The Old Van

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When I was growing up, my dad had a van. A really old van. And not old in the classic-vintage-any-kind-of-cool-way van.

Just old.

And dirty.

Not dirty old man.

But dirty old van.

Although, I hope to one day be called both.

Wha-?!

I have spent my adult life searching for a van with the insides that could match that one. The one from my memories. With the interior so covered in dog hair and dust that when you slid the door open, it appeared as though my father was throwing magic confetti into the air.

If magic confetti was made out of dog hair.

Which I am quite positive it is.

I am thinking I will never find a van quite like it.

My dad’s favorite color is blue. Every year he would paint his van a different shade of blue. Inevitably, it would chip or fade, so the van always had patches of different shades of blue peeking through it. It was like a blueberry jelly bean. Before they made blueberry jelly beans. It actually looked quite pretty paired with the rust. It had a special ombre effect decades before ombre would become fashionable.

When we were little we loved riding in the van. It had no unnecessary items. Such as seatbelts.

My sister and I would argue over who would get to ride in the front.

Looking back, I cannot quite figure out why this was. The front seat sat precariously balanced. Another unnecessary item in this van was the bolt that would have held the front seat in place. This meant that if you leaned back in the chair, it would topple over backwards.

We were a no frills family.

Seatbelts? Pfffft.

A seat that would stay in place? What are we? The Rockefellers?

Doors that stayed shut? Please. Those are for amateurs. Just don’t lean on the door and you’ll be fine. As in, you won’t tumble out onto the moving road. Or rather onto the road from the moving vehicle. I use the word “vehicle” loosely. It was more like the blue ride of terror.

I will never forget when my little sister was two.

I was pouting in the back of the van. Sitting as close to the console as I could get, away from the back. I was scared of the depths of the van. In fact, I never went back there. It was where all of the magic confetti was made. Too much of that stuff and I was sure I would drift into the dust motes that clung to the carpet as they unsuccessfully avoided being made into illustrious scraps of crap.

I was glowering at my sister who had once again scored the fun seat. The seat up front. She was busy spinning and trying as hard as she could to keep her balance so the seat would not topple into the back where I would surely hold her for ransom in an attempt to claim her throne.

It happened so quickly.

One moment we were being jostled down the dirt road that led to our house from my grandparent’s home. And the next moment, the front door had swung open.

And my little sister. My two year old little sister was holding on to the open door by the window frame. Dangling there like an unfortunate mountain climber in an action movie.

Or an unfortunate child of the eighties before there were laws concerning the safety of automobiles.

I will admit to laughing. I had no idea how dangerous the situation was. I thought she was just up to her old tricks. She was the dare devil. I seriously thought she was purposefully hanging onto an open door.

It was awesome.

And then she let go.

And my mom freaked the freak out.

She stopped the van.

She was terrified that she had run my sister over.

But she had merely fallen out. There was not a scratch on her.

It had to be all of that magical confetti.

We were always covered in the stuff.

You would think it was at this point that something in or on the van would change. Such as, I don’t know, adding a little fancy somethin’ like a bolt to a seat or a screw to the door.

Or a seatbelt for a toddler.

Nonsense!

The only thing changing on that van was which color blue it would be from one day to the next.

If you got black and blue from riding in the van. Well, you just matched it better.

We are going to fast forward this story to when I was thirteen. Seven years had passed since my sister’s little incident. The van had not changed. Or rather, I am sure it was still being painted yearly and the magical confetti had now had seven years to grow bigger. Thicker. Fuller. As we acquired more and more dogs to ride in the van (a story for another day).

We had a bus lane at our school. For buses. Let me repeat. For BUSES!

But my dad, well, my dad would pull up in the bus lane whenever he would pick me up. From Junior High School. It would go yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. Yellow.

No one ever told him to move. They were much too in awe of his van.

I would, as quickly as I could manage, run up to the van. Yank it open, pause to admire the magic confetti as it swarmed into the sunlight intent on infecting delighting anyone who passed by, and then jump into the back as fast I could. Why the back? You ask.

I think maybe I was humbled by how amazing my ride was and maybe I did not want anyone seeing who was in the blue van. I did not want to be hounded with autographs. Did I mention the back seat had no windows? Yea. I was incognito in my coolness.

Years later I would learn that my little sister would make my dad park a block away from that junior high school so that she would not have to be bombarded by fans. You know. The fans that would swarm that awesome van.

Or at least, that is what I assumed.

My dad always fondly tells the story of how I was not embarrassed of his method of transportation. Of how my sister was so mean to make him park so far away. Of how I was the good daughter that allowed the van to truly shine. Where it did not belonged.

