Running away from home

A while ago Jimmy started asking me when we could go back to the ocean. He must have known somehow I needed to get out of town--or maybe he was needing a change of scene as much as I was. I've been plotting a trip for over a month now, but then we all got sick and I had to wait until everyone was feeling better, hoping desperately we could make it before the mountain passes got hit with nasty winter storms.

Last Wednesday afternoon I loaded up the car with snacks, blankets, pillows, coats, hats, mittens, extra changes of clothes, waterproof boots, plastic pails and shovels, and headed west with Jimmy and Audrey. Jim had already taken off a few sick days, so he stayed in town to work.

We spent Wednesday night at my mom's, just south of Seattle, and then left in the morning for Grayland. When we got there, the weather was great for this time of year: partially cloudy, hardly any wind, and in the mid-50's. We had lunch at my great-aunt's house with her sons David and Francis, her daughter Anne, Anne's husband Eric and son Quinn, and some friends who were helping with the cranberry harvest. Harvest had just ended the day before, but they were busy with clean-up work.

Anne gave us a tour of the bogs, machinery and work sheds, and showed Jimmy how the cranberry vines are trained to grow in one direction and don't like to be "rubbed the wrong way", just like a cat likes be petted in the direction its fur grows. Jimmy had a great time running along the boards covering the irrigation ditches and jumping from side to side.


Here's Audrey with Anne and Francis.


She warmed right up to Anne and let her carry her around the bogs.


Before we left, Anne helped us sort a couple pounds of berries to take home so Jim can make homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving. Thank you, Anne! Then we headed to the beach. It was so beautiful, I just stood and breathed everything in.


Jimmy didn't waste any time in starting to hunt for seashells and other finds. I put the kibosh on any crab shells (which stunk up our car for a week after our last ocean trip), but he found some snail shells, hairy cockles, and a very cool volcanic rock with lots of holes in it.


More beach combing.


It was really a perfect day, and I loved being there in that perfect place with Jimmy and Audrey: shreds of blue against the shell-colored clouds with shafts of sun filtering through, all reflected in the mirror of water on sand.

Bless you

Since early last week, I've been fighting the onset of a nasty head cold, mostly through a combination of sheer will and insane amounts of Vitamin C. I managed to stave it off long enough to finish sewing the kids' Halloween costumes and then dress up with them for the annual trunk-or-treat on Friday night (thank you, Dayquil).

Saturday and Sunday, the cold fought back with a vengeance and knocked me flat on my back. My poor sinuses have been rocked by the kind of violent sneezes that are seismic events unto themselves.

It doesn't seem to matter where I am in the house when I sneeze. If I wait quietly, just a moment later I will hear Audrey's voice, soft but clear: "Bless you!"

Happy hallowe'en, ye lubbers!

Bread of the dead

I have an on-going love affair with many things Mexican. Mexican oilcloth. Mexican hot chocolate. Mexican history. Mexican culture. Mexican art. Mexican literature. Mexican molcajetes. Mexican music. And, por supuesto que sí, Mexican cuisine. I think my Mexico thing goes back to my BFF in first grade, Susí. She and her family were from Mexico City and she was Just. So. Cool. We spent hours listening to ABBA on the boombox in her bedroom, pretending "Dancing Queen" was all about us. So ABBA is from Sweden; they were popular everywhere, including Mexico.

As I've mentioned before, one of the things that fascinates me most about Mexican culture is the Day of the Dead. I won't go into the boring details but if you're interested, Wikipedia.com has a good explanation of Dia de los Muertos' history and significance. I volunteered to do a small cultural lesson for our home school group this week, and thought the timing would be perfect to spotlight Dia de los Muertos, which is coming up on Sunday and Monday. And not just because I wanted to bake pan de muerto again (though that would have been a good enough reason all by itself!)

My loaf turned out a bit misshapen compared to the real thing, but it tasted heavenly. Yes, technically the sugar topping made it off limits, but I ripped a piece of crust off the bottom to sample (all in the name of quality control, mind you!)

This recipe is easy, absolutely delicious, and the heavenly smell of the cinnamon and anise seeds when it's baking is divine. I had to fight the kids off after their third and fourth helpings so I'd have enough to take home to Jim.


Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead)

¼ cup milk
¼ cup butter (half a stick)
¼ cup sugar
½ teaspoon salt
1 package active dry yeast
¼ cup very warm water
2 eggs
3 cups all-purpose flour, unsifted
½ teaspoon anise seed
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons sugar

Bring milk to boil and remove from heat. Stir in butter, ¼ cup sugar and salt. In large bowl, mix yeast with warm water until dissolved and let stand five minutes. Add the milk mixture. Separate the yolk and white of one egg. Add the yolk and the other whole egg to the yeast mixture, and save the white for later. Now add flour to the yeast and egg. Blend well until dough ball is formed.

