They are quite delicious, no matter what my son with the unsophisticated tastes says. He thought they were “too salty.” But then again, he doesn’t like guacamole or grilled cheese. He’s a weirdo.

Poo on him!
And on my boss who told me recently that she “leaves the salt out of most recipes.”

I love salt.

In fact, a world without salt would be quite tasteless. (Heee heee)

I made the dough on Sunday, sifting the flour, cocoa powder, salt and leavening into one bowl and beating butter til light and fluffy in another. Granulated and brown sugar were added to the butter, followed by vanilla and then the dry ingredients were briefly beaten in and the chopped chocolate was mixed in via wooden spoon.

For the chocolate I used a mixture of Nestle semisweet mini-chips and Scharffen Berger 70% Cacao Bittersweet Chocolate that I finely chopped.

At this point the dough looked like small pebbles so I was a bit worried. Nevertheless, I scooped it out into two piles on seperate pieces of waxed paper, picking up the edges of the paper, sling-like, I used the paper to press the dough into shape, easily forming two cohesive logs.

I sliced the chilled dough into 1/2″ rounds and baked it, a cookie sheet at a time, for 12 minutes. I did end up with a bit of crumbling during slicing, but the dissassembled pieces were easy re-attach, nevertheless, I ate most of them!

Upon removal from the oven, the cookies were sprinkled with salt. I couldn’t find the recommended fleur de sel in my area, so I used large grain sea salt, sprinkling four to five grains on each cookie.

You can see the salt in this picture:

Oh, and make sure you note the terribly “ungreen” foam plate.
Fancy!

Yes, these are salty cookies-in a good way. Very chocolatey with a wonderful sandy texture. I can see why they are named “World Peace Cookies.” Thank you so much Jessica of cookbookhabit for your excellent selection.

He’s four.

OKAY. OKAY! I know he’s not. He’s 15, exactly the age on his Learner’s Permit. Yes, my skinny chicken-legged child who has vomitted twice on my feet, who had night terrors for years, whose dad used to hold in one hand, football style, can now legally drive a motor vehicle. A multi-ton vehicle on the actual road.

Yes, on the streets you and your family traverse!

(Of course, only if you live in the greater Peoria regional area!)

I drove him to the nearest DMV office, about ten miles away. My husband, Chris, came along, as did Taylor’s friend J. who had “accidentally” missed the bus.

I think he just wanted to play Tay’s X-Box 360.

Anyway, on the drive there I suggested that his time in captivity (i.e. in a vehicle with his parents) should be spent discussing serious issues, his changing body, sexual intercourse and the Scopes Monkey Trial.

He didn’t think that was a good idea. In fact, he threatened to jump out of the moving car. I reminded him that when you die “Everyone Poops.”

Ten minutes later I pulled up to the DMV which (luckily) happens to be next door to a bar/bowling alley. Chris suggest we go have a drink or two while Taylor went into the license facility.

I suggested that first we verify the law. He has to drive with someone twenty-one or older, but is it okay if that person is intoxicated? If so, WOOOHOOOO instant designated driver!

Really, there have to be SOME perks to the expensive teenage boy auto insurance.

He quickly acquired his permit and we headed to the bar.

To bowl, not to drink, of course!

Heady from all of our recent Wii bowling, we stepped up to the lanes and quickly descended into bowler’s remorse. Those balls are WAY heavier than a Wii Remote. My husband was the only one who broke a hundred.

Leaving the bowling alley, I suggested that Taylor should drive. He was hesitant, nervous I think. But we prevailed upon him to give it a try. After adjusting his seat and mirrors he asked “So, do I put my left foot on the one pedal and my right foot on the other?”

Um.. that made my heart flutter with worry. He didn’t know the names of the pedals or what each one did. Chris explained and told him to put the car in reverse.

He didn’t know his foot had to be on the brake to shift!

Crap, I guess much like bowling, driving in real life is much different than in a video game!

Jake, Chris and I all heartily laughed at his lack of knowledge.

No, really we didn’t! Actually, I was beginning to feel slightly (more) terrified, wishing I was at home with a bowl of alphabet soup, helping Reagan with her homework.