In the bus lane.

Of course.

I did not have the heart to tell him it just never occurred to me to ask him to park elsewhere.

The thought just never came.

You can blame it on my immaturity. My true love for the van. My desire for fame.

But we all know the truth.

The real culprit was the magic confetti.

I snorted too much of it.

I became an addict.

And then it was taken away. Sold. Never to be seen again. It went to a dealer. And I’m not talking cars.

I’m speaking of nostalgic shrapnel. Flakes of time. Decades. Of. Laughter. And screams.

That must be the reason that whenever I see a van the color of the sky, I grin widely and rush forward to peer inside.

To get a whiff.

Of blue painted dust mote magical memories.

Searching For… II

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I have written here before about the odd ways people can sometimes stumble onto my blog. It continuously makes me smile. Here are some more that I have gathered, typos and grammar in original state:

Gap shirt a watched pot
I cannot believe someone else knows about this shirt!

What is the efect of atending the lover’s weding?
(The same as a watched pot)

Its okay i deserve it
(hey! That’s my anthem, too!)

Please secret to my husband
What am I supposed to secret to him? The suspense is killing me!

I think I’m Adorable Archive
(Yikes! Well, I guess that’s better than affordable)

Costco Elf Shelf sitter
(Gulp. Why does it need a sitter? Excuse me while I go run and scream)

Boobs
(oh, you poor unfortunate soul to have stumbled here. And, also, while I can appreciate that you aren’t picky, you might want to be more specific… And less caveman-like if you ever want to end your quest)

Please secret to my husband 2
No, no, no! I didn’t even secret the first part to him! You must provide more information. And also, hire someone other than google search engine!

Gnome names for lover
(I’m a little scared)

Gnome lover lady
(I did this to myself)

Cowgirls Squishing Spiders
(I get this one a lot. I mean ALOT! I am not sure which part of the search term fetish is more disturbing)

Nude In Overalls
(again, I apologize that your search engine brought you here)

Gnomelover elephant belt

this is not really happening
(you bet your life it is)

there once was a lazy gnome who didn’t like his mountain home
(Why? Why didn’t he like his mountain home? Were there cowgirls squishing spiders there? On a side note, I hope you are writing a book! And I will buy it!)

make cookies without butter
(WHAAAAAA?!?! Blasphemy!)

i ate a whole sheet cake
(Me, too! Gluttoners Unite!)

chili that does not clum togather
(I hate when my chili does not clum togather. Although it is better than when tacos do not drunch)

hokey i no my way around the rink
(the rink or the drink?)

Oh! I love thee search engine. Don’t ever change!

Not Feeling It

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I wore this all day. I was having a really hard time getting the gumption up to put an outfit together. Thankfully, this Free People jersey dress is pretty much like wearing pajamas. And I would have worn them as such if I had not borrowed my son’s deodorant that day (without his knowledge) and been knocked over by the smell of Old Spice. How do men do it? The aroma of the men’s deodorant clung to my dress and I could not sleep in it. I am used to baby powder. By the way, who decides that baby powder scent is for girls and mountain air is for boys? I was explaining my dilemma to my husband while I whined in bed and he looked around for an escape route.

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“What happened to your deodorant?” He asked like a grown up.

“I don’t know. It was just gone.”

He got up and went in to the bathroom. I watched him with a faint amount of interest.

“You mean this deodorant?” He asked as he held up my little blue container that had been sitting in direct line of sight in the middle of the counter.

“Wow! I don’t know how that got there!” Then I erupted into a cackle of lunar laughter that made my husband reevaluate the exits in our house again.

My point?

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Um, yea, sure… I had one.

Okay. I got it!

Don’t use your son’s deodorant.

And also, I’m pretty sure my deodorant is possessed.

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That day was hard. Deodorant issues aside.

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I felt as though all of my imagination was sucked dry. Maybe the deodorant worked too well.

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I just threw this dress on with some black tights and my newest popback score, these Freebird Boots I snagged for 85% off at Anthropologie. It was kind of amazing how just wearing something I liked made me feel a little better.

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I wanted to pair this dress with my striped blazer from last year. I would have loved to show it with some light colored denim skinny jeans. To me, that would have been perfect. But instead I kept the tights on. Maybe you can imagine I am wearing skinny jeans. And while you’re at it, maybe you could put me in my deodorant and not an eleven year old boy’s.

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I hope your imagination is better than mine.

