As a crabby cook I am constantly floored by the fact that, after 63 years of marriage, my mother still cooks three meals a day for my father. Dad does not cook. He (along with my husband) belongs to that cohort that has trouble preparing canned soup. My mother is, however, getting tougher at age 90: she now makes Dad wash the dinner dishes. (He’s only 89—he can cope.)

Mom seems to find this non-stop cooking an acceptable arrangement, maybe because she cooked for eight people for so many years that her current chores seem lightweight by comparison. But I can’t help projecting. Just the thought of how much time she spends in the kitchen makes me irritable, so I try to lighten what I think of as her burden whenever possible. Mother’s Day provides a perfect opportunity for this. The hell with flowers, I’m sending her food.

I’m ordering crab and lobster cakes from Dean and Deluca online, along with a box of their Mother’s Day cookies. That way, all she has to provide is a little asparagus or something and dinner will be so done.

In the unlikely event that my daughters are reading this post, please take the above as a big, fat hint. D and D are taking orders until Friday.

I’m taking a minute to tell you about my newest kids’ book. It’s the third in my  Uh-oh, Cleo series, and it’s called, I Barfed On Mrs. Kenly.

I actually did barf on Mrs. Kenly, by the way; you might call this little book memoir-ish.

See, one Sunday morning in my childhood, I ate way too many pancakes, and then went to a birthday party, which involved riding downtown in a van stuffed with children and an unlucky lady named Mrs. Kenly.

Mrs. Kenly sat next to me, all squished in. She was wearing a beautiful mink coat, which at the time was not politically incorrect.

On the other side of me was Donna, who was chewing watermelon bubble gum, the fumes from which turned my stomach in the close quarters. Also, the temperature in the van must’ve been ninety, with all windows shut to keep out the Chicago chill, and Mr. Kling, the driver and dad of the birthday girl, was smoking a cigar.

So I was surrounded by barf-inducing elements.

Still, it took me by surprise when I violently threw up all over Mrs. Kenly’s lovely coat. (She was surprised too, of course, with a few other emotions mixed in.)  The humiliation was awful, made worse by the fact that Mrs. Kenly was a terribly nice person. If I’d barfed on, say, Mrs. Landon, who once laughed at me because I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe, I wouldn’t have minded so much

If you know any 7 or 8 year-olds who might be amused by this story, check out I Barfed On Mrs. Kenly. I mean, literally check it out, at the library, or just, you know, check it out out here.

I just heard on the radio that in the American Airlines Sky Mall catalogue, there’s a device for sale, a clock that only tells you what day it is.

Normally, when purchasing a clock, I look for one that has a few more bells and whilstles, one that tells you what time it is, for example. Of course, when I travel, my iPhone serves as my source of such information, plus anything else I might want to now, from the temperature in Dubai to John Mayer’s shoe size.

But last week I went to the Caribbean, and now I totally get it about  AA’s day clock: there is a land (and a state of mind) where the name of the day is all the temporal info you need.

We got to Nevis (in the West Indies) on Sunday. I was carrying three time-telling devices. Within hours, I’d shed my watch. By Monday, I’d shut down and stowed my laptop. By Tuesday, I was feeling hostile towards my iPhone: I clicked it off and threw it in my suitcase. That was it. I was time-less, as was the rest of my sun-stunned family, only guessing the hour by the length of the shadows cast by our hammocks.

The AA clock would have come in handy when we almost forgot to catch that plane home on New Years Day. But late one night (which the day clock would have told us was Thursday), we noticed revelers singing “Auld Lang Syne,” and we recalled our obligations and acknowledged that it was time to strap on our watches and pack our sandy bags.

We’re on the airplane now, revving up our various electronic things and preparing for re-entry. I think I’ll just leave my watch set for Nevis time, maybe put it away for a while and get one of those AA day clocks. Because it turns out that’s all you really need. Well, that and a hammock.

My favorite gift this season is one that really keeps on giving. Click here to go to Priscilla Woolworth’s site for the world’s finest fly swatter. Not only does it keep the little buggers at bay, it’s extremely cute, and you can also use it to swat badly behaving relatives at your upcoming holiday events.

