Turnips & Cinnamon

Kid #1 is, like many other young girls, enamored of the American Girls books. In one book, some WWII kid doesn't want to eat her mashed turnips (who would?). Someone- obviously desperate or evil- dresses them up with cinnamon and sugar, and the kid is transported to happy eating once again.

This uncanny combination struck my oldest child as so completely novel that she had to try it. She would no relent until we had some cinnamoned-and-sugared mashed turnips ourselves. Having only eaten turnips in things such as stews and pasties, Kid #1 really had no idea how they tasted on their own.

Being the control freak that I am, I tried explaining to her that turnips are bitter, cabbagey, and not conducive to sweet. She was undeterred. So we traipsed out to Meijer tonight and purchased some turnips. Kid #1 was enthralled at the lovely purple gradient on the side, the interesting scales where the leaves had been trimmed, and the perfect firmness of the tuber.

"Do you have cinnamon and sugar at home, mom, or do we need to buy it?" Kid asked.

"Oh, I always have cinnamon and sugar in my house." I replied flippantly, "It makes everything better."

"Which is why it will be perfect on mashed turnips!!" Kid crowed, actually clasping her hands in glee. That's what I get for my flippancy.

We straggled home after leaving a pretty sum of money at the grocery store, and Kid #1 immediately began searching for a peeler. We boiled water, chopped the blarmy rigid things without incident, and tossed them in, excitement building among the little ones. Michael and I looked over their heads at one another, shrugged, and hoped for the best.

Twenty minutes later, we were far from the best. Mashed turnips look bad and taste awful, even with butter and milk. Add something that normally belongs on yummy toast, and you have a complete assualt on your senses. I made faces, but Kid #1 was crowing,

"Isn't it wonderful, mom? It's such a different taste!"

For all of my doubts, all of my silly groundless worries, it didn't even matter. She loved them, although I noticed a mostly-uneaten bowl sitting on the counter just now. Turnips are ridiculously cheap, I had maybe two dollars invested into the entire project- less than I would have spent on a movie. We got to learn about various root plants, and she got to actually try something that she had read about.

At the age of nine, she is going to be wanting to do a lot more of these things. I have always thought that I would have an easy time letting go of them, but I find it to not be so now. The maturity is fine- but worrying about burns and cuts and kitchen messes and wasted food gets to me. Most of all, I worry that they will be disappointed with the things they want to try.

These are needless worries! Of course all three kids will recieve burns and cuts and stitches! And I think that they will survive these things.
There will be messes and disasters and the occasional wasted food or destroyed pan- but they will leave my house knowing how to fend for themselves!

And disappointment- the only disappointment they will know is not having been allowed in the kitchen, if I keep up my current pace. But I will not. I know that it is time to start slowly letting go, gradually releasing my iron grip on these children and their minds and wills and imaginations.

There came a time when my own mom had to let me in the kitchen- and she grimly withstood burned hamburgers, clumpy rice, spicy potatoes, and watery eggs. I am ready to soldier up now and withstand my share of these, all the while teaching my children the science of cooking, the value of a dollar, and the importance of a happy kitchen. I hope I'm up for the task.

And I hope I don't run out of cinnamon.


We might try it on rutabegas next.

Worn Out.

I put my foot through my bottom sheet the other day. I wasn't even doing anything really physical, just stretching! There was this soft scritchy sound and I realized my rough heels were snagging the pillowtop.
Peeling the covers away (I needed to get up anyhow~!) I saw that there were several completely threadbare spots on my sheet. It wasn't even that long ago that I purchased them- 400 thread count queen size sheets from T.J. Maxx. You see, I was pushing Kid #2 in her baby seat... oh. Kid #2 will be seven in a few days. I guess that was a while ago...

Just now, I dried my face off on a towel and my finger went through it. Most of the towel is still pretty fluffy, but there are holes here and there, and ominous dangly strings. I sighed, remembering when I bought those. That awful shade of lavender was my favorite back then- eight years ago. I'm almost glad they're wearing out!

