It’s that time of year again – the time of year when that tart, Holly Homemaker, makes a visit. She whispers in my ear with her pumpkin-spiced breath, enticing me to don my apron and grab my feather duster. Move over, June Cleaver!

When you’re dead, you don’t know you’re dead. It’s only painful for those around you…It’s the same when you’re stupid.

I believe her. Every time.

I forget I’m not a domestic goddess. I start cooking and baking burnt offerings in my oven. And my family cowers in the freshly washed corners of the living room. This year, they are also soaking through their t-shirts because, while the calendar says it’s the middle of October, Mother Nature is holding on to summer-y temperatures. Which means, I’m trying to make soup and bake bread when we’d be better off still enjoying Popsicles.

We’re supposed to have a thunderstorm this afternoon.  If this keeps up, there may be a volatile storm in my house,  with lots of loud thunder. In the last 5 days, I have made 2 batches of homemade cauliflower soup, 1 batch of broccoli soup and 2 dozen cabbage rolls – Little Guy won’t touch any of it! I have 1 more batch of cauliflower soup and 1-2 batches of butternut squash soup to go! Most of it will roll straight into the freezer.

Why so much soup, you ask? Because winter is coming…and my pants don’t fit. Especially my dark wash jeans that created such a stir in Old Navy. The tag is still on the refrigerator door, under an assortment of fridge magnets from other countries that I will never get to visit. I’m thankful I can still enjoy the loose fit of my sundresses and sandals, but like a thief in the night, winter’s grip will be upon us and I can’t wade through knee-deep snow to my car in my sandals. Well…not if I want to keep my toes!

I’m trying to get ahead of the inevitable straining and wiggling my body will endure every morning, just so I get dressed. And with the other inevitable (i.e., the raging inferno of my dying youth), I can no longer rely on bulky sweaters to cover up the rogue back fat, bingo wings, or muffin top!

Have you ever noticed diet is spelled DIE with a “t”?

I know this isn’t going to end well. It never does. Holly has a tendency to disappear about the time exhaustion sets in and the stack of dirty dishes outnumbers the clean ones. Why let her in, in the first place, you ask? To be honest, I have yet to discover her secret. I am disappointed with my own gullibility. I suspect she plays on my deepest insecurities, persuading me she will always be my best friend and deceiving me with her lies that we’re in this together! Just yesterday, she joined me in a morning walk (possibly the first of the year-yikes!), making dessert suggestions and sharing decorating ideas.  Lo! And behold! I came home from the grocery store with a bag of icing sugar and a bag of ground almonds to make french macarons.



I’d love to know what tactics she employed to brainwash me into thinking I could tackle such a technical dessert (not to mention low-calorie. Ha!) The  benefit of that information would far outweigh what I’m going to weigh once I eat all those macarons, assuming they don’t become burnt offerings as well.


photo courtesy of Pinterest.com

Holly Homemaker, one of these days, I’ll become wise to your wiles and will lock the door the moment I smell sugar cookies. Now, let’s go make fresh pasta!


Next Week: Holly Homemaker: The Prequel