28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 25

I love it when friends invite you away for the weekend. We are headed to the mountains where there is fresh snow. And although such a wonderful proposition isn't going to mean skiing this year (Tabula has a newborn so she is neither eligible for babysitting or for being a ski-buddy; Plantboy boy and Jamin went up today), it probably does mean snow shoeing and some serious snowball fighting. If we our lucky in our choice of time shares, it might also mean a hot tub. Oh, yeah, I could get used to this life.

Because we will be away from this afternoon through Sunday, I'm going to finish up my blogging today UNTIL APRIL. Really. I can do this. And now that I've told you all that I am, I feel more confident about sticking to it.


Day 26

I love hot chocolate and white bread toast for breakfast. Since I don't really buy white bread, this breakfast is reserved for the odd loaf of French bread that makes its way into the house. The lemon rosemary bread also makes the yummiest toast I've ever eaten. Ever.


Day 27

Tomorrow is Dad's birthday. I've written a couple of (better) posts about him in previous years, so I will link them here if you are interested. (I think Bean Boy is especially well-written, though the other has some fun pictures.) I love my dad, without reservation. It took me some years to come to that conclusion, but I'm very glad that I did.


Day 28

I love the star magnolia tree in our front yard. Because we have had some early, warm days this year, the tree is already in blossom, casually flaunting the fact that it is still February. Even on a wet gray day, like today, I want to throw on the sandals and dig out my skimmers.





Now for something that you can actually give some thought to, and comment on. Because if there is one thing I have learned about myself and blogging, it is that I am a comment junkie. I'm sure that any psychologist would be happy to blather on about my need for attention, etc. etc., and they might be right. Lately I've started to think that this is why I want to publish--I just have to know what people think of my writing, and if I'm good enough to make it. Time will tell.

Last week, JennyMac (who is always funny, by the way, though my disclaimer says that your brand of humor and hers might not be compatible) wrote a post about a rash on her hand that caused her to go wedding-ring-less in public for a few days. The post was titled, "I Feel Naked Without . . . ." I couldn't relate on a wedding ring level. I actually hardly ever wear mine in the house because rings kind of drive me nuts. Also, my hands swell slightly when I sleep and a LOT when I exercise, making it very uncomfortable.

Instead her post made me think about some part of me, either innate or ornamental, that makes me really feel like myself. I decided that it is probably the color blue. I hardly ever get dressed for the day without some spot of blue. I'm not picky about the exact color or shade of blue, but I never feel quite like myself unless I'm sporting something blue. Blue is such an introspective color.

Her post, and my exercise in finding things I love, made me think further about what I couldn't live without. In the past month I've read two books, The Hunger Games and These is My Words, that made me think about survival and what a person actually NEEDS to make it through life. This theme has further been emphasized as we ready the Young Women in our ward to go on a pioneer trek this summer. Other than bedding, everything they are allowed to take for three days has to go in a five gallon bucket. They have been given a list, and as a gimmick to help the girls get ready, I have been running weekly contests and awarding the winners truly fabulous presents like Gold Bond Medicated Powder, pink bandannas, facial wipes and extra healing lotion. On their list of things to bring is a small instrument such as a recorder or harmonica.

I don't play the harmonica OR the recorder, and I'm quite certain that if I had to walk a thousand miles across the wilderness I would not take either. But what would I take? What personal item would mean the most to me? Katniss, from Hunger Games, needed a bow and some arrows more than anything, and this vision of her as a huntress defines her character throughout the book. (Not entirely masculine--think Diana, goddess of the hunt.) Sarah, from These is My Words, carried a wagon full of books across the plains. One night, she awakens to what she thinks is a fire in her wagon, disoriented and anxious and her first thought is not that she might die, but that her books might burn. She places higher priority on her books than on her life. Like Katniss' weapons, the books become the thing that defines Sarah's character.

I'm like Sarah, if I was going to carry books across the plains, it would have had to have been a wagon load of them. And yet, I can understand why many families only took a family Bible of Book of Mormon with them. Maye they were hoping or enough inspiration to make up a library. Maybe they got it. I know that I'm glad I haven't had to make the choice. Though anybody who has ever helped me move and hauled dozens of boxes of books probably wishes I would make a choice.



The woman who is the president of our Young Women organization in our ward is also going on the trek. I'm actually a bit jealous. Her kids are a little bit older than mine and it is a good time for her to go--not so much for us. I was trying to decide on what token to give her for the trek. It would have to be something small enough to take, but more meaningful than rash powder. And the it hit me.

