Yes, indeedy. It is one of those prefab gingerbread house kits, the kind of which I have avoided for most of Aura’s childhood, simply because I couldn’t put up with what I knew would be Adam’s protestations: “A pre-made gingerbread house? That’s ridiculous! Do you know how easy gingerbread is to make? Then you just cool it and cut it and whip up some royal icing and blah blah blah and blah blah blah and I’m making that superior face I know you hate but it’s like I can’t keep from doing it because I watch too much Bobby Flay.”

The thing is, I’m a big one for from-scratch baking (despite the fact that I detest cooking-cooking and shall detest it for all eternity). But who are we kidding? When am I going to have the time to bake and precisely measure gingerbread walls and roof shingles? As I explained to Adam, I suppose I could have tried to fit it in between CHURNING BUTTER and GROWING MY OWN COTTON FOR PETTICOATS, but life is short.

Plus, when you make your own gingerbread, I bet you don’t get that subtle taste of…let’s see…sodium benzoate. And you completely miss out on FD&C Yellow #5.

Also, mixing up a batch of homemade icing in the KitchenAid would have deprived Aura of the chance to…let me take another look at the instructions…ah, yes. She wouldn’t have been able to Knead Icing Fervently Until Proper Consistency. That fervent kneading got me three full minutes of laundry folding. I am throwing my full support behind fervent kneading of all sorts. I’m suddenly very equal-opportunity on the fervent kneading.

Of course, the Littlest Pet Shop pets had to watch. As they do most things in this house. Say, when you’re stepping buck-naked out of the shower. Or perhaps when you are waking up from a relaxing night’s sleep to OHMYGOD THAT DIM-LOOKING BUNNY WITH THE WEIRD FLOPPY EARS AND INAPPROPRIATE BOWTIE IS ONE INCH FROM MY FACE.

Even with the voyeurism, I’d say the gingerbread house was a success. Granted, it did highlight the fact that someone around here is in desperate need of a good old-fashioned anatomy lesson (starting with pointers on how most faces have two eyes), but for $9.99, it makes a pretty good table centerpiece.

Or it would, if someone would stop eating bits of the centerpiece. I tell you, it’s as if my agonized wails of “NOT THE RED #6 ADDITIVE CHIMNEY DECORATION!” simply fall on deaf ears.

So, question for you: How quickly do these suckers go to mold? Because I’m starting to have serious doubts about that door knocker.

[I hear that you can actually buy the stuff year-round, but I choose to ignore this and maybe doubt it a little. I could look down the candy aisle, say, in March, but I need to hold onto what illusions I have. Between the fact that Santa is imaginary (Hannukah Harry, too, of whose existence Adam briefly convinced me for a now semi-legendary month in our early courtship) and recently attained knowledge that the guy from that horrible show White Collar is actually gay (ALL THE GOOD ONES ARE), I need to believe that candy corn can be found only one month of the year. Also, it’s calorie-free and the chewing is good for your metabolism. True story. In Kate World.]

However, candy corn is more than just candy corn. It’s actually one member of that wonderful trifecta known as

To this end, let us briefly examine the trinity. Pay homage, if you will.

Member #1: The Candy Corn

Stats: Tri-colored

Relationship to other Autumn Mix members: Pivotal; assumes alpha dog role so sorely needed when the mellowcreme starts to feel its oats (see below)

Little-known fact: Melts poorly in cookies, if “melt” means “chemicals inside become really, really visible;” see The Baking Incident of 2000 of Which We Will Not Speak, or: Hey! The Oven’s on Fire!

Member #2: The Indian Corn

Stats: Dual-banded; mimics Member #1 except for bottom stripe

Relationship to other Autumn Mix members: Complementary; the, uh, “chocolate” band introduces additional flavor dimension (Flavor Dimension™)

Little-known fact: Debatably politically incorrect name actually refers to subcontinent Indians, not Native Americans; suckers are HUGE in Bangalore

Member #3: The Mellowcreme Pumpkin

Stats: Unconvincing replica of pumpkin; one bite equals exactly 1,974 tablespoons of sugar

Relationship to other Autumn Mix members: The fun one; seems harmless, yet ingestion of more than five causes severe sugar shock and maybe in a few cases, not sure which, can’t remember, gastrointestinal distress

Little-known fact: NO MORE MELLOWCREME NEVER AGAIN NO ONE SHOULD BE THIS BLOATED SEND HELP

Oh, wait. You probably think I’m going to talk about how unhealthy they are and how the sodium is through the roof and how the chickens are brutalized and LALALALALA I STILL HAVEN’T SEEN “FOOD, INC.” BUT I RECYCLE A LOT AND PROMOTE KALE AT HOME

Yeah, so this isn’t about that. While I respect the parents out there who choose to keep their kids away from all fast-foody, chain-restaurant places, I openly admit that Aura and I drop into the Golden Arches now and then for an easy lunch. She likes the nuggets and gets the apples instead of the fries, no soda blah blah blah.

