Come in…

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My husband and I went antique shopping today. I bought some pretty presents for relatives. And I could not resist something that peeked out at me from behind many layers of old petticoats…

It was an old door. It was once pink, but the years had not been kind to it. It was love at first sight. I told my husband we must get it. He sighed heavily. We bought the door. I owe him… But then we got home and he agrees it is fantastic. We will mount it on a wall in our hallway. Our hallway is covered in paintings. We will then hang the paintings on the door. I can always see things in my head the way they are going to be. Not the future, but the way a room will look finished…where something should go. It is a trait I accept graciously from my father.

It happened to fit perfectly in our car. I knew it would…

Just sayin’.

I made up stories about the door all the way home. My husband was so happy. I mean what guy doesn’t want an old pink door? And what guy does not want to hear contrived history about said door while driving his batty wife home?

I am a gift, I tell ya. A gift.

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I believe it must have been an old victorian door. I know the lady who purchases antiques for the shop just came back with a haul from Iowa. Iowa? Nah, this door never lived in Iowa. It was definitely a door to a rambling old house overlooking the sea.

“Come in.” It beckons. Its voice now raspy with splinters and age. “Come see the views beyond me. Watch the crashing waves upon the shore. See the sunset against the mist. Open me. Dream.”

The door stood as the keeper of a house, long since abandoned. Its creaky calls growing distant and weak. The only answerers being children fulfilling a dare and teenagers looking for a hot thrilling night.

And then one day, someone ripped it from its lover. Tore its soul in two. Perhaps they thought the door might make good kindling. When they went to cut the door in half, they heard a whisper.

“Come in.”

And so they sold the door. They could not bear to be the breaker of dreams. That is how it came to be miles and miles from its heart. It came to rest in an antique shop far from the home it once guarded. It came to me.

And I will heed its call. I will see the dreams behind the door. It whispers, “Come in.”

And I do.

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I linked this to


Savvy Southern Style

My Romantic Home

Chicken Enchilada Soup

Have you had this at Chili’s Bar & Grill?

When given a choice of any restaurant in town to eat dinner at, my children will always pick Chili’s. Their favorite thing there is the chicken enchilada soup. I wanted to learn how to make it. I found this wonderful recipe from Joy at Lindsey’s Luscious, on pinterest. Let me quickly say I love this lady’s blog. She is humorous and warm. Her love of cooking is infectious…

Anyhoo, the best part about this soup is, it is made in a crockpot. It does not get any easier than that!

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I simply follow her instructions. Except:

I use diced rotisserie chicken.

I use eight tortillas, instead of six.

I also omit the cayenne pepper.

I use a stick blender before I add the chicken.

Serving with cilantro and tortilla chips is a must!

I buy the large block of velveeta. I use half and store the other half for another batch to make later. It is almost the same price as the smaller block. Plus, it stays fresh in the refrigerator for an ungodly amount of time.

My friend cannot use tomato based products in cooking for her family and makes this soup with green enchilada sauce instead of red. She says her and her family love it. I am anxious to try that as well.

The taste of this soup is indescribable, but I will try. It is creamy and spicy. The flavors tasting almost like a chicken enchilada, but with a cheesier smoother finish.

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I love this recipe so much.

When I type in “chicken enchilada soup” into my Weight Watcher’s points plus system, it says a cup of chicken enchilada soup is six points! I very much hope that is true. Well, I am going with that and sticking to it.

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This makes enough soup for my family to eat it two nights in a row. I am breaking down the total cost for my family’s pot of soup, excluding spices, because those are cheap. I add beans and corn when making this for my friends. That would add $2 to the total below. I do not add those ingredients when making the soup for my family:

1 rotisserie chicken $5
Enchilada sauce $2
Onion .50
Cilantro .33
1/4 bag of corn tortillas .40
Chicken stock $1.70
1/2 large block of velveeta $3
8 oz. tomato sauce .50
4 oz. shredded cheese $1
Sour cream .50
Tortilla chips $2

Total: $16.93

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Enjoy! Please let me know if you make this! Thank you, Lindsey for a fantastic recipe!

The Spider Freak

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The screams were coming from our bathroom.

They were loud. They were shrill. They were coming from me. My husband burst into the bathroom. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, but I pointed into our bathtub.

“I just want to take a bath, but it is so big. I cannot move it.” I continued to point into the bathtub. I continued to point at the giant spider inside of it.

Before you become too alarmed, please know I loved the spider inside of the bathtub. It was a daddy long legs. It is a variety of spider that will kill other pests in your home. They do not have sharp enough fangs to penetrate human skin (this theory has never been proven, but I choose to believe it).

