Hot Cross Buns Banana Muffins

Today I was going to post about what a wonderful day Sunday was.

Because, you see, Saturday was a terrible day for me. One of those days where the boy wouldn't eat anything all day, (and wouldn't poop all day, either, after several days of voluntary constipation) and overreacted again and again to a billion seemingly ordinary things, and just seemed generally miserable. One of those days when I found myself feeling less-than-optimistic about his progress so far in overcoming his sensory issues. One of those days spent treading and retreading worn roads in my mind, familiar pathways of blame (Did he inherit this disorder from me? Did I drink too much that one night, before I knew I was pregnant? Did I take the wrong medicine, before I knew? Did I stand too close to a smoker one too many times? Was I too stressed out during pregnancy? Did I work too much? Did I worry too much? Did I not want him enough, before he was born? Did I not hold him enough, after he was born? Was it the surgery on his skull? Did I choose the wrong surgeon? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS???

Me? Hah! What about him? See? There you go selfishly thinking about your own troubles when HE'S the one with the disorder that interferes with nearly every aspect of his life. You're a SELFISH mother. THAT'S what's wrong here. You worthless bitch.)

Yeah, Saturday was a bad day.

But Sunday? Sunday, I got my son to try fresh grapes.

And he asked me for more.

Twice.

(Yes, they were cut into quarters so he wouldn't choke on them, safety police.)

This may not seem so monumental to some of you, dear readers, on first glance, but I have been trying to get this child to eat fresh fruit now, well, let's see, since he was old enough to eat fresh fruit. Which would make it, like, A YEAR AND A HALF. He loves dried fruit, mind you, but for the longest time, he wouldn't eat fresh fruit at all. For months upon months, I've been trying; various pediatric specialists (including Michelle the hallowed OT, may She return from her maternity leave healthy and well-rested posthaste) have been trying.

But so far, what has a small army of adults accomplished? Only this: He will OCCASIONALLY eat sliced apples. Granny Smith or Gala apples, specifically (no substitutions -Mgt).

And each slice must be lightly patted with a paper towel to remove excess juice before he will touch it.

So, this Grape Incident was a HUGE deal. Not only did he just increase his fresh fruit repertoire by 50%-- he did so by volunteering to eat STICKY globes filled with JUICE!

I am convinced that somewhere, angels wept.

Later that day, we took him to a park, and not only did he do all sorts of new climbing tricks on the playground that he'd been scared witless to try just weeks ago-- he also ate the sliced deli ham I packed for him as part of our picnic dinner. He ate the deli ham. Which he has been categorically refusing to eat for three months straight.

And, the icing on the cake?

My husband, who refuses to consume:

green salads
soups
stews
hot drinks
spinach
artichokes
asparagus
beans
most nuts besides peanuts
anything containing mayonnaise

(And I blame myself for the boy's picky eating? Oh, oh. I know.)

told me the broccoli-cheddar quiche I'd made for our family picnic was "good."

An adjective which the man ordinarily reserves SOLELY for cookies, cheesecake and lasagna.

Holy smokes! What an awesome day, right?

Yeah, so that's what I was going to post about today. In much more touching detail than I just did. With charm and wit, etcetera.

Then, something happened.

And I got angry.

I mean, "You won't like me when I'm angry," angry.

Someone made me angry.

Someone who, incidentally, isn't too fond of, say, asparagus.

Or walnuts.

Dammit, I love walnuts.

So, lacking a doghouse to send him off to, what's an angry housewife to do?

Aha! The same thing angry housewives have done for the past 2000 years, that's what!

I'll drink.

I'll drink . . . I'll drink, and blog!

No, no, no. Wait. That's been done before. I'll do one better than that.

While I make my S.O. put the boy to bed and fold the laundry, I'll drink, and blog, and BAKE!

Let's see . . .

I've got these brownish overripe bananas. Aaaaand . . . some walnuts. Yeah, walnuts.

So, first, I'll down this large, refreshing, brim-full glass of white wine. Last of the bottle. Thanks for leaving that, happy couple friends who came by for dinner Friday night. Okay . . .

Rip off banana peels. Hurl forcefully into trash can. Tear bananas into pieces. Smash bananas. Smash bananas. Smash them some more. Add melted butter, and vanilla, and smash.

Beat eggs. Lightly? Screw that. Beat eggs vigorously. While glaring at them. Add to bananas, and beat some more.

Stupid eggs.



Pour a glass of the claret. Take a sip. A bit sharp, that. What's that? 2004? Pffffft. Too young for my tongue. Heeeeeeeeeeh heh heh. I'm hilarious. But hey, it was free! Them's damned good friends, leavin' two half-full wine bottles behind.

(Did I mention the husband won't drink wine, either? Yeah. I know. Philistine.)

Okey-dokey. Now what? Flour. That's right. Don't forget to substitute a third of a cup of the fancy stone-ground whole wheat. That's my secret ingredient, bitches. Adds body and texture, and stuff. Plus it's healthy. Yeah, I think about health stuff even when I'm baking drunk. WTF?



Okay, I must not actually be drunk yet.

Drink more wine.

Now add white and brown sugar and BEAT--

Holy crap! I almost forgot the baking powder!



Whew! That would have totally sucked. "Angry Woman's Unleavened Banana-Nut Sludge, anyone?" Sheesh. More wine, please.

Now, for the walnuts: I don't have chopped walnuts. I have shelled walnut halves. So what do I do?

Crush each half into smaller pieces with my bare hands, of course.



Crush nuts. Crush nuts.

Hmm, let's put in twice the walnuts called for in the recipe! WALNUT-banana muffins.

*Cackle*

Drink.

Stir.

Drink.

Bake.

Have long conversation with husband.

Who is really, come to think of it, a nice guy.

So, maybe I won't move to Antarctica.

Eat muffins.



Ahh, love.