I went to the bookstore and found her a small, leather-bound journal with sewn in pages. The pages are unlined and thick. In the note I enclosed with the journal, I told my friend that if I could have only carried one personal item across the plains, it would have been something very much like this. And then it hit me: while I might be able to feed and clothe myself without unlined pages and something to write with, unless I can chronicle my journey and write thoughts down in order to better sort through them, I really don't feel like life is worth much. Perhaps like Katniss' bow and Sarah's books, it is the blank pages waiting to be filled that define me: the thing that erases that terrible feeling of nakedness we get when something is missing.I'm still going to spend my month writing. Just not here. I love you all. Happy Lenting.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 22

We'll start today with a multiple choice quiz:

Family Home Evening is

a) a family fight that begins and ends with a prayer.
b) the name of a program introduced in 1915 to LDS families designed to promote family togetherness and provide parents one evening each week (usually Monday) to teach their families the gospel and counsel with their kids.
c) a chance to practice your mad Rice Krispy making skills.
d) a way of organizing dating pools in Young Single Adult congregations.
e) all of the above.

I love family home evening. Now. I didn't really grow up with Family Home Evening. Last fall when I was at my mom's house, I threw together a Thanksgiving family home evening in just a few minutes and had a nice, simple lesson on gratitude with the Jedi. My mom remarked that as she had observed her kids holding FHE with her grandchildren, she realized that she always tried to make it to complicated and special. She hadn't ever held it regularly because it seemed like so much work. In retrospect, her feeling was that just doing something simple and establishing a regular habit would have been much better than irregular evenings that were more dramatic.

When Plantboy and I were first married, FHE wasn't great, and I really disliked having the responsibility to put the whole thing together myself. Then, as our kids got older, I was nearly always tutoring on Monday nights. (The night typically recommended for FHE and the one night each week you are guaranteed not to have other church-related activities.) But since quitting tutoring last year, we have been able to focus on having simple, regular FHE.

A few weeks ago, it was Jedi Knight's turn for the lesson. He nearly always shares the story of Ammon, with a heavy emphasis on Ammon's sheep-herding skills and less on his missionary aspect. That week, I steered him in a different direction, showing him my gospel art kit (a series of pictures from the scriptures and Church history that have descriptions on the back). He found a picture he liked, read the back and then, with very little prompting, told the story during his turn at the lesson. Plantboy said, "That's probably more than I've ever done for one of my lessons!"

I laughed, though it isn't exactly true. Plantboy's statement would imply that he had EVER done a lesson. (Insert playful, winking emoticon here.)

Still, as the kids get older, and the burden of prepping and participating on our family night gets spread out, it gets a lot more fun. I'm glad I didn't miss the boat waiting for the kids to get older. When it is the Youngling's turn to do music, we always have to sing the action songs--Five Little Speckled Frogs, The Wheels on the Bus, Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree, Pearly Shells . . . . you get the drill. There is nothing sweeter than those tiny, chubby patties doing "popcorn."

Make this treat at your next FHE to be a huge hit:

$1 a Pitcher and Better than the Mall Orange Julius

Add the following to the blender--1/2 can (6 oz) of orange-based juice (can be a blend of other flavors), 1 1/2 cups of milk (fattier milk makes a creamier out come), 1/4 to 1/2 cup of sugar (depends on how sweet your juice is to begin with), 2 tsps vanilla and ice to fill the blender. Mix until smooth and thick. Like sunshine in a glass.


Day 23

Last night for our Family Night, we focused all of our time on just the activity. We are heading camping to the Redwoods late next month and we needed some equipment. This is the year we are going to really start family camping and need some supplies to help with this. Last year we bought the tent and had some wonderful backyard excursions, but this year we are going to be a little bit braver.

The kids each picked out a camping chair and a plate and cup set. We looked at various camping stoves and coveted the kayaks. Good times.


Day 24

In the spirit of getting a day ahead, since I know how bad I am at this daily thing, I'm going to add one more today.

I don't just loving blogging, I love blogging about really meaty stuff. So the rest of this post is going to read less like it belongs on 28 Days of Love, and more just like a regular entry.