We drove our car off the lot- gleaming, purring, and brand spanking new. After two round trips to New York, several more to Columbus, and infinite running-around, it is starting to show its age. Things creak and groan when we drive, and there is an infernal rattle somewhere near, but not in, the glove compartment.

Things that I own are wearing out.

It happens.

When I look in the mirror, even at the tender young age of thirty, I see lines, pockmarks, puffy eyes. For the first time in my life, the skin under my chin does not spring back when I push on it. It just kind of- droops. My teeth are a mess, mostly from grinding them at night for the past twenty-five years. After three lengthy and weighty pregnancies and one car mishap, my right hip is in constant pain and my carpal tunnel is acting up again.

I am wearing out.

It happens.

Years of wear made my sheets threadbare- washing, bleaching, tossing & turning, kids jumping, wrapping around paintings while moving too often... they've seen snuggles and throw-up and passion and arguments and two children being nursed in the few moments of sleep available to a young mother. They've served their ignoble purpose, and soon they will be commissioned to my ragbag, to be replaced by something fresher and newer and probably scratchier and hopefully better fitting on my mattress (remember: T.J. Maxx)

Years of wear is making me just a little threadbare. I've also seen snuggles and throw-up and passion and arguments and nursed three children in between the few moments of sleep available to a young mother. This body has carried me across the United States a good few times, through more Renaissance Festivals than I care to remember, up a white-decked aisle, around in thousands of circles on the skating rink floor, across the Atlantic and back again, into three different maternity wards, and past countless other bodies on the face of this earth. Like my sheets, it is a bit bigger than I actually wanted, but nicer than I really thought at first. Unlike my sheets, however, it isn't going to wind up in the ragbag anytime soon. I need it for another thirty or forty years.

I went to a funeral a couple of weeks ago. It was for a dear friend of many years- Carl Vincent. He was the man that you see always in the front of church: hugging, singing, loving, comforting, teaching, encouraging. He and his dear wife operated a girl's home for nearly two decades where they served as surrogate parents to many troubled young women. When they came to the Cadillac area in the nineties, my sisters and I were confused and vulnerable young girls just beginning to enter adolescence. Carl took hold of us and adopted us as his own grandchildren. We'd only had one grandpa growing up, and his broken English and alcoholism made it hard to get to know him, much less love him.
Carl became the grandpa that we had only known in stories. He and his wife lavished affection and encouragement on us, and patiently bore our teenage phases without judgment of any kind. Plenty of other kids in and around our area were their surrogate grandchildren as well, but there was always enough love to go around.
One of my sharpest memories is of him and Bertha (his wife) telling people, over and over, "We pray for you every day." I heard that so often for myself, and many others, that it almost lost meaning. Surely no one can pray for that many people, every day! People just say that, a platitude almost: "I'm praying for you."
But then one day I was invited to their humble apartment for lunch. Bertha kindly fixed a meal according to the odd dietary requirements I had at the time, and we sat and munched and chatted amiably. They took me on a tour of the apartment- tiny as it was- and I saw something that I will never forget,
"Here's our prayer list, Sarah," Carl said, pointing at a mess on the wall near their bed, "we kneel here every morning and pray over this list." I stepped closer and saw pieces of paper taped to the wall, piece on top of piece on top of piece, all taped down with that shiny clear cellophane that yellows over time. I could see the age of some of the papers from the yellow in the tape, while others were obviously newer.
Name after name was written in crabbed handwriting on those papers. I recognized many names of people that we went to church with, but many, many more were unknown to me.
"There you are!" Bertha pointed to one of the papers, her face creasing with a smile. "So now you know it's real, we really do pray for you every day!"