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Have you ever lacked the incentive to get dressed? Have you ever used someone else’s deodorant? Do you know what kind of exorcism I could perform on mine? I think I saw it move again. It’s either that or my imagination might be coming back. I am quite sure it is the former. Which really just proves the latter.

Oi. I need to do something about these fumes.

Winning Creamy Chicken Enchiladas

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On our third date, my husband made me dinner. It was our third date in three days. It was also the night we decided to get married. We make quick decisions.

I did not know the trouble he had had making these enchiladas before I got to his apartment.

He burned the chicken for the filling and had to run out. For some reason he substituted it with canned chicken. Gulp. He was also on a health kick and used all low-fat ingredients. Double gulp. Needless to say that dish is a bit different than the one we make today.

I say “we” but I really mean “I.”

Ingredients:

1 1/2 pounds of salsa chicken (recipe here. It will make double the amount of chicken you will need for this dish. You can halve it, double this recipe or save it for a different dish. I use the leftovers from tacos the night before)
15 oz. can green enchilada sauce
2 cans of cream of chicken soup
8 oz. softened cream cheese
10 white corn tortillas
2 cups shredded mexican cheese
1/3 cup vegetable oil

Optional toppings:

Salsa
Cilantro
Sour cream

Directions:

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Make my salsa chicken in the crockpot. This will take 4-5 hours. Shred. Set aside. I used leftover chicken from the night before.

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Pour vegetable oil in a small skillet. Heat over medium heat until hot. Fry tortillas one at a time for approximately 8 seconds each side. You do not want the tortillas hard, just soft and malleable. Don’t worry about any little holes in a tortilla. It will be covered with cheese and no one will ever know. Well, unless you post the pictures of it on the Internet. But who would be dumb enough to do that?

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Lay two paper towels on a plate. Place the tortilla on the paper towel lined plate. Lay four-five tortillas on paper towels in a single layer. Repeat paper towel layers. Repeat tortillas until all fried. Allow tortillas to cool while moving on to the next step.

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In a large skillet, mix together cream cheese, cream of chicken soups, and green enchilada sauce. Heat and stir ingredients in skillet over medium heat.

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It will be lumpy at first. Keep stirring. I use a whisk.

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And then, in a miraculous moment, it will all come together. Turn off heat.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

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Smear some of the enchilada sauce in a 9 X 13 pan.

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Take a tortilla and rub some sauce down the middle.

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Place a good handful of shredded chicken in the middle of tortilla. Roll up tortilla with sauce and chicken inside and place seam side down in pan.

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Repeat with the rest of the tortillas. I fill the pan, even on the sides because I do not want to dirty more dishes.

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Pour remaining sauce on top of filled tortillas. With a spatula, flatten it into place.

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Cover with the scrumptious cheese.

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Cover with foil and bake for twenty five minutes. After twenty five minutes, remove foil and bake for an additional ten minutes.

Remove from oven and serve!

Conclusion:

We used to make this enchilada dish every Christmas Eve. This was the first year we made it for Christmas instead.

You see, a few years ago my husband decided to switch up the recipe. He abandoned this one and made The Homesick Texan’s Chicken Enchiladas. And everybody loved them. And all was good. But I missed his old recipe. There was something divine in the simplicity of its creamy essence.

So, we had a battle of the chicken enchiladas on Christmas day. As one does.

My husband won.

Or so he thought.

He forgot one very important factor.

While he may cook ten days out of the year.

I cook on almost all of the days in-between.

That’s a lot of days.

I had not given up on the chicken enchilada recipe.

So, I made them the next week.

And the next.

And the next.

I kind of could not get enough.

My family, on the other hand, finally caved. “Okay! You win!” My daughter finally shouted when she saw the enchiladas make an appearance for the fourth time.

My son did not have her tact. He dragged himself to the dinner table on his knees. “Not again,” he murmured from the floor as he shuffled morosely towards his chair. I did not take it too personally. He dislikes any sort of enchilada. The poor guy had reached his limit.

My daughter was not done. “Look, Mom, these were great the first time. Good the second time. Fine the third time. But, oh my gosh! I don’t know if I can eat any more of these! We have had them so often!”

But I was not done either. “All right. I might not make them again for awhile,” I heard my family give a sigh of relief. I relentlessly continued, “if you can answer me one simple question.”

They looked up at me with shadowed eyes of enchilada weariness. “Anything,” they would have said if they had not fallen into a creamy-cheese-induced-coma.

“Whose enchiladas are really the best?”

“Yours!” Came the pleading sobs from my family.

Just as I suspected.

Winning.