Saturday afternoon I was running around doing errands. Traffic was crowded, particularly down by the shopping center where we live. This area of the city is always a bit chaotic. The streets there don't quite contain the traffic flow at peak hours and lights get backed up. There are some major bus stops nearby so there is a lot of foot traffic. It is also the intersection between a belt-line that goes around the city and a major cross street. There are a lot of panhandlers in the area because of the stop and go traffic and cheap eating places. You get the picture.

I had finished at the grocery store and was waiting for a green light to turn left at this busy intersection. There were cars in the lane to my right and the late afternoon sun flashed between the heavy traffic in the cross-street. My head hurt, and I was thinking, what on earth am I doing shopping this time of day? On a Saturday? I still had to hit Costco before heading home, the one consolation is that I was listening to Hunger Games on a friend's MP3 player. While waiting for the light to change, something caught the corner of my right eye and I turned my head.

A very unkempt man, traveling in a low to the ground pedaling device (not a bike exactly--you know you live in Eugene if you regularly see home-made bikes in every odd sort of configuration around the streets every day) was pulling a kids' bike trailer. The man was scruffy and dirty, his trailer more gray than yellow, and he clearly had everything he owned in his trailer. As he rounded the corner on the sidewalk, his load had gotten tipped sideways, spilling all of its contents onto the ground in the midst of several other pedestrians and cyclists loitering at the corner.

My heart lurched both for the awkwardness of the situation as people stopped to watch, gape and ogle, but also for sorrow at an already difficult life made that much harder. While my light still didn't turn green, the man, though he had stopped was very slow about getting up to correct his load.

Then then churning in my stomach started when I saw him struggle to a standing position, using an arm brace for each hand to help his nearly useless legs. Tears smarted in my eyes as I wondered what to do to help. I couldn't turn right--there were too many cars and it would have only taken me into a bus lane. I would have had to drive three or four blocks up to find a place to park before doubling back. If I turned left, I could go down another block, turn left again (through three cycles at a light), and cut back through the parking lot I just exited. It would have taken probably five minutes to do so. His load may have been cleaned up by then. Or not.

I didn't double back. But I can't stop thinking about it. I wonder if anybody stopped to help him right his load. I wonder if I should have. I wonder at people living in such a manner in the midst of so much bounty. I wonder about how charitable I really am. The only thing I don't wonder about is what Christ would have done. I think that is pretty clear.

The image of him rounding the corner, falling, and then struggling has driven home to me just how intense the need in our world is, and not just far away in places where we can write a check and say "good enough." But instead of helping, I just went to Costco, spent my typical hundred bucks there and came home to stock a pantry already filled with food. I wonder what he ate Saturday night? And where did he eat it? It was a cool 35 degrees Sunday morning. Where did he sleep? Hunger games indeed.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 20

I love a clean garage. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Plantboy. We've had the freezer less than a week, but it is filling up fast. What on earth were we doing before?


Day 21

I love the funny things kids say. Here are some recent highlights:

Jedi Knight, "Mommy, doesn't it make your heart feel so tender that I will always be your oldest son?"

Padawan, to The Youngling while they are playing with their Star Wars Lego guys, "This is Episode 3000, Revenge of the Ewoks and its all about when the Ewoks have to fight the clones."

Last week at church Plantboy whispered to me that he thinks the beloved wubby is part of the source of The Youngling's naughtiness, to which I replied that there is no chance I'm taking it until he is potty trained. The Youngling happened to be sitting between us and yelled, as loud as he could, during the passing of the sacrament, "I HATE POTTY TRAIN! I NOT POTTY TRAIN EVER!!!!" Uh. . . .

My youngest is a pillbox. I have to keep reminding myself to be firm with him because his grouchiness is sometimes ridiculously cute. Cute at two is not so much at say, age 5. My oldest learned "naughty" words later (hate, butt, stupid, idiot, etc.), my second learned them early but had this hilarious way of saying them under his breath or trailing off his sentences. Not boy number three, no sir. He likes to shout them. "I NOT EAT DINNER! I HATE DINNER!" "I NOT HAPPY I SAD; SAD MEANS I GRUMPY!" "NO KISSES MOMMY! I HATE ICKY, SOOPID KISSES!" "I DID STINKY TOOT!" (That last was during dinner, of course, and was followed by the laughter of three little boys.) "I NOT GO ON TIME OUT. NO WAY, SOOPID MOMMY!" These choice phrases may or may not be followed by the throwing of whatever toy is handy. And the little flipper has an arm.