Carl loved unconditionally. When he sang in church, his voice cracking with genuine emotion, everyone sat up a little straighter and listened a little harder. He would hug you without abandon, in a church of otherwise rather stiff menfolk. He could speak of his love for Jesus and allow people to see the tears in his eyes, and he could hear of some stupid thing you'd done and not like you any less for it.
When he finally died this month, at age 79, he was worn out. He was eagerly awaiting his meeting with Jesus, and not afraid of death at all. Had he been given a few more years on this earth, I am positive that he would have found extra love for more stray children.
Carl gave everything that he had. While people, including me, were snug and warm in their beds every morning, he and Bertha would crawl out- dark still permeating the landscape- and bend their aging knees and pray over dozens of names. When the list grew longer, well, they just got up earlier!

That's the kind of worn out that I want to be.

Threadbare from love.

Pre-Computer: Art Existed

We moved to Michigan in August, and we have a dozen boxes yet to unpack. Every now and then I make a half-hearted attempt to unpack some, but wind up getting distracted with whatever inane stuff is inside.

Recently, Kid #1 and I were sifting through a box of papers. Not just any papers, these were drawings, sketches, and paintings of mine from time past, some over fourteen years old! Yellowed, crumbling at the edges where acidic tape has eaten into the sides, these trivial works of art represent my growth as a person and an artist.
I've never given them much thought, in fact I have discarded dozens of my works throughout the years. Michael, however, will not allow me to pitch any more art. He feels it is worth much more than the trash bin. So it sits, aging, in an underbed storage bin. So when Kid #1 was leafing through the sheets, I busied myself with organizing screwdrivers.

"Mom!!" Kid yelled, "Who did this drawing? These butterflies?"
"Uh, me. Who else?"
She made a disbelieving tongue-clicking sound and waved the ancient paper in front of me,
"It's so beautiful!" She gushes, "This one butterfly looks like it has all fall colors."
I glance at the drawing in question. Sure enough, it is titled 'Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall'. Four butterflies in various stages of flight, each done in colors of the season- Spring is pastel and light, Winter has gray edges and brown and white accents. I can remember vividly the day that I sketched this, lovingly sharpening my Prismacolor pencils in order to fill in the details better.

That was so long ago that the memories feel like they aren't even mine. I haven't even touched a colored pencil in years, let alone brought beauty like this out of one. What killed that inside of me? What took the art out of my hands, my mind, my soul, and filled the void with angst and frustration?
I used to withdraw into my world of music and art to escape the sorrows of life with my father. I'd lock myself in my room, line up my pencils in a perfect color gradient, turn on the little nail polish-encrusted clock radio by my bed, and draw for hours. I would sketch circles, laying them out in perfect symmetry, disciplining my mind to divide each tiny section of the circle into shards of shape, color, and form. Then I'd fill in each little triangle, each tiny sliver of design, all around the circle. I destroyed most of these after staring at them for a few months, but some of them survived.
I sketched aliens faces, peering out from underbrush with glowing eyes. Butterflies, my sister's feet, desert wrens in our front yard, and more intricate circles took shape under my hand. The art wasn't stellar, but it was good.

So why did I stop? Life came and got it in the way, for one thing. My art took a new direction with my design career, and I learned to put structure to the shapes that I saw in my head. I lost the ability, slowly, to sketch, replacing it with the ability to sculpt. I lost the whirling circle patterns and replaced them with intricate Celtic knot wedding bands- things that our family could sell instead of just things that I could hang on the wall.
I lost the brilliant dance of color in my head, gave away the treasured (and expensive!) Prismacolor set to my little sister, and focused on churning out jewelry for our cases.

Then marriage came along, and with it an introduction to the wonderful world of computers. Kids followed soon after- way too soon after- and my art was lost completely in a world of spit-up and diapers and never-ending bills. I indulged occasionally in something artsy-craftsy: wreaths for my living room wall, flower arrangements to make the house look pretty, window treatments... but the art was always saved for the sculpting table. And even then- more often than not it was within constraints- is it saleable, is it functional, is it doable?
I learned to do a little bit of Photoshop work, and remembered my days of filling in color by hand.
Why, who had to struggle with compass, ruler, protractor, and pencil now? Not when you have mask, shape, copy, paste, transform, flip horizontal!
Why bother carefully outlining a shape with Vert Printemps (the French translations always sounded much more 'arty'), then carefully coloring it in, then going over it once more until the color hazed over, ready for a rubdown with the bottom of my tee-shirt? Not when you have paintbucket!