But all that is besides the point. The point, you see, is FAR more important that childhood nutrition. The point, you see, is Gender Discrimination in Verbal Labeling of Happy Meal Toys. Sure, Aura likes Strawberry Shortcake and American Girl little plastic stuff. But she has also always really liked LEGOs, and trains, and the occasional Pokemon thingie.

Er, my point:

When Aura wants the “boy toy”

Me: Hi. May I have a Happy Meal with six of your much-lauded Nuggets of Doom, the apple dippers, and water?

McDonald’s employee: Sure. With a girl toy, right?

Me: We’d like the Batman toy, please

McD’s employee: You want the boy toy?

Me: Well, she wants the toy that has to do with Batman.

McD’s employee: I understand. So you’re saying she wants the boy toy?

Me: Um, well, see, I kind of have this thing against actually saying “boy toy.” So, yep, Batman.

McD’s employee: Got it. The boy toy.

Me: Now, I don’t want to come across as some kind of crazy über-postfeminist mom, but I just feel weird calling it a “boy toy.” My daughter seems to like Batman, so, you know. You know?

McD’s employee: …

Me: Not crazy!

McD’s employee: …

Me: I mean it!

McD’s employee: NEXT PERSON IN LINE, PLEASE.

Right?

When Aura wants the “girl toy”

Me: Hi. May I have a Happy Meal with six of your infamous Nuggets of Noxious Nutrition, the apple dippers, and water?

McDonald’s employee: Sure. With a girl toy, right?

Me: We’d like the Polly Pocket, please.

McD’s employee: Yes. That’s the girl toy.

Me: Well, I prefer just calling it a Polly Pocket, since that’s what it is. Seems simpler, you know?

McD’s employee: …

Me: Wait. That came out kind of witchy. All I meant is that girls like all sorts of things, and boys like all sorts of things. IT’S A CRAZY, WONDERFUL WORLD. YOU KNOW.

McD’s employee: You need to pay now. I can’t get you the Happy Meal with the girl toy until you pay.

Me: …

RIGHT?!?

It is something like 57% possible that I need to pick better battles.

(Nah.)

(Feel free to back me up here. I’m feeling vulnerable. Like, kind-of-want-fries-right-now-while-Aura-is-asleep-and-unknowing vulnerable. Because, between the two of us, Apple Dippers kind of suck.)

(Friiiiiiiiies.)

(See how I sneaked in “hiking” there? I know. I KNOW. You may know me as Kate the Sloth, but once every, say, oh, decade or so, the woods know me differently. We even went to a ranger station this time around. “Look! A real ranger station!” I said to Aura, gesturing around at all the ranger stuff. “This is where the rangers station,” I explained authoritatively.)

The ranger station was just to the south of here. Or maybe it was north. One can never be too sure of these things.

Alas, now the weather is unseasonably cold and rather dreary. A person, even one as well-hiked as myself, can only dress up bears and play with magnet blocks for so long, and I’ll admit that I’ve relaxed the usual tiny daily allowance on screens. The iPad’s been out more, my laptop more frequently commandeered for loud and always very click-y kids’ sites.

So today, as the rain dripped down the windows and Aura tapped away at Angry Birds, I raised myself from my prone position on the playroom floor and cheerfully announced, “We are going to the grocery store. You can help me scan the groceries with that Scan It thingie.”

The possibility for irony was not lost on me as we drove to the store. In some cultures, the message, “We are getting you out of this house and away from electronic devices so that you can go to the grocery store and use a handheld computer” might even be considered contradictory. Thankfully, we are Americans.

And so it went. We came, we scanned, we conquered a rotisserie chicken, three baking potatoes, and an armload of zucchini.