Flour a pastry board or work surface very well and place the dough in center. Knead until smooth. (I used the dough hook on my stand mixer and kneaded the dough for five minutes, which worked just as well). Return to large bowl and cover with dish towel. Let rise in warm place for 90 minutes. Meanwhile, grease a baking sheet and preheat the oven to 350° F.

Knead dough again on floured surface. Now divide the dough into fourths and set one fourth aside. Roll the remaining 3 pieces into “ropes”. On greased baking sheet, pinch 3 rope ends together and braid. Finish by pinching ends together on opposite side. Divide the remaining dough in half and form two “bones”. Cross and lay on top of braided loaf. (Note: I think the form of the loaf varies regionally. I followed these instructions the first time I made the bread, but the loaf I made today was round, with “bones” on top, modeled after some images I found on the internet).

Cover bread with dish towel and let rise for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, in a bowl, mix anise seed, cinnamon, and 2 teaspoons sugar together. In another bowl, beat egg white lightly. When 30 minutes are up, brush top of bread with egg white and sprinkle with sugar mixture. Bake at 350° F for 35-40 minutes.

It's true...

...that I've been ignoring my blog. One of the things I've been doing instead is experimenting with reworking and rethinking some of my writing.

Last week, I made a second attempt at starting a poetry group, and was grateful (more than I'd care to say) when someone showed. It was worth the wait. I met a local poet who teaches psych up at the college and she had some interesting insights about my poems. One thing she told me, I already knew: I tend too much toward the narrative. But instead of viewing this as a weakness, she said, "Maybe you're a poet who should really be writing stories." She also pointed out that some of the longer pieces seem to have poems within poems that interrupt or detour from the flow of the larger poem, that maybe could stand alone.

When I got home, I looked of those poems and started to experiment with pulling them apart and reworking them, both as prose and separate poems. I tried not to think of it as chopping apart my babies but rather that the sum of the parts might be lesser than the actual parts themselves. It's a challenge to think about my writing in new ways, since I'm such a creature of habit, but I'm trying to be open.

One of the ones I've been working with was "Lac De Roche", a poem I wrote earlier this spring. The middle section is a vignette about picking gooseberries for my grandmother, and in looking at it with fresh eyes, I think it can (and probably should) stand alone. Last week I tried reworking it as a short, short prose piece, and am not sure how I feel about the product. So this morning I've been trying it as a poem. I'm going to give it a test flight at a poetry open mic night this evening, down in Yakima. Wish me luck!


Gooseberry Pie: a Disappointment in Three Acts

Hidden in the tall grass
low bushes of gooseberries grow wild
along weather-silvered fence rails
their taut globes whiskery
pale-veined translucent green
warm under my fingertips
from hanging all day in the sun
my hands weave a delicate dance
through prickly branches
plucking enough to fill an old plastic bucket
and when the soft one-by-one of them
no longer plunks against the bottom
when a few unruly berries
spring over the rim
when it holds enough for a whole pie
I carry my bucket back to nana.

She measures butter, flour, sugar
leveling each cup
with the straight side of a table knife
rolls out a delicate crust
with deliberate strokes
eases it into a glass pie plate
fills it with berries
then more butter, flour, sugar
finally, she cuts and weaves a fragile lattice
to crown her masterpiece
before commending it to the oven
and for a delicious hour
the cabin walls strain to contain
the golden aroma
of buttery crust and bubbling berries.

No scent of foreshadowing
prepares me for the sour regret
of braving thorns for bitter fruit:
I suck my cheeks in hollow
after a single sharp bite of pie
poke once with my fork at its sugary crust
and leave the rest
still steaming on my plate.

Forty

It's a bit after the fact, but here's a little birthday wrap-up:

My fortieth got off to a rousing start because I had to renew my driver's license, and this is the first time I can remember not lying about my weight on my license. I've always fudged the truth by at least ten pounds, and sometimes even more egregiously. This year I agonized but finally decided it's time to make peace with myself. After all, truth counts most in those little areas where only I would know I was lying. That said, I'm still feeling bitter about having to give up my old license, which had a much better photo than this time around.

Jim and I took the kids to dinner at one of our favorite local places, and it hit me unexpectedly as I was cutting into my big, juicy steak: there was no one I'd rather party with than them. One of my girlfriends asked recently if I was doing something special for my birthday. A year ago, I would have wanted to go out and celebrate this milestone with friends, and maybe have a separate party later with family. Somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, that changed, because now nothing matters more than being with my husband and kids. It's even more enjoyable to watch Jimmy getting a chocolate mustache while slurping down my birthday sundae with gusto than eating it myself.

Don't get me wrong; I loved my kids before and tried to always put them first. But it used to be because I knew that's what a mother is supposed to do and while I wanted to be a good mom, I sometimes resented having to place my children's needs before my own. Now, so much more of my own personal joy comes from seeing their happiness and growth, rather than from my own gratification. Paradoxically, I'm also better able to find the balance in taking care of my own needs so that I have the energy and inner calm to be available and present for them.