I buy colored pencils for my kids, but I never just sit still with them and color! There are always so many other things to do- dishes, laundry, bills, this bloody blog, the other bloody blog, yardwork, cooking, Civilization III, and more dishes.

Life has stolen my soul.

Art was my soul's song.

I had that butterfly drawing framed. It hangs in Kid #1's room now, perfect because she is dainty and fragile like a butterfly, and there is a butterfly meaning tied up in her middle name. The framers had to work around the missing patches and masking tape stains, because I never regarded my art enough to preserve it. The huge missing chunk out of the corner serves to remind me of the piece of my spirit that left when I gave away my colors.

I'm going to buy myself another set of colors, as soon as I have the money and I can get to a town that has supplies.

Then, I'm going to pull out the protractor, compass, ruler, pencils, eraser, and paper.
I'm going to draw a huge circle, and it is going to give me my breath back.
I'm going to measure out the center and mark off graduated spaces: one inch, three-quarters of an inch, five eighths... and as I mark these off the years will fall off my shoulders and I'll sit up straight.
I'll begin laying out lines- at hard angles and soft- and my jaw will unclench and maybe the eternal headache will go away.
I'll trace the important lines in marker and erase the dividing lines, and my gray hairs will not show quite so much.
I'll color in the shapes- yellow, spring green, peridot green, leaf green, green, teal, turquoise, blue, violet. I'll use so many gradient colors in between that the rainbow will start to roll off my desk, and I'll stoop to pick them up and maybe find that old nail polish-encrusted clock radio. If I'm lucky enough, it will still be tuned to the oldies station and I'll switch it on and listen to Chantilly Lace and wish that I could have lived in that era. I'll color hard in between the lines, remembering always Mrs. Vandreese telling us to use 'singing colors'... color so hard that the wax in the pencil makes a haze over the top of the green pencil.
Then I'll stoop down and rub, ever so gently, the haze with the bottom of my tee-shirt. The wax will squeak a tiny bit, leave a thin trace on my shirt that will never wash off, but will reveal a vivid, thick layer of color. Color that was put there with a human hand, color that you can dig at with your fingernail.

And when I'm done, I'm going to hang it up on the wall. With proper hardware, soul intact. And then...

I'm going to draw another one.

Just a few examples of what is happening everywhere in the revolution

Ron Paul delegates win 107 of 11 delegate seats for Spokane, WA:
http://www.dailypaul.com/node/46535

Pennsylvania is a loophole state. Which means caucus wins, not primaries decide the race ... Ron Paul wins 16% in the primary anyways :)
http://www.dailypaul.com/node/46625

If you guys ever want to see the face of the underground, just visit us at the dailypaul. That's where we plan most things to do with the Revolution, and where the real work is being done and results being published.

Cheers!

To Everything There is a Season... Under Heaven

It's nighttime and I'm walking around the house, making sure all of the windows are open enough to let the cool air in. Today the interior of our house hit nearly 80˚, and we were reduced to the least amount of clothing we could get away with.

Not three weeks ago, our furnace was running full blast and Michael was scraping snow off the car. Now, with our winter gas bill not even in the mailbox yet, we're pulling out the fans and shorts and ice water.

Welcome to Michigan, land of extremes.

I smile and shake my head, but it reminds me of life in general. We often live a life of extremes, don't we? I am reminded of December 2006, when we were so bloody poor that we built a Christmas tree out of trash. We had nothing but time, anyhow.

Fast forward two months, Michael working so many hours that his skin grew sallow from lack of rest and sunshine. But we had money, oh boy, did we have money! We bought new laptops and clothes and perfume and stocked our pantry and gave huge checks to charity. Life was good, we were on top, and it was all going to be this way for a while!