Yet this time around the Scan It device creeped me out more. It was constantly alerting us that Coupons are available! Coupons for items you regularly buy! The savings on organic eggs and boxes of macaroni and cheese followed us from aisle to aisle, the gentle ringing of the machine a constant reminder of the money we could be saving if only we followed its spot-on, Big Brother suggestions.

Finally, I snapped. “What is it with this thing?” I hissed to Aura. “It thinks it knows us so well, but why all the baby carrots?!? We saw the baby carrots coupon in AISLE 2 and in AISLE 8 and then again in AISLE 11! WHAT’S WITH THE BABY CARROTS?”

Then, like all sane, red-blooded mothers, I proceeded to march her around the store and take photographs of all the things on which I would have preferred the Scan It device offer us savings. I personally like to call it Nutrition for Preschoolers, but you’re welcome to rename it to what suits you best.

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

There were supposed to be more photos, especially in the pre-packaged baked goods aisle (there was a particularly fetching box of Hostess Donettes, all shiny and beckoning in their icing goodness), but a store manager started following us around. In the old days, you used to be able to stomp angrily around a grocery store, rage against handheld scanners,  and photograph any trans-fat-laden items you pleased, but no longer. It’s all WE’RE WATCHING YOU and PARDON ME, MA’AM and I’M AFRAID YOU’LL HAVE TO LEAVE THE STORE IF YOU KEEP THAT UP.

I bet he had a coupon. FOR BEING A KILLJOY.

“I know!” I exclaimed in agreement. “But why am I so crabby?”

Then it hit me. I WAS HUNGRY.

About two weeks ago, I went back on Weight Watchers, determined to lose the 10 or so post-Aura pounds I’m always harping about. I’ve been off and on the Weight Watchers program for years, ever since I gained—and then lost—a lot of weight sophomore year of college. As long as I follow the rules, WW works, without fail.  

The world's oldest WW Points Finder. Notice non-diet-approved grease stain in center. Also, corners dogeared from famished death grip.

Yet somehow it seems SO MUCH WORSE this time. After months of not being all that diligent, I find myself lusting after that which I now can’t have, then trying to devise ways I can have it. Such mental effort is exhausting. And when I get tired, I get really peevish. Throw in starvation and I’m Someone to Avoid. Also, Someone to Divorce or Declare Emancipation From.

It’s gotten so bad that the good, decent part of me is becoming buried under the hungry, ruthless part of me. While I was eating lunch the other day, I saw one of those TV ads with Sally Struthers, where she asks for donations to help starving children in Africa. As I sipped my fat-free vegetable soup and watched, my first thought was, “Those poor kids. They don’t deserve such an awful life.” But then right after that I thought, “I bet those little buggers are REALLY, REALLY GRUMPY.”

Yes, yes. I know I'll end up here for that last sentence.

Such a restriction of calories is getting in the way of normal life—and normal behavior, for that matter. Case in point: Yesterday, one of the other preschool moms asked if Aura and I would like to join her and her little girl for an afterschool bakery trip. I looked at her, aghast. How was I supposed to sit in a bakery, its confines practically wallpapered with buttercream frosting? I opened my mouth to yell, “What’s next? Giving me a crack pipe, then LIGHTING IT FOR ME?” but thought better of it. Starving, yes. Certifiably loony, not quite yet. At least in public.  

From the actual bakery's Web site. You see what I mean. (Droooool.)

So far, three pounds down. I may waste away before I lose the other seven. Either that or be committed somewhere with padded walls but hopefully yummy food. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to stare down a box of cookies.

And this was no big deal until Aura arrived. Before that, there was take-out and there was defrosting and there were Trader Joe’s meat+ beans+ sauce entrées, but dinner was never An Event. Once in a while, just for chuckles, we’d spend a weekend afternoon making an actual meal, after which we’d congratulate ourselves heartily and draw historically inaccurate comparisons. “Look!” I’d yell gleefully to Adam. “We flambéed corn JUST LIKE THE PILGRIMS DID.”  

Then Aura came along and I cut down on work. It seemed…obligatory that I take on the brunt of the cooking, and that it involve things like ingredients and pans and nutrition. So far, I think I’ve done passably, my quiches and Thai peanut noodles and buttermilk chicken uncolored by the hatred I feel while making them.  

