I’m Bragging About Buttermilk Today


Today I’m introducing a feature I have no plans to ever do again.  So, if you hate it, it’s your lucky day. If you love it, then you will have something to brood about besides the weather and that hot guy who said he never wanted to have sex with you again.

Win win.

This week I did many brave and wonderful things.  Normally, my weeks are full of foolish antics and hapless hijinks, so this is going to be hard for me.  Bragging and being all big in my britches.

The most impressive thing I did was dredge a piece of raw meat in buttermilk and breadcrumbs.  I shit you not, I purchased a carton of buttermilk, not something I’ve even laid eyes on since 1979 in my Grandmother Tate’s old yellow farmhouse.  Then, I followed a recipe I’d memorized for so-called Unfried Chicken that I saw Trisha Yearwood (of country music fame) make on an episode of the Food Network.  I watched that whole damn thing while in the treadmill because the TV was broken so all I could get was country music chicken recipes or Joel Osteen. Don’t judge. I was hungry.

Anyway, because I  was running while watching my concentration was at its peak.  I’ma make that recipe.  I got all the stuff together: Panko breadcrumbs, Louisiana hot sauce, chicken, lemons.

Listen, it didn’t taste any more like fried chicken than the sole of my flip flop, but it was decent.  Edible.  And that was not me who snuck out later to buy some Popeye’s chicken and biscuits.  Not me– I don’t like biscuits. (Yes I do.)

What else? I was sure there was something else magical and noteworthy that I did.

Does downloading three Willie Nelson songs count?

What about losing my ever-living shizz in the parking lot after swim lessons when Sadie was refusing to get into the car and I was starving because it was 2PM and I hadn’t eaten? That was the lowest point of my parenting life EVER.  It was so awful.  I could tell I was going to blow at 1:30, but Sadie simple wouldn’t be hurried. I was begging her, “Mommy is super hungry and she gets pretty mean when that happens. Let’s try to hurry.”  When she started crying a few minutes later because I wouldn’t let her play at the outdoor playground even though she had wet hair and it was only 20 degrees outside, I blew. I blew my stack long and hard and as forceful as that nasty nor’easter that blows off the Lake.  She cried.  I cried.  Simon cried.  Little snow pigeons cried.

Later that night, I used my buttermilk to dredge the chicken.  It was an offering.  A please forgive me for not taking care of my physical needs and for putting myself in a situation where there was no way I wasn’t going to blow.  It was an amends.  A prayer for better days ahead and better snacks in my purse on swimming days.  It was a promise to learn from the pain.  It was an I’m sorry your mother is deeply flawed, but here’s some healthy breaded chicken.

Normally, this whole post would be about that bloody afternoon and all the ways I failed my kids, myself, and humankind.  But like writing with the non-dominant hand, I’m exercising other muscles. It feels weird to be bragging about buttermilk, instead of ragging on myself.

So, yeah, I was awesome this week with the whole buttermilk thing.


14 thoughts on “I’m Bragging About Buttermilk Today

  1. You’ve brought back fond memories of buttermilk in MY grandmother’s kitchen. She never cooked with it though, not that I know of, anyway. We drank it. I added salt to my glass, but that’s another story, I guess 🙂

    Also, not so fond memories of being a nanny and getting testy sometimes with the kids, because I was exhausted or hungry. Not fun, but it happens to everyone.

  2. love that you rocked the buttermilk. you’re such a better mom than me. to make up for my digressions i would have given them a cereal and milk dinner or ordered in food. both options are a win in my house because i can’t get my kids to eat almost anything i cook. clearly, i suck!

  3. I love every line of this post. Not least of all that little snow pigeons cried, but most of all that you are writing with your non-dominant hand. The only way to build those muscles is to use them, even if they are weak at first. You are incredible.

  4. Writing with the nondominant hand. I need to try it. We’ve been playing racquetball with our left hands and calling ourselves the NON DOMs. It really is good for the brain. Soul, I mean. Great post!

  5. Hahaha Little snow pigeons cried…It sucks to be starving, guilty and crying. Sorry lady. But hooray for buttermilk chicken (and purchased biscuits that will never be mentioned again)!

  6. Oh snap, Christie– Cimmorene adores buttermilk! Loves to drink it RIGHT out of the carton along with baking with it… buttermilk biscuits, too. While our daughter worships at the altar of bacon, Cimmy is right at the fountain shrine of buttermilk.

  7. You know what? You are awesome and you should brag about yourself. That recipe actually sounds really good. I am Googling….

  8. Oh no! Not the snow pigeons! 😉

    I lost my shizz hard on Sunday with my youngest while he was doing his V day cards for his class. And I can’t even blame low blood sugar. It was an all day event, and he would not focus and had to keep redoing ones when he repetitively wrote his name in the TO space, and I eventually just lost it. Not a proud moment. I apologized after and gave him extra hugs, but didn’t whip out the buttermilk. Then again, if their moms don’t go crazy once in a while, what will they have to tell their therapists?

  9. Being hangry (so hungry that you get angry) is a bitch. My worst parenting moment: Summer in Dallas, 2.5-year-old and baby, post-McDOnald’s in the parking lot, trying to get them in so I can turn on the dang A/C . . . the older one wants to do it herself. My response, “Then do it, dammit!” Her response? “I not dammit, Mommy. I Maddie.” (OK . . . maybe not THE worst. THE worst might have been the time I had to keep from losing my shit on my girls so I got in the car circled the block 10 times or so while my children sat on the front steps waving each time I passed by. OR the time I left my refusing-to-get-dressed 3-y-o at home and she came out and chased the car down our street naked. Thank you, Lord, that we all made it to the tween and teen years.)

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