And that joyful balance is the best gift. EVER.

At last

Just shy of two months ago, I found out Boston Literary Magazine accepted one of my poems for publication in their fall issue. I'm happy to say, it went up today. Check me out.

Yes, I'm giddy.

Positively.

By request

Several people asked after the recipe for Audrey's cake, so here it is. The first time I made it was a couple years ago, a sort of hybrid of about three different recipes, plus some tweaking all my own (like adding the zest to both cake and frosting).

Of course, I didn't have any yesterday but my taste-testers swear it's light, with just the right amount of tartness, and is super-moist... Mmmmmmmm... (and it's already gone, just 24 hours later!)


Audrey's Lemon Birthday Cake

Cake:
1 18.25-oz. package yellow cake mix
1 4.3-oz. package instant lemon pudding mix
1¾ c water
3 egg whites (or two eggs)
Juice and zest of one lemon

Frosting:
½ c shortening
¼ c butter
¼ c milk
1 t vanilla extract
4-5 c confectioners' sugar
Juice and zest of one lemon

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Spray a 10x15 inch pan with non-stick cooking spray.
2. In a large bowl, mix together cake mix and pudding mix. Pour in water and egg whites. Beat on low speed for 1 minute. Increase speed to high and beat for 4 minutes. Pour batter into prepared 10x15 inch pan.
3. Bake in the preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Allow to cool completely.
4. With an electric mixer blend all frosting ingredients until mixed. Frost cooled cake. Store cake covered with plastic wrap in refrigerator.

Two

I wanted to keep Audrey's birthday party low-key because let's face it, plying a two year-old with all the sugar in cake and ice cream is crazy enough without any additional over-stimulation. At the same time, it was important to me to celebrate how much it means and how grateful we are that she's here, with us, for this birthday. So this morning I helped her put on her favorite dress, then I made sure she had a good nap (even if it meant I had to rock her to sleep in order to seal the deal, which I did), and while she slept I whipped up a yummy lemon cake.

Even though she actually turns two tomorrow, we had a small party this evening with just family and a few close friends. My mom and baby sister Meredith drove over from Seattle for dinner and the party, and then Jim's folks and his youngest sister Anna were here, along with her husband her son. My dear friend Gretchen came, too, with her husband and two sweet boys, and snapped the fun shot of me gettin' some sugar from the birthday girl.

Happy birthday, dear Audrey. I'm so blessed to be your mother.

Picking up the spare

We started back to school last Wednesday, and just one week into first grade we're already hitting a bumpy patch. As challenging as it is, I'm glad I'm the one teaching Jimmy because we have the one-on-one time and the latitude with our curriculum to take as long as we need to work out the snags.

This afternoon we did a math lesson. I've been using Saxon Math, which I really like because it utilizes hands-on manipulatives and a variety of other tools that engage Jimmy's very tactile learning style. Along with whatever concept is being introduced, each lesson in the second grade workbook has a fact sheet, and each fact sheet has twenty-five problems, which the student has one minute to solve as many of as possible. Jimmy absolutely loathes the fact sheets because he hasn't been able to solve all the problems in a minute, and often doesn't even finish half of them.

I wish I could say it was my fault he's such a perfectionist, but I don't believe it's entirely a learned behavior. Too bad, because then there would be some hope that he could be de-programmed from my terrible example by exposure to a more effective role model, or possibly some day in the future when he's got enough money to throw at therapy. I do honestly think Jimmy came hardwired that way (like both his father and I did), and let's face it: with the two of us as parents, he didn't stand a chance in the genetic crap shoot. The good news is, while we're both still wrestling to overcome our own perfectionism, Jim and I are aware that we struggle with it, and are hoping we can talk openly with Jimmy about our own challenges as we try to guide him to find his own healthy ways to cope.

During this afternoon's obligatory fact sheet, Jimmy only finished eight out of twenty-five problems and promptly imploded. Math was our last subject, so I suggested we stop where we were and be done for the day, then corralled him over to the couch for a chat. I told him that I really understood how he was feeling, being angry about not doing a perfect job, and not wanting to even try again because he couldn't do as well as he wanted.

Jimmy responds well to analogies, so after he had calmed down, I told him about what a terrible bowler I am, and that I used to be really grouchy about bowling because I was so bad at it. I didn't want to belabor my point too much but I told him that for me, bowling a strike was like getting a math problem right, while throwing a gutter ball was like getting a problem wrong. He got excited about the bowling metaphor, because he's quite good at bowling, and said, "Well, next time we go bowling, I could help you, Mom."

I said, "That's great. The thing is, on your worksheet, you still bowled more strikes than gutter balls--you just didn't finish bowling every frame." He was quiet for a minute and then he said, "Yeah. And you know what picking up the spare is? That's when I get a problem wrong, and I go back and make it right."

I love homeschool. Because I always get schooled, too.