I’m keeping mine handy to swat my husband’s hand when he reaches for his sixth piece of chocolate roll on Christmas night. I will also let loose on my daughter when she tries to make off with my new red sweater. It will morph into a dog swatter when Oliver opens his jaws to partake of the Christmas tenderloin, and Aunt Lucy will be sorry when she tries to pour her fourth glass of eggnog. If my sister-in-law indicates displeasure with my gift, whack. If anyone gives an Ab-O-Cizer for Christmas, smack.

See, this thing has infinite uses. Buy one and swat your way through December.

In a follow-up to my recent post about Killer Biscuits, I have some good news about Custard Crèmes.

You’ll recall that these innocent looking cookies were rated the most likely to cause bodily harm while you eat them, scoring a whopping 5.63 on the Biscuit Injury Evaluation Scale. (By comparison, the Ginger Nut Biscuit ranked a measly 3.78.) Being the devil-may-care, caution-to-the-wind kind of gal that I am, I decided to do a little evaluating of my own.

I found a British goods store in West L.A. that carries the hard-to-find Custard Cremes. I purchased three boxes, and, just to be on the safe side, I hired a PIAL (personal injury accident lawyer), before I opened the deceptively charming gold and red packages of pale yellow cookies.

I’m happy to report that a) they are delicious and b) although I ate a hefty number of them (I’m very thorough when conducting a study), I was unharmed by the little buggers, if you don’t count the weight gain.

My friend Dawn gave me a zucchini the size of a dachshund, which I love because it gives me an excuse to use my scale.

See, now that my second daughter has followed her sister to college on the east coast, the only female voice left in my house is that of my talking kitchen scale. I turn the thing on and a low-registered, warm voice says, “Hello,” which is rather pleasant in the profound silence of my recently emptied nest. Then she pauses for a second, presumably to make internal adjustments, and says, “I’m ready.”

This is an eerie echo of what Nora said last week, when she was itching to get to college.
Now she’s gone, we’re back from dropping her, and after all the packing, schlepping, shopping and shipping, her room looks and feels like Dorothy’s did, post-tornado: a mess, and dead still.

I hadn’t dared enter it for a couple of days; I knew it was an emotional minefield. Today, when I finally wandered in and picked my way through Nora’s detritus, I remained calm when handling her abandoned fairy wings. Nor was my composure rocked by the sight of the worn school books and the ancient teddy bear. It was the picture on the wall of young Nora, one that captures her spunky spirit–she’s leaping and laughing, just kind of glorious—that did me in.

After the weeping, I knew I needed task therapy. I thought I’d concoct a recipe for Dawn’s monster zucchini. I flipped the switch on the kitchen scale: “Hello.” Pause. “I’m ready.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said as I plunked the zucchini on the scale.

P.S. Dawn’s zucchini weighed in at 4 pounds, ten ounces.
P.S.S. If you would like to have a talking scale in your life, click here.
P.S.S If you want a recipe for ucchini chowder, click here.

Apparently, my kitchen is a day spa.

I’ve just learned that Cool Whip and mayonnaise can double as excellent hair conditioners, and for that final rinse, use Lipton tea or Budweiser beer for extra shine. And if you’re in the mood for a self-inflicted manicure, Pam cooking spray will dry those nails in seconds.

My source also tells me that Jello can be used to freshen up smelly feet (okay, I have a little trouble getting my mind around that one) and that if you go to your “everything” drawer and grab some Elmer’s glue, you’ve got the makings of a facial. You just schmear it on, let it dry, and peel it off. (I used to do that as a kid, making pretend I was hideously sunburned.)

These are all excellent ideas and much more wallet-friendly than similar services in the Hills (the Beverly ones). I’d be tempted to try this stuff, to spruce myself up before my daughter’s high school graduation next week, but I know what would happen. I’d be in mid-treatment and the doorbell would ring. I’d have to open the door; it’d be the UPS guy with Nora’s graduation gift.

I can see the thought bubble above his head: “W.T.F?” There I’d be with mayo in my hair, Elmer’s on my face, Jello in my shoes, Pam in one hand, Budweiser in the other. I’d put the Bud down to sign for the package. His thought bubble would change: “Obvious party animal.”