Charming. Just charming. His other favorite recent thing is to run around naked, stopping every ten feet or so, turning his adorable little butt right around to me, shaking it while looking over his shoulder and saying, "Shake you booty. Naked baby, I shake booty." Oh my gosh, he's cute. Does anybody want to borrow him for the day?

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 18

I love weather good enough to inspire spring cleaning. The actual cleaning, not so much. It is going to be a long, exhausting weekend. But very, very sunny. You know that time of year when you just aren't sure if spring will really come back around? Today I was reminded that it always does.


Day 19

I love looking forward to a date. Especially tonight's--we are headed to the temple. I realize that we can hardly call our service there a sacrifice, compared to what many members in the world must do to attend, (in Plantboy's mission, attendees had to use half a year's wages to take a boat four days up the Amazon and then get on a bus for 48 hours straight, it is slightly better now, but still a major ordeal) but it is still a seven-hour excursion for us start to finish when we throw in a fancy dinner at Jack in the Box. The kids are finally old enough that I feel okay about leaving them with a teen-babysitter and they will be asleep a big chunk of the time.

I've been feeling lately that I need the temple more than ever in my life, which unfortunately corresponds to the time in my life when it is the hardest to get there. I have to admit, I am really struggling right now. I think I may have a taste of what depression feels like. Any thoughts on this?

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 15

I love tax return time. It is true that we bought boring grown up stuff with our return this year-- a freezer and a house re-fi, but I also got to buy a plane ticket to visit my mom and sister at the end of April in Utah. We will also be attending Women's Conference at BYU. Rounding out this year's purchases is that I finally am going to get this framed.


No, in case you were wondering, it is NOT the original. It is just a print I bought a couple of years ago at the National Gallery. And while it might be a bit gauche to spend good money to frame a poster, it is better than leaving my walls bare because I can't afford actual art. And, oh, how I love this painting. The original is more concrete than a lot of Monet's work and has held me spellbind the two times I've been to the National Gallery.


Day 16

I love the Young Women program in the Church. No, I don't love that we never seem to have enough people to run our programs, but we do it anyway. I don't love being away from my family (sometimes) three nights in a week. I don't love continually re-living the drama of my own teenage years. But what I do love is how hard we work to teach girls principles to live by as much as commandments. I love what the program does for girls who make even the barest effort to let it touch their lives. I love the women that the program churns out. As I've started to see these girls as my one-day sisters in the Church, I've been amazed at how my love for them has grown. And unlike "real" daughters, I get to send these adorable and moody bags of hormones home to their mothers each night.


Day 17

I love blogging, but I do NOT love blogging every day. Have you noticed? In fact, I feel the need to re-focus on some other aspects of my life and am thinking I will probably give up blogging for Lent. But as I'm not giving up Mormonism for Lent also, I feel totally within my rights to fudge my own definition of "Lent." The Catholic holiday started this week, but I am going to observe for the month of March, up until Easter. (About five weeks.) I like the idea of finding ways to cleanse and purify yourself in preparation for this most important of all Christian religious holidays. I think it is time to remind myself that I once understood self-discipline much better than I do now.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 14

I have to warn you up front: this is a rather shmoopy post about my husband. It is, after all, Valentine's Day. I will relate a story to help you see why I love Plantboy so much, and it is kind of a long story. Hit "next blog" now if you hate this sort of thing.

After breaking up with The Mistake in 1998, I went through a really difficult time. I was living with my grandmother, most of my friends had gotten married and/or finished college while I had taken my hiatus to be a missionary, and I was just a semester from graduation. I was lonely, rather depressed and my confidence was shot. I found a job on campus and one of my fellow-employees was a fabulous friend named Carrie. Though a few years younger than myself, she took me under her wing and helped me to adjust to life after a mission and an engagement gone south. (Quite literally--the girl he got engaged to three weeks after breaking it off with me lived south.) There was an opening in Carrie's apartment that summer, and I jumped at the chance to begin acting like a more normal college student again.

Carrie had a crush on a guy we went to church with that we will call Metal Plate Face Boy. (So named because of an unfortunate accident during an ultimate Frisbee fraternity tournament in which his zygomatic process was crushed and replaced with a steel plate. Really. He wasn't a cyborg-face or anything, it was all under the skin, and you couldn't tell unless you were really close to him. Keep reading to learn why I was privy to this information.) Not just a crush, but the BIG CRUSH. She knew his class schedule and hung on his every word. He seemed nice enough and was pretty good-looking. He was the kind of guy that all of the nice girls in your ward have a crush on at one time or another, but never seems to ask anybody out.