Or, not...

Fast forward another several months and the contracts have dried up, the perfume is gone, the laptops are still useful, if scratched a bit, and the pantry stock has been eaten. We find ourselves digging in the coin jar for a pizza and calling our bank to delay a car payment one more week.

Life brings you extremes- success, love, finances, family, health. Our family is kind of middling it out right now, neither too poor nor too rich, nothing in abundance, but nothing truly lacking, either. It is a slight relief from the roller coaster of the past few years, but I almost miss the heady excitement of the dips and turns. Now I have time, finally, to focus on my children and my home and career... not too much time, mind you, but I am trying to portion it properly.

How do we handle the extremes that life sends our way? Do we scream and moan at the frigid winter, complaining as we pay our gas bill, oblivious to people in other lands shivering without the benefit of a gas heater and insulation?
When the harsh summer sun bakes the interior of our car, do we curse it or thank our Benefactor for the gift of having a vehicle? How about the gift of sunshine! After months of wretched cloudy skies, the fit of sun is welcome, but so quickly forgotten as we rush to acquire air conditioners and window fans.

When we have lived our life to the fullest, enjoying health and vitality, do we stop to think of what it might be like to be ill? Seldom. But when illness strikes, it can be crippling just from the sheer depression of it all.

Boredom used to be Enemy #1 when I was a child, even in recent years. Now, with the website & store, this blog, three growing kids, our expanding commitment to live more 'green', church, my writing, and every other tiny thing that has to be done every day under the sun... I begin to miss boredom, miss a day with absolutely nothing to do but poke sticks at things in the yard.

I have had days where my floor is covered in toys, crayons, tiny clothes, spit-up, dirty socks, and wet towels. I begin to wonder why I ever brought any child into this world, let alone three! But then I see friends who are not even able to conceive a child and I am filled with remorse for my thoughts, and my frustration with the mess is replaced by a warmth of love for the grubby pestilences. One extreme to another...

I have days when the march of money leaving my wallet- just for the kids- is endless. Birthday parties, decent schooling, books, clothes, shoes, more shoes, coats, boots, medical care, dental care, savings (who am I kidding?), a vehicle big enough to haul it all... I begin to wonder how sweet it might be when they are grown and on their own- no more noise in the house, no more early mornings, no more scrambled egg in my carpet and juice on my books... then I tuck in three fighting noisemakers and find this in my sink, perfect in its innocent simplicity, and all is well again. This is just my season of busy-ness, and surprise roses planted in my bathroom sink.

Just because.

Motherhood is one of the longer extremes that I need to weather, and one I certainly was not cut out for, but I think I can handle it for a few more years.

Let me know about your extremes, and how you've dealt with them...

Ecclesiastes 3:1: There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven.
Ecc 3:2	A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest.
Ecc 3:3	A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to rebuild.
Ecc 3:4	A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance.
Ecc 3:5	A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
Ecc 3:6	A time to search and a time to lose. A time to keep and a time to throw away.
Ecc 3:7	A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak up.
Ecc 3:8	A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.
Ecc 3:9	What do people really get for all their hard work?
Ecc 3:10	I have thought about this in connection with the various kinds of work God has given people to do.
Ecc 3:11	God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end.
Ecc 3:12	So I concluded that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to enjoy themselves as long as they can.

A Mafia Trifecta

A story of rampant human imagination... & unusual friendship.

The year was 1994. Our family lived in Tucson and ran a jewelry store in the Foothills Mall, on La Cholla Blvd. At the time, The Foothills Mall was a beautiful and classy boutique affair, although bereft of the heavy traffic that makes a mall profitable. It has since been turned into a more traditional commercial area, and I've heard the lovely copper fountain and handpainted ceiling are gone, replaced by primary colors and chain stores. Sigh.