Math is much less dangerous than driving; if she forgets the Pythagorean Theorem, well, we can look it up. If Tay forgets which pedal is the brake, we could end up in a ditch. Or dead.
And pooping.

Yes, I’m cheerful like that. No anxiety problems here, no sirree.

Heading down the road, Tay had to turn at a corner, undercorrected and almost hit a minivan. Shit. Then Chris accidentally lead him into an alley rather than a side street, which required some super fancy backing up action. (Boy, that sounds dirty!)

Finally, onto the highway back home. I sat in the backseat, noticing how really narrow the lanes are and how fast everyone drives and how close by passing cars really are.

Just like all cats are gray in the dark, all mothers freak out a bit when their babies reach a new milestone. Similar to learning to walk, learning to drive brings a tremendous amount of independence, and unlike the mommy of a toddler, I can’t hover above the car, waiting to catch him if he crashes.

Ever terse in the morning, he said:
I. DON’T. LIKE. CAKE.

Okay, weirdo boy, is there another dessert you would like for your birthday?

“Cupcakes.”

Taylor: “Bored”

Me: “Well, what about homework? And chores? And spending time with your loving Mama?”

Taylor: “Um, that’s what I’m doing right now.”

Me: “Oh, yah, you are sooooo lucky that I am soooooo cool. I’m like the Lorelai Gilmore of Princeville.”
“Except I’m a bit chubbier than her.”
“And blonder”

Taylor: “And you’re not as pretty.”

OMG. My teenager is so ill he can’t get up? He’s a freshman, lying IN THE HALLWAY at school? He must be REALLY, REALLY SICK. My mind raced to appendicitis and I was frantic. I called my husband, Chris, who, luckily, hadn’t left for work yet. He ran to the high school.

Taylor was in the office and said he felt “okay.” Chris sat and talked to him; the nurse came and took his temp, said he didn’t have one, asked him some questions and, satisfied that he was okay, sent him back to class.

Whew. Relief.

But, WTF? I couldn’t help but wonder what possessed my son, a quiet, slightly shy fourteen year old to LIE ON THE FLOOR of the HALLWAY at SCHOOL.

Really, his social skills are pretty good, I swear! He’s not the kid dressed in ill-fitting polyester pants, a plaid shirt and pocket protector. (Not that there’s anything wrong with with that!)

I asked Taylor and he said he just didn’t feel well, no big deal.

Digging deeper, I asked one of his friends, W., who said “No, I didn’t know he got…. OH, yah, Ms. T. told us about that, that a boy got sick during 1st hour health, while looking at slides of STD’s.”

I guess someone won’t be having unprotected sex.

His first Biology project of the year is about bugs. He has to catch ten different kinds of insects, afix them to cardboard and write a one to two page paper about EACH bug.

And Taylor HATES, HATES, HATES to write.

His teacher is having them turn in a rough draft of one bug paper, today, to make sure they are following the right format (font type/size, double spaced, correct margins, etc) and citing everything correctly.

Taylor sat at the computer looking up information in his Audobon guide and online. He spent several hours over the weekend working on the paper.

Finally, Sunday night he walks into the kitchen and says “I’m still not done! It’s hard to write a whole page about one bug!”

He hands the 3/4’s full paper to me.
And it’s single spaced.

Speaking of chorus, last night Reagan told me, “I’m a soprano but want to be an alto and Maggie is an alto and wants to be a soprano, so we went up to the teacher and asked if we could ’switch.’”

Uh, yah, and while you were talking to her, did you also tell her how you’ve always wanted blue eyes, so maybe you could also trade eyeballs?

Additionally, Reagan is running for treasurer of student council.

Her motto?

“#1 Reason to vote for me? I’m the only one running!”

As for Taylor, he’s less busy, because he decided to quit football. My husband was really disappointed, but is coping. Taylor seems less stressed. He likes to have a lot of free time and, with the advent of the school year and lots of homework as a freshman, he was feeling pretty overwhelmed.

Earlier this week I asked him who he was going to ask to homecoming and he responded “First I am going to ask Alivia.”

I guess he has a back-up plan! (I think her name is Paige.)

Unfortunately, when he asked girl #1, she already had a date.