You know what I hate most? The pressure. And for that, I wholeheartedly blame:  

Before the Food Network came along, a person could just tool around the kitchen, doing her best and then serving the end result. Yes, of course, some creations would be better than others. But that was to be expected, such as with, I don’t know, American Idol contestants, or children.  

No longer. Now EVERYONE is an expert on cooking, because EVERYONE watches the Food Network. Hell, you don’t even have to cook to be an expert, not that this stops most people. The other day, Adam peered down at the cutting board as I was chopping. “Wait!” he exclaimed anxiously. “Is that a three-quarter-inch dice?”  

“Um, it’s a dice alright,” I replied, my grip on the chef’s knife tightening. “I’m not sure how many inches it is.”  

“Kaaaaateeee,” he moaned, shaking his head with a level of distress typically reserved for natural disasters. “If the dice is wrong, the entire dish will be wrong. DON’T YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO MESS WITH THE SUGAR-PROTEIN MATRIX?”  

I’m not sure, but I think that was right around the time I offered to three-quarter-inch dice his left testicle. Let me try to remember. Yep, it was then.  

I place the blame for the matrix comment squarely on Alton Brown. You know where he can shove his food-chemistry diagrams? You get one guess.

From here on out, I’m instituting a severe weekly cap on how much Food Network people in this house can watch. That goes for Aura, too. The other day, she walked into the living room just in time to catch the end of a Rachael Ray episode. “Mommy!” she called excitedly. “This lady just made super yummy noodles and caramel cake for lunch!”  

I sat down to join her on the couch. Slinging an arm around her, I said, “Yum! And you know what that lady likes to cook for dinner?”  

Still wide-eyed with newfound adoration, Aura turned to me. “What?” she answered.  

“Little girls,” I told her, then changed the channel.

All joking aside, I really should try to wean myself from Diet Coke. I did go cold turkey when I was pregnant and nursing. But the day Aura wiped the last drop of breastmilk from her mouth, I had a can in my hand. I don’t drink coffee, I don’t like coffee. So I justify my soda habit as “my coffee,” the way I get my caffeine fix.

I’m not kidding myself, though. I’ve read enough about aspartame and other artificial sweeteners to know that they can’t be helping my health. And whenever Aura edges my glass toward her and asks if she can have a taste, I answer with an unequivocal “No!”

“Why not, Mommy?” Aura will ask, having been allowed to sample other carbonated beverages on occasion, including root beer, which she now believes is the nectar of the gods and potentially almost as good as chocolate milk.

“Diet Coke’s not good for kids,” I explain, passing her a bowl of organic broccoli and a plate of free-range, antibiotic-and-hormone-free chicken.

“But is it good for grown-ups?” she returns.

“Well…it depends…hmmmm. Maybe not,” I stutter, disgusted that kids these days are so LOGICAL. I tell you, it’s this focus on critical-thinking skills in American education. The U.S. school system will soon be the ruin of the good old-fashioned parental lie.

Yet I’m just not ready. There are some afternoons when only a swing through the drive-thru for a large Diet Coke, so bubbly and delicious in its fountain-drink form, gets me through the rest of the day. I have a sip and I’m better in so many ways. A better parent! A better wife! A better friend! (I believe Meg Ryan presented this exact same argument in When a Man Loves a Woman. Or maybe it was Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Someone said something, I know that.)

But I do need to make some changes to my diet. As a first step, I gave up chocolate this week. There’s no specific reason, except that I eat way too much sweet stuff and most of it seems to have chocolate in it. Sometime last weekend, I decided that if I cut out chocolate for a little while, then it would follow that I would also cut down on snacking and desserts.

Four days in, I’m on the fence as to the success of this plan. Turns out you can bake and buy all kinds of yummy stuff that does not include chocolate! Macaroons, for one. Large bags of toffee bits, for another. (Do not be fooled by the toffee-bit manufacturer’s claim that they are for baking. After all, baking is a state of mind. You put yours in your cookie dough, I put mine straight into my mouth. Que sera sera.)

It’s not easy, though. Everywhere I look, there’s chocolate. The grocery store is obviously a minefield. The restaurant at the children’s museum is teeming with cacao-based treats. Even the mall! You walk into a candle store, you’re immediately surrounded by Chocolate Chip Cookie candles and Chocolate Cream Pie candles and Triple Chocolate Candied Chocolate Drop candles. I will never again be shocked by the American obesity rate. I now see that it’s a miracle the United States still has a population at all. With all these candles burning, tempting us to hit up the cookie jar, it’s a miracle we haven’t keeled over collectively, the resulting THUMP! softened by our sweet-scented rolls of fat.