Our store was in the old Fox Jewelers location, a beautiful center court walk-through that had gone by the wayside when the huge corporation began to buckle under its own weight. They had left the cases and safes intact, giving our always-on-a-budget family an easy opportunity to just put our inventory in the showroom and open up. My dad did, however, splurge on a beautiful sign. Individual gold and white letters a foot and a half high spelled out the family name: R-O-N-C-A-R-I. We had it installed and opened for business in 1992.

By '94 we had established ourselves somewhat, and we three girls had found a church home across the street. At the time, Casas Adobes Baptist Church occupied that corner of La Cholla and Ina. They have since moved somewhere further northwest in Tucson, having outgrown their property boundaries back in the mid-nineties. I have no idea what the church is like today, but when I went, there were three or four packed services every weekend, and the high school youth group alone counted around 200 kids per Sunday.

Of these 200 kids, I suppose we could estimate that about a quarter of them were freshmen. I am not sure why- possibly because as a homeschooler I didn't have a graduating year- I got stuck with a group of them for some study sessions.

Bored, and daydreaming of the guitarist in our youth band, I had pretty much zoned out on the conversation in our little group. We were preparing for a Spring Break mission trip to Mexicali, and the freshmen seemed to need more instruction than I did in some of the basics. Voices went on softly around my head, until I heard one mention my place of employment,

"The entire Foothills Mall must be a Mafia front." came the young voice from across me. I snapped my head up to stare at the source, and it continued, "I mean, just look at center court- you have Sbarro Pizza, Gelato Classico, and that Roncari Jewelry place..."

I may have cocked an eyebrow at him at this point, I have never been sure. The child speaking was very fair-haired, with big, innocent-looking blue eyes and perfect preppy clothes: penny loafers, belted khaki shorts, tucked in oxford shirt. Who did he think he was, assuming a random placing of ethnic names constituted mob rule?

"There's that European Bakery across from them, too," he went on "I'm not sure yet if they're in on it. But all you have to do is look at that guy who runs the jewelry store to know he's Mafia- I bet he breaks people's kneecaps and everything!"

I felt that now would be a good time to speak up,
"Yeah, that guy... that's my dad."

Preppy kid's mouth dropped open and he blushed so furiously that I could see his scalp through his tow-colored hair.

"Uh," he said.
Some of his friends began to giggle, and I sat there relishing his discomfort, while acutely amused at the thought of my dad busting someones' knees with a baseball bat. Not that he wasn't a violent person- the baseball bat just seemed too planned, too organized for dad's tastes.

Despite this odd beginning, the preppy kid and I became rather good friends. His name was Wesley, (I can't remember the last name,) and I think he was rather in love with my younger sister Emily. We kept a running joke about wooden vs aluminum baseball bats. I taught him that not only were Sbarro and Gelato corporate fronts for American companies, but that persons originating from Northern Italy are rarely involved in what is primarily a Sicilian operation. For some reason, my father never found that amusing, although I always have.

That store closed down in 1995, we moved back to Michigan, and I never saw that church or its members again. The beautiful Roncari letters sat abandoned in boxes until this winter, when we had to let them go to a better home, with memories of Tucson flooding back.

Someday I shall visit, although I am sure most of my old friends have moved on by now.

Wherever you are, Wesley, I hope that you are still a conspiracy theorist, and I hope that you still wear penny loafers without socks. Not everything is what it seems, but sometimes stupid assumptions will surprise you with happy results.

For Free: One Blue Dress (and then some!)

Just wanted to share something with you all:

I'm giving this dress away.
I know, big deal, huh?

But it is a big deal, because there is a network of folks just giving things away according to peoples' needs, and they're doing it just because they can.

Not for a tax writeoff.

Not for something in return.

Not even for some kind of charity drive.

They are doing this just because they can, just because they want to, and because they know it will help people out. Picture something like eBay, (but with less stuff) and everything is free. Not a huge, come and take it all yard sale mess, but an individually posted, caring connection of person to person.

