. The dough, while thick, was very soft, almost flowing. It certainly would not be possible to roll it; it was softer than standard chocolate chip cookie dough. Ok, perhaps it required chilling, though the recipe didn’t say so. Into the refrigerator it went. Two hours later, I pulled it out, and guess what? Soft, slightly puffy (sour milk and baking soda will do that in combination), and definitely not rollable. So ok; I made dip-n-plop cookies out of it. The first batch came out, and I tasted one. Bleah! No flavor at all, despite the quantity of vanilla powder added. I put almond extract in the remainder of the dough and tried again. Repeat: bleah. No more flavor than bakery cookies. I was debating whether to send them with my kid for his holiday party anyway, or just throw them away and make another batch rather than ruin my reputation as a baker.

And then J. came home from school, and tasted one. “Wow, mom, these are really great!” he told me. “You got it exactly right.” So he is delighted, and I am sending the things to school with him on the theory that I’ve made cookies kids will like.

And I’m still looking for a good recipe for rolled cookies that actually taste good. Now, where did I put that cookie cookbook from the 1950′s?

For those who read this regularly and would be trying to call, the weather seems to have done a number on my cell phone service. It’s taking messages, but does not ring, and insists it’s in “roaming” territory. Since this selfsame chair in my living room has never been roaming territory before, I can only assume the tower nearest has been made less effective by ice.

The technician (or as our son put it, the “phone doctor”) came out this afternoon and spent a good 2 1/2 hours making our phone lines a crackle-free zone. It turned out the basic problem was that mice had gnawed on the lines between the walls, requiring replacement of several. It was, however, rendered considerably more complicated by the house itself. If the additions were put on by calling in anyone with a hammer and a pocket full of nails, then the phone lines were installed by someone with a drill, a screwdriver, some electrical tape and miles of wire.

The tech kept up a running commentary which was as colorful as he would permit himself to be in the presence of a lady, but the general gist of his remarks was that the installation and wiring had been done by F-Troop and serviced by House Rodentia. One wire that appeared to lead nowhere in particular was in fact spliced (with the splice buried under the hostas, thus leading to water getting in) and led to the phone jack in the master bedroom. The tech and I discovered this when he thought he was done and told me to check the master bedroom phone “just in case”, whereupon I found it deader than the proverbial doornail. Another ran up the side of the house, ducked around a corner, and emerged downstairs in the dining room. A third looped through the branches of a maple tree in open invitation to the squirrels before diving into the attic. It was, to put not too fine a point on it, a mess.

In the end, the tech resorted to disabling all three jacks, then hooking them in one at a time and having me check for static. When all three checked out static free he fastened the wires to the house so that they were off the ground and away from the trees. Then he went on his way, leaving me laughing and very grateful that I’d chosen to pay for the inside repair option. There won’t be any bill for this call; all that remains of it is a stack of books on the dining room floor (I had to empty a bookcase so he had access to the hole in the wall), three working phone jacks, and a good story.

“So, when’s the voodoo doll party?”

“I don’t know how to do that, but I can learn anything.”

When we first moved in, our phone line had so much static to it as to be unusable. It took some effort and persistence on my part, as well as the threat of the local Utilities Commission, to get the matter attended to in less than the three weeks originally given as the “earliest” date a tech could come out here.

I’ve had to deal with the company twice since then, once to get the second line installed for the computer and now today, because the line is once again unusable courtesy of massive static. Both times, I have entered my phone number into their automated system and immediately been transferred to a live customer service rep, who has invariably been overwhelmingly polite and helpful. This time, the tech is due out tomorrow. Of course, I’m sure this amazing efficiency is merely coincidental.