The problem was that Carrie was rather shy, especially around MPFB, and couldn't even speak to him without stammering and blushing. There was a church picnic that summer and I dragged her to his table in an effort to force her to chat naturally with him. It worked a little bit and I managed to get the ball rolling, conversation-wise, for the three of us. Two days later, he called our apartment, Carrie answered the phone (remember when roommates shared land-lines?), and handed it to me. The Man of Steel had called for me.

There followed the five most awkward moments of my life. He re-introduced himself to me, thinking that I wouldn't realize who he was. We talked for a few minutes and the whole time, Carrie is standing there mouthing and whispering, "He is awesome. He likes you. You have to say yes if he asks you out. Don't you dare say no . . . . "

If I was a really good person I probably would have said no, leaving MPFB with little or no explanation to keep my friend's secret, well, secret. But I am not a really good person, and I was incredibly flattered. I'd been out with friends. I'd been out with boys that I had flirted for months to hook up with. I'd made-out off and on that summer with a boy from work that I had no intention of dating. I'd been set up on blind dates. But I never had been asked on a date, out-of-the-blue, by a man clearly nervous about being rejected. It was very appealing.

We started dating. Carrie was such a champ through it all. I still regret ever telling him yes.

That summer, as the pieces of my life began falling in the right places again, I felt like I was finally moving in a positive direction. My cousin, on the other hand, though just a few months older than myself, was finding out that her husband of less than two years was more interested in an tattooed and pierced 18 year-old at work than with her and their baby on the way. She and I had always been very close, and I spent quite a lot of time with her during those devastating months of heartbreak and anger. I could relate on some small level. My Mistake and her Ex could have been brothers. (No denigration here of my cousin's choices; it was, after all, the Mistake that broke up with me, not the other way around. I would have married my charm-boy too if he hadn't been so commitment-phobic. Praise the Heavens for that.)

As MFPB and I dated more, I opened up and told him about my cousin. His response was almost total indifference. Any emotion he showed was probably more along the lines of if-you-are-upset-then-this-probably-means-no-kissing-right? I missed the signs that Metal Boy just wanted to hang out and have fun. It didn't occur to me that a guy might be only attracted to me, as such a phenomenon had never happened before. I thought a handful of dates meant we were on the road to eternal bliss. No doubt he saw that one serious conversation as an attempt for me to get closer than he wanted to be.

He didn't call.

A couple of weeks later, I cooked for him one Sunday afternoon and goaded him into having a DTR (Define the Relationship) conversation. Poor boy. When he asked me out initially I should have told him, "No thanks. I'm on the rebound and I'm likely to be clingy and needy and read too much into your every action. You seem very nice, so I'm just going to spare you that drama right now." I'm not sure why women undermine their relationships, but we do a heck of a job at it. I basically told MFPB that I wanted him to be honest with me. I didn't want to have him say that he was going to call, and me sit by the phone for weeks, only to run into him on campus six months later and he thinks, "Oh, yeah, didn't we go out once?" He looked me right in the eye, no lie, and said so sweetly and sincerely, "I would never do that to you."

I never heard from him again.

Fast forward to late summer. I was commiserating with a fellow-employee (female) about my frustrations with guys in general. You know, the conversation that women in their 20's have every other time they get together. I told her about the last conversation I had with cyborg face and we soundly condemned him, the lame girl he would one day marry*, his children and his convertible Sebring. Plantboy had just begun working with us, and though I didn't realize it at the time, he was listening carefully to every word we said. It was months (years?) later that he told me he wanted to jump over the counter at that moment and promise--for real--that he would never do that to me.

Not too many weeks passed before we began dating, and I really liked him, but then something happened that taught me in a profound and tender way the depth of his unassuming personality. I was unable to go out with him one night because my cousin was on watch for a premature delivery and at the hospital. She was very ill, and despite being more than 25 weeks pregnant, was still losing weight. I explained to Plantboy about my cousin, just waiting for him to shrug with indifference in the manner of Ironman. Men are just like that, right?