Someone, somewhere will wear this dress to prom, saving herself about a hundred dollars that she may not even have. That's better than sitting in my closet, perfect and unused.

Not only does this repurposing help financial need, it is good for our world. Reusing things can cut down our carbon footprint, a little bit at a time.

And there's the people element to an organization like this: who knows what kind of person will come to my house to pick this up? Maybe she will be the ray of sunshine that I could use on a depressed day, or maybe I can be that to her. Who knows what could happen? Imagine all of the personal connections that could be made if everyone could share what they don't use anymore. No Goodwill, no Wal-Mart, no classified ads.

So check this website out, guys, because its great. Twoshirts.org. Spread the word. Give. Change the world.

Peace to you all.

While-you're-at-it Brownies

I call these brownies 'While-you're-at-it' because the steps can be done in between other things, such as laundry, other cooking, or basic around the kitchen stuff. They are very rich, and I can generally only eat a 1" square at a time. I know, I'm a wimp!

Adapted from Practical Cooking.

1 - 6 oz bar Scharffen Berger bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped*
6 oz butter, chopped
3 eggs, lightly beaten
1 1/2 cups light brown sugar
1 tbsp vanilla
1 cup plus two tbsp all-purpose unbleached flour
1/4 cup cocoa powder
1 - 8 oz package walnuts

*Why do I command that thou usest expensive chocolate? Why, because your brownies are what they start with. You want bitter, gritty, mealy, stick-in-your-throat-sweet brownies, go ahead and use generic semi-sweet chips. I pity your soul.

Start with a smallish heatproof dish that just fits into a sauce pan without falling in. For example, I have a Pyrex bowl that is about an inch larger around than my medium saucepan. Bring your water to a boil, then remove from heat. Set your bowl into this, not touching the water, not boiling the water, and being careful not to cross your arms. Kidding on that last one there, guys, relax.
Preheat your oven to 350˚
Now drop your chopped butter and chopped chocolate together into the glass dish.
Go about your business.
Or, as my Italian nonno used to say: "bidness"
In a few minutes, drop by the dish, give it a swizzle with a whisk, and resist the temptation to lick it. Yeah, right.
You can use this time to measure out your other ingredients, unless you're a Type A and already did. If you're like me, you will start about fifteen kitchen projects that are destined to never be finished. Oh, and you'll probably clean up 1.2 kid messes, answer the phone, and spill something on yourself in this time.
Give the butter/chocolate heaven another swizzle. Is it starting to get shiny? Good. Not? Maybe you could reheat the water, keeping the glass out of it again (you knew, that, right? ok, I won't bring it up again)
Now you can suddenly remember that you need an 8" x 8" glass baking dish and scramble to wash last week's frittata out of it. Once it's dry, you can brush melty butter on it and rip off a piece of parchment paper appx double the width of your baking dish. The overhang is to allow you to pull the greasy things out of the pan when they're cool.
Squish the paper down in the dish, trying desperately not to pay attention to the fact that it doesn't fit. This part always reminds me of the classic Phil Hartman SNL skit: The Anal Retentive Chef. I wonder how he would deal with oversize parchment paper.

Now that you've wasted even more time on JibJab, your stuff should be mostly melty. Blend your sugar & vanilla with the eggs. Is your chocolate/butter mix shiny? Fold it into the egg mixture, gently. Add your cocoa powder, flour and walnuts at once, mix just until the white no longer shows (is that like holding fire until you see the whites of their eyes?) and dump unceremoniously into the baking dish. Anticlimatic, isn't it?

Bake for appx 40 minutes, dreaming of better things. I suppose this could be another moment where you do other things, like finish one of the fifteen things started or yell at your kids again.

These brownies are messy when cut while warm. I do not know if they are any different when cut while cool, because they never make it to that point in my house. They are SO GOOD that they melt in your mouth, and the bigger you leave the walnut chunks, the better, for some odd reason. No wimpy 'bits' for me, thanks.

Enjoy.

...and RIP, Phil Hartman.