Creamy Chicken Corn Chowder

This is not a low-fat soup. If low-fat is your preference, I recommend you steer clear of chowders in general and mine in particular. That being said, this is the yummiest, most comforting soup you will ever eat.

The recipe:

1 can chicken broth

1 c water

3 med potatoes, chopped

3 med carrots, chopped

3 c frozen corn kernels

1 t minced garlic

½ t marjoram

½ t thyme

½ t black pepper

5 T flour

1½ c milk

½ c cream

6 oz Velveeta, cubed

1½ c cooked, cubed chicken

    Simmer first 9 ingredients until potatoes and carrots are tender, about 20-25 minutes. Combine milk, cream and flour until smooth. Add to vegetable mixture and cook and stir 2 minutes until thickened. Reduce heat and add cheese and chicken. Heat through and serve.

                                                 OR

    Throw all ingredients into slow cooker. Cook on low, stirring somewhat frequently. Should take about 7-8 hours give or take. When the potatoes and carrots are cooked to your liking, eat it up!

I started with a recipe from a cookbook and tailored it to fit our tastes. That, to me, is what cooking is all about. So I want each of you to feel free to take this recipe and make it your own.

Our son, Liam, loves carrots so although the original recipe didn't call for them, I threw them in. Not only are they yummy, but they add a nice color to a soup that is otherwise quite bland looking.

We like a nice thick chowder so I increased the chunky bits (potatoes, corn, carrots) and slightly decreased the the liquid elements.

Enjoy!

Am I proud of my boy? You bet!

After kind of a rough start at preschool, Liam has figured out how to live with rules laid down by someone other than Mom and Dad and is doing great.

I dropped him off on the first day, August 30, and he was just fine. "Go Mom," he said.

When I arrived back to the school that afternoon to pick him up, Mrs. Eaker, his teacher, came out to tell me he did really well until the last two minutes of class when he hit the little girl sitting next to him. So Mrs. Eaker took his candy away and made him put his head down on the desk. And, she said, "He is quite upset about the whole thing." When he came out into the hallway he was just sobbing his little heart out, big ol' tears and the works. I waited until all the other kids were gone to chat with the teacher for a minute and Liam told her, again, that he was sorry. Not the best first day. Mrs. Eaker did, however, tell me that she didn't see it happen, but that when she asked him if he hit Courtney, he admitted that he did. So . . . at least he didn't lie.

Naturally on the way home he announced: "Mom, I'm not going to school tomorrow."

I assured him that yes, he was going to school the next day, but that tomorrow was a new day with no mistakes in it. He would be starting new and fresh and clean.

After school the next day he informed me: "Mom, I did not hit her today." He made it sound like maybe she needed to be hit, but that he didn't do it. What restraint!

The next week the teacher put six little paper bees on the wall under each kid's name. The goal is for them to keep all their bees. If they are bad and get into trouble then the teacher takes away their bees. Liam decided right away he didn't want to lose any bees. So on each afternoon since the bee program started he tells me when I pick him up, "Mom, I didn't lose any bees today." He is also very quick to point out other little boys who have lost bees. One day one little boy had only two bees left! Shocking!

This week Courtney has been gone. Liam told me on Monday she was gone and he didn't know where she was. Then yesterday on the way home he told me he hoped Courtney hadn't "gone to be with Jesus" cause he missed her and wanted her back at school. Today I asked the teacher if Courtney was sick and was she coming back because my little soft-hearted boy missed her. She and I had a good chuckle over how quickly he went from wanting to swat Courtney to wanting her there in the seat next to him. Turns out Courtney went on vacation with her family and will be back next week.

Mrs. Eaker told me several things today that made me feel pretty good about my little boy:

She is keeping an extra close eye on him because Liam doesn't tattle. Now in my mind not tattling is a good thing, but she is concerned that he wouldn't tattle even if the other kids were really being mean, so she is watching out for him. He is the smallest boy in the class, and she is extra careful about bullying. This I definitely appreciate.

She thought at first he might not be ready for preschool, but she says he definitely is. He is intelligent. He is also very well-spoken and extremely polite.

These are her words, not mine!

All I can say is apparently he hasn't yet had reason to tell her: "You're bustin' my chops!"

I wonder if he knows that would likely lose him a bee?

Laughter is good for the soul

For the past several days I have been feeling a restlessness that cannot be explained.