“Oh, ha ha,” I’d protest, “it’s not what you think, ha ha! I’m just going to pour that on my head!”

Then I would have to miss Nora’s graduation, due to the straightjacket, so I think I’ll skip the kitchen spa and just, you know, head for the Hills.

Maybe it’s because my husband works for the company that’s releasing the movie, or because I’m given to flights of cuckoo fantasy when performing tedious culinary tasks. Or maybe I’m just, you know, losing it. You be the judge.

But when the Salad Hands I ordered from Sur La Table arrived last week, I became Wolverine. (If you have never seen an X-Men movie, you will not know who this is. Shame on you. Google him.)

These Salad Hands look awful cute online; white plastic with handles that come in a variety of cheerful colors. But when they arrive and you hold them, you can’t help but feel like that iconic mutant superhero, whose distinguishing feature, on display now in posters everywhere, is the scary, metallic version of my adorable kitchen tool.

If only I could, along with the Hands, aquire some of Wolverine’s special skills. 1) When wounded, he heals instantly. This would have come in handy the other day when, with my usual kitchen impatience. I sliced my finger instead of the carrot. 2) He never ages. Rushing around for centuries, growling and stabbing people and he still looks like, well, Hugh Jackman.

It’s not such a bad way, by the way, to get through the dinner hour. Grab those Salad Hands and flip your imagination switch: tossing a salad becomes much more interesting. I just have to try not to growl at people, which is a stretch for me even when I’m empty-handed.

(Click here for the recipe for Wolverine Salad.)

I was in New York last week and went to my favorite quirky gift shop: E.A.T, on Madison Avenue. (Those of you who’ve been reading this blog since ‘08 may remember that the last wacky thing I bought there was a Yodeling Pickle.)

I was picking up some Easter gifts for my daughters (shower caps with yellow ducks on them, boxer shorts with monkeys on them). However, after making my choices (excellent, n’est-ce pas?), I found something that, even for a store with eccentric inventory, was breathtakingly strange.

Squirrel Underpants.

They are 100% percent cotton and clearly designed with a male squirrel in mind. I had to buy them, even though I have no intention of attempting to dress a squirrel (or a frog or gerbil, or anybody with a three-inch waist). I just had to become an owner of such a remarkably stupid thing.

Here are some reasons to consider investing in a pair of Squirrel Underpants: 1. You are looking for an economical and thoughtful gift for your hamster. 2.You have ten bucks that you just can’t stand the sight of anymore. 3.You need a conversation starter to keep handy in your purse. 4.You are a raving wingnut.

If any of those reasons ring your bell, but you don’t live near E.A.T., click here for product details and to purchase.

Not to go overboard, but I’m thinking S.U.s just might be this year’s Yodeling Pickle.

The photo in this post features my dog, Oliver, reclining before the Christmas tree. The reason he looks so content, full of yuletide glory, is because he just ate most of the ornaments that were so carefully hung on the tree the day before.

I caught him just in time to save a hand-creweled mini-stocking, which he spat out in response to my curse words. I re-hung it, much higher up, along with any other ornaments in pooch range, so the bare bottom half of the tree now looks slightly ridiculous, like it forgot its pants.

Luckily, Oliver did not choose to chew the Christmas lights, because they are very special this year. They are LED lights, and I’ve been bragging about them all over town.

LED stands for, uh, I forget what, except the D is for diode, but the point is, they are energy-efficient, reducing your Christmas carbon footprint (or in Oliver’s case, pawprint) by a whole lot. They last FOREVER; they will still be twinkiling after the apocalypse. And cute? You can see in the photo, behind the silhouette of Mr. Destructo.

You can get these lights, if you haven’t already committed to the other kind (SO last century) at www.priscillawoolworth.com for about $16 a strand. Priscilla Woolworth is the proprietor of this online store that sells lots of fabulous green stuff, like reusable water bottles, photo albums made of recycled plastic, and solar task lights. If you haven’t already bought your boyfriend a yodeling pickle, go buy him a head scratcher at Priscilla’s for $4 and he will love you forever.

I was going to buy Oliver a head scratcher but after the episode with the tree, that dog is getting coal.