He is going to ask the girl #2 today. (And, possibly, girls #3, #4, #5…. next week)

Yesterday I took the day off work to have lunch with a friend and to run errands; in addition to buying the kids some school clothes and grocery shopping, I had to go to the health department to get copies of my kids’ birth certificates. Yes, I am the kind of mother that loses temporarily misplaces her childrens’ important documents.

Anyway, I approached the receptionist at the health department and she said,
“birth certificates?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Following her directions I walked by the WIC and STD clinics. Which made me wonder, how did she know I was there for proof I gave birth to lovely babies years ago? No children with me, so not likely WIC, but, what, I don’t look STD-”worthy?”

(I guess taking a vacation day to run errands instead of doing something fun kind of answers that question!)

Shit!

“Umm.. take safety classes, pass a test, wear a helmet. Wait for your mother to die. And even then my moldy rotting corpse will haunt you.”

Chris started a new job (Yay!) with long hours (Boo!).

Taylor started high school today. (Yay! Sob!)

Reagan has her first “boyfriend.” (Okay, they talk on the phone and don’t actually do anything together, but still, it’s a first for her.)

Lots of new stuff going on. But still… I’m beginning to worry…

Maybe they’re just dicks?

Every one of them is driving me CRAZY. Okay, I take that back, Chris is too busy to drive me crazy, (*but “I taste like white chocolate!”); however, the kids, the kids have driven me up one wall and down the other.

Yesterday Taylor said “I hate Reagan. When I’m an adult I’m never going to see her.”

Wow, talk about heart-breaking.

And, again, Reagan didn’t do her chores. I’m frankly really sick of this-almost to the point of wanting to give up. We spend more time arguing about cleaning her room or loading the dishwasher than it would take to just do the work.

I’m frazzled. I’m like the mom in the grocery store with a toddler that keeps trying to stand in the cart seat over and over again. You see the kid trying to stand, see the mom’s gritted teeth, the lips barely moving to say “Sit. Down. Now.”

Thinking “Why is she so upset? What’s the big deal?” Not realizing that the battle has been going on since the produce section.

The constant repetition of the same misbehavior, saying the same thing, first light-heartedly, “Don’t forget to clean your room today.” Then sterner, “Why isn’t your room clean?” Followed by “Clean. Room. NOW! ” With a final, “Holy Shit! How many times do I have to say ‘clean your damn room?’”

It’s wearing me down. We’ve tried punishments; we’ve tried rewards. Nothing seems to work. I’m beginning to ponder some sort of room cleaning boot camp experience. They’ll smuggle her out in the night… take her to a cabin, force her to hang up laundry and to make her bed. Hell on Earth.

Back to reality, last night we had a serious family discussion about chores and our expectations.

“You MUST do your chores before you use the computer, the phone, play video games or watch T.V. Do you understand?”

Taylor: “Yes.”

Reagan: “Yes, I understand, but that doesn’t mean that I agree.”

That one always has to have the last word…

*Shout out to my fellow “Weeds” watching peeps!

What?

The kid wears the same thing everyday, come winter, spring, summer or fall, a pair of jeans, tennis shoes and a t-shirt. So does it really matter if the t-shirt is red, white, blue, gray or black?

I didn’t argue; I didn’t try to use reason, which seems to work as well with teenagers as it does toddlers. (You don’t get temper tantrums-well, not usually-but you do get an equally exasperating eye-rolling, sighing and “You just don’t understand!” combo.)

On the topic of bad behavior, over the weekend I learned from my thirteen-year-old daughter that I am:

“Mean!”

“Ruining her life!”

“Unfair!”

and that I “Love Taylor more!”

Because, yes, I MADE HER CLEAN HER ROOM.

She spent three days bitching about cleaning her room.

By day three I had had it. When she posited: “I hate it here! I would rather live on the streets!” I responded, “FINE! Sleep in a field! Eat dinner out of the trash! Get molested by random strangers! See how much you like home then!”

Yes, I think I may have crossed the line a bit with that last one. And those of you with tiny kids are probably shocked, thinking “I would never say that to my sweet, precious baby.” And I’m with you, I really am, ten years ago I couldn’t have imagined it either.