I can't seem to settle in to my normal tasks and I have been having the most bizarre dreams.

In one dream I was forced to run through a giant drawer full of silverware. The divisions between the items were about three feet high, just a bit too tall for me to step over. Someone had me by the hand and was dragging me through them at a run. In my other hand was silverware of my own which I kept dropping and having to stop and pick up. It would blend in with the existing silverware in the drawer and then I couldn't find it. For whatever reason it was very important that I not lose the silverware I was carrying. As the dream went on I became more and more frantic as I wasn't given a chance to relocate my own silverware. So bizarre.

Then last night I dreamt I was the caretaker for this older gentleman. When I got to his house to make his dinner, straighten up the house and give him his medicine some of his family was there visiting. As I was cleaning up around the house I kept finding silverware in all these strange places. Some was under the sofa, tucked under the covers of the bed, inside the washer and dryer and other equally odd spots. Weird. As I was checking in this one particularly frilly bedroom I discovered a flight of stairs I had not previously noticed following the line of the wall to the second floor. They were only about 18 inches wide, covered with rose print fabric and had no handrail. I went up a few steps, but chickened out and came back down. As I regained the bottom one of the man's sons came into the room and chastised me for being in there. I told him I was just trying to locate all the silverware and showed him the handfuls I was carrying. As we exited the room we ran into another of the sons who was carrying a ladies' pump (you know the shoe kind). It was about three feet long and painted bright green. He told me he was looking for a place in his dad's house where it would look "right." He then proceeded to tell me he had two more at home he was planning on painting blue and yellow respectively and that I needed to be thinking about a nice place for them as well. Huh?

I can't decide if I am truly losing it or what.

My husband says he thinks our dreams are just the psyche's way of taking out the trash. We fall asleep at night and if the day has been particularly stressful or whatever, the brain starts getting rid of the unnecessary stuff and it comes out as these strange and unexplainable images that most of the time we can't even remember. Usually when I do remember them I end up wishing I couldn't because they are so absolutely nutty and disconnected that when I tell someone about them I just sound like a blithering idiot. These two were so bizarrely funny I just had to share. I'm sure some dream-interpreter person could tell me what they really mean, but I think in this case I would rather be comfortable in my ignorance. I just found them good for a chuckle first thing in the morning.

Where I’m from . . .

I am from fabric; from Singer, Gingher, Coats and Clark.

I am from homemade bread and milk fresh from the cow; from butter paddled and rinsed from the cream and vegetables dirty from the garden.

I am from the pines and the birches; from barbed-wire pastures and deep cedar glades.

I am from the little house with 40 acres on the north bench.

I am from books read aloud and six people sharing a single bathroom.

I am from Zilch and jigsaw puzzles; from Nancy and Wayne; from grandparents and cousins all living in one another’s hip pocket.

I am from Cattail Canyon and Salamander Swamp; from the big rock and blue-tailed lizards.

I am from stubbornness and perfection.

I’m from drinking coffee will make your feet black and Run Sheep Run.

I am from quiet. I am from dark shadows and bright lights.

I'm from Idaho and Germany, meat and potatoes.

I am from the muddy, rocky bottom of the Moyie River watching false teeth and glasses floating away. I am from branding day at Hinthorns’ and swimming on the point. I am from camping on the west side and huckleberries on the east.

I am from the box in the top of the closet and the reels on the shelf; from the priceless relics and memories of the past.

I am loved

It’s gonna be a good week.

Who cares if my husband has to take half a day off tomorrow to help me out of a jam?

Who cares if I have so much work to do I feel like I might be done next October?

Who cares if we have such a busy schedule this week we won't sit down to dinner as a family until Friday?

Who cares if my son routinely turns into demanding, whiny-boy?

Who cares if the laundry isn’t done, the sink is full of dirty dishes and the family room is looking like Hurricane Toysrus struck?

Who cares if an icy wind is blowing?

Who cares if my alone time consists of the three seconds it takes for Liam to locate me again?

None of it matters.

I am loved.

It is amazing how that simple statement of fact covers a multitude of the downers in my life.

Not only am I loved by my husband who would move the earth and stars for me if need be, but I am loved by the sweetest little boy in the world and most importantly I am loved by the God who created us all.

Although I sometimes need reminding of it, and many things in my life try to overwhelm it: I am loved . . . and it makes all the difference.