You know what? I kind of like it up here on my new, chocolate-free soapbox. If you bring a Diet Coke with you, it really does feel just like home.

Second: For those of you waiting with bated breath since the last post, please, unbate.  Deluxe Crackers were indeed cracked and we are all still in possession of our hearing. This may be because there was no crack.  I know for a fact there was no BANG, surprise or otherwise. Also, the promised novelties were far from novel, though they would work exceptionally well in a cautionary brochure about toys that pose choking hazards. Happily, Aura is far beyond the mouthing stage. Even happier, the cat who crashed this house is not. Tonight I sprayed this darling little plastic frog that came in one of the crackers with catnip spray. All that is left to do is sit back and watch. Come on, Smoky Joe. Make my day.

I consider it a reward for ripping up my rugs and scratching the leather sectional.

In the meantime, all that worry about snarky yet uncannily deserved mottoes was for naught. Turns out the Chinese actually just needed an excuse to share the world’s worst jokes. I would give them the benefit of the doubt and blame the lameness on translation, but really. We all know they’re trying to take over the world. In this case, they’re intent on doing it one really bad pun at a time.

All that aside, 2010 is off to a rip-roaring start. I made and ate most of an especially tasty cherry cobbler last night to toast the new year, then wore elastic-waisted pants all day today. To those of you beginning 2010 focused on a new diet and exercise regimen, I say, Kudos! Bravo! You show ‘em!  To the rest of you, please, feel free to let me know if you want the cobbler recipe.

The serfs were particularly handy at growing blueberries.

And then one day shortly after her first birthday, Princess Aura suddenly declared herself All Set with fresh fruit. Her subjects were shocked. Teeth were gnashed and garments were rent. Rumors began running rampant throughout the kingdom. Did the fruit suddenly taste different to the princess? Feel different in her masterful pincer grip? What kind of “naturally occuring fertilizers” were they using down in the fiefdoms, anyway? Amongst themselves, the princess’s ladies- in-waiting murmured suspicions about the overabundance of cake at the first-birthday extravaganza, pointing to Her Highness’s newfound love for anything iced, frosted, or containing ganache.

So delicious. So much better than fruit. So coma inducing.

The King and Queen tried everything to re-whet Princess Aura’s former tastes. Elaborate and gravity-defying fruit sculptures were created, including one smiley face with cherry-slice eyebrows that really should have been documented by court photographers. Smoothies were produced by the gallons, the Queen stealthily angling her body in such a way as to hide the strawberries or bananas she was blending. Alas, nothing worked. The princess could sniff out a fresh berry from twenty feet. The mere suggestion of fresh-squeezed orange juice caused gagging so horrible that the kingdom’s subjects were forced to hide under their beds until the noise stopped. In the end, the only fruit allowed near the royal high chair was dried fruit, and so the princess’s exhausted parents became the best customers the kingdom’s Trader Joe’s had ever seen. Ever.  

Eventually, the King and Queen surrendered. They told themselves to be thankful that the princess agreed to accept zucchini, still ate asparagus with a flourish, continued to demand her own half of an acorn squash. And life continued, with the princess growing and thriving, if perhaps at a heightened risk for scurvy.

Then, one weekend, the King, Queen, and princess left the castle for a little family bonding in the royal orchards. Princess Aura romped ahead of her parents, traipsing down rows of strawberry plants and frolicking amidst the blueberry bushes. Suddenly, a miraculous occurence occurred. Princess Aura stopped, squatted, plucked a strawberry, and popped it into her mouth. A royal press release was immediately issued, grandmothers were telephoned, and general jubilation echoed across the kingdom. Sadly, the magic ended by the time the princess returned to her car seat.

Seriously. They only tasted good in the orchard. Enough with the in-car force feeding.

Yet the King and Queen were heartened. If only for a handful of days a year, their darling little monarch WOULD eat fresh fruit. It was simply a matter of driving all over the kingdom to find orchards and then camping out in them for a few days at a time. With this knowledge, the royal family and their subjects went on to live happily ever after.  Well, most of the time.  Primarily on days that involved naps.

When you eat fresh fruit only five times annually, it is pertinent to walk with a purpose.

{sound of serfs breathing a collective sigh of relief}