Growing up, our family kept them all over the house. Now, we keep them all over the house. I assume my husband thinks I am crazy, but he humors me with the daddy long legs’ special treatment. We never kill them. But this one was intimidating. And it stood between me and the relaxing bath I had been looking forward to all night.

I had tried to get it to crawl onto a piece of paper, but quickly realized that that would not work. The spider was the size of half of the paper. One quick move and it would be on my hand. I loved it, but there is no way I could handle that situation. I had begun screaming and mewling when that debacle had almost occurred.

My daughter looked matter-of-factly into the tub. “Well, mom…you let it get too big, ” she deadpanned. I was looking alarmingly at the spider contemplating my next move. When my husband took the situation in hand. I mean, he took the situation in hand…

My husband quickly scooped the spider into his hands and began the transportation to the nearest safe zone. This being the top of our entertainment center. But it began to dangle. The children began squealing. My husband asked me to get the camera. I stood frozen in the doorway. And just like that, the spider vanished. We searched everywhere. We could not find it.

The children ran away screaming.

My husband began to complain that he felt itchy. It continued into the night.

Maybe it went to join the other spiders we have transferred. Maybe there is a club of sorts in the walls discussing our antics. Maybe my children will have many stories to tell…

If you come to our house, do not be alarmed. They can not hurt you. They might tickle. They might crawl. There might be some undignified screaming coming from your hostess…

Welcome to our crazy, fun house.

Do you feel itchy yet?

Dear Children: Doll Skirt

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Dear Children,

Today your daddy and I went out to lunch while you were at school. I know this is shocking. I imagine that when you think of your parents while you are at school (and you do, right? All of the time, right?), we are standing somewhere in the house. Mannequins frozen in motion. Arms stiff in the act of baking a cake or making the bed.

We are wooden caricatures of ourselves with the simulated expression of the day preserved on our face for eight hours…

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but while you guys are in school we have loads of good times. Fun times. And we eat out a lot.

A lot.

So, we went to a winery. ‘Cause we could. And while Mommy was sitting there enjoying the view and the cool breezes, your dad said something to her…

“Oh my God!” He said through clenched teeth and in a whispered breath. “Don’t turn around. But, you have to look when this lady comes by.”

Curiouser.

At that moment, a woman came down the stairs and rounded the corner where I was sitting. And sweet children, I do not know what this lady was thinking when she left the house. I do not know if she ran into a pack of garment munching wild beasts before she decided to eat lunch.

But her skirt was missing.

Oh, it was kind of there. But it was shorter than her underwear. So, I do not know if that constitutes it being a skirt or a belt for her underwear. Which was a g-string… When she walked by Mommy’s table, her butt was four inches lower than her “skirt.”

I said to your daddy, whose eyes were still very wide, “Oh my gosh! I can see her butt!”

Which I really did not need to say. Because everyone could. And the question that is posed becomes, “Why?”

And your daddy said, “Yes, and I saw the front. Ummm, I just watched her come down the staircase. Imagine what I saw…”

It was quite shocking in the middle of the day and at a nice restaurant, too.

We continued with our conversation, but I am a seeker of information.

I asked your dad where she had gone and he pointed to a big table where several women fully clothed were sitting. Which just proves that your dad does indeed have eyes in the back of his head or the most fantastic peripheral vision this world has seen. Because he never turned around. Which makes me want to watch him more closely…

Mommy’s brain almost burst from her head at this information. All of the other women were very conservative. And in the middle of these ladies sat the woman with the skirt she had stolen from her child’s doll. (Don’t worry, you do not need to hide your dolls. Mommy would never do that).

And a thought popped into my head, children: how was she sitting?

It is a scientific fact that when you sit, your skirt gets shorter. It just does. So that lady had to be sitting with her friends with her very front on display at the table. At lunch. In the middle of a restaurant.

It was bizarre.

I am wondering how many of her friends handed her a napkin for the situation presenting itself. And the napkin would have been longer than the skirt.

Which brings me to the moral of this letter:

Your clothes should cover your private parts. Amen. The end.

Daughter: Please think about what you want to represent when you leave the house. Do not put yourself fully on display. Leave things to the imagination. Do not make your friends hand you a napkin to cover your parts.

And beware of garment munching wild beasts.

Son: Please do not bring a girl wearing a doll skirt home to meet me. I am not good at hiding my feelings. You might actually see me turn into that frozen mannequin.

I do not think your poor daddy’s eyes could handle it.

And I do not know that my napkins are up to the challenge..

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* I recently learned my children are googling my blog. Which is sweet. Very sweet. But I also want to know that they are learning something from me besides simple recipes and pretty clothing. These letters are real letters to my children. From their mother. You might not agree with my message, but please respect my sentiment.