Wrong. Plantboy was genuinely distraught. He volunteered to go with me to the hospital and then asked what I was bringing for a gift. The answer was, of course, nothing, as my whole budget for the month had been blown on a case of Ramen noodles. He volunteered to take my cousin a plant from his house (he had several) and chose the nicest one in the prettiest pot. He discreetly stood aside while I conversed for some time with my cousin, not acting with impatience for even a moment.

When we left the hospital, I related more of her story and his gorgeous hazel eyes teared up as he said, "I don't know what I would do if that happened to me. I cannot imagine how awful she must feel." And though it was many weeks before I would admit to it, on that day I began to fall in love with him.

From that day I was touched by his deep compassion and sincerity. His generosity and his selflessness. His tender-heart and doing-hands. I have seen him give his gloves to a homeless man on a freezing cold street. I have seen him drop everything for a month of Saturdays to help other people move. I have seen him react without hesitation to leave at any hour to give a blessing to someone in need. I have heard the tears in his voice as he has blessed each of his young sons to love and learn from their mother. I have cried on his shoulder for an hour or more at a time without any complaint. He has never wanted to change me, but just knowing him has changed me for the better.

When I was young I read a lot of fairy tales. When my life didn't look like one of them by the ripe-old-age of 17, I became unfortunately and dramatically bitter about relationships, which were always so hard for me to figure out. I felt like the whole thing was a big game in which I was never privy to the rule book. I never expected to have a love like this. Sometimes reality is better than the fairy tale.

Happy Valentine's Day, Plantboy.



* ChrisW pursued a master's degree a couple of years later. One of her roommates ended up marrying the Cyborg, who, by the way, is a very nice guy named Dave. It wasn't that he couldn't nurture, he just couldn't nurture the lump of need that was me in 1998. Sometimes people prepare you for what you are really waiting for. Thanks, Dave.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

I'm going to get a day ahead here, as there is a ton to do tomorrow and I'm not sure when I'll get around to posting.

Days 12 and 13

I love three-day weekends, but I especially love a husband who will do any project that needs doing and always reassures me that, for him, such householdy projects ARE a day off. But more on Plantboy for Sunday (and a picture of the gorgeous flowers he brought home from work today). For now, let us just say that I love a long weekend, particularly when there is tax return money to spend . . . .

I love dessert. If you don't love dessert, you are, of course, entitled to your (whacked-out) opinion. But I must say WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? Plantboy worries about cholesterol and generally eats healthier than I do, so he encourages me to only do dessert one Sunday a month, and if we have company. I usually stick to this pretty well unless something (anything) comes up: boredom, goodies for somebody else and the extras just happen to hang around here, a school or church function, family home evening, whatever.

For Sunday's Valentine's dinner I'd like to make some kind of dessert we haven't had for a while, but I cannot chose between my three options. This is where you come in.

My 28 Days of Love has garnered few comments (not really surprised, as this is the sort of thing I seldom comment about), but today should be different! I need a good sampling of readers so that I can make a truly scientific decision about Valentine's Day dessert. Its all the men around here are gettin' so it's gotta be good. I've narrowed it down to three, in alphabetical order:

Chocolate Lava Cake: Gorgeous, delicious and fairly easy. My recipe doesn't make more than we can reasonably eat in a single sitting. I've probably made this more frequently than the other two, however; and it is certainly best in moderation.



Red Velvet Cake: I just love this cake, and my mom always used to make if for my birthday, but I probably love it more than everyone else in the family. Plantboy thinks it is a bit funky and my kids are slightly indifferent to cake, being just as satisfied with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. What could be more beautiful at Valentine's Day than a fat slice of red velvet cake. Exactly! Eating it cold for breakfast on Monday morning. That is the problem though. I will eat it the rest of the week, unable to through away a single mouthful.



Trifle: Besides being delicious and relatively easy to make, this would also give me an excuse to buy some cool glass goblets as I'd probably do single servings so everybody gets what they are willing to eat. The negative with trifle is that I much prefer it with fresh fruit and it isn't the best time of year for that.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Days 10 and 11

I love having a lazy day. Jedi Knight was home sick yesterday and after I got the house clean in the late afternoon, the kids were making each other totally crazy. So we spent the afternoon playing Wii Lego Star Wars. I've made it all the way to Episode VI because yeah, I'm awesome like that. I love Star Wars too, but to give it its own day is declaring my geekiness with a little too much fervor.

But lazy day or no, cooking must always be done. For all of the other domestic things I'm mediocre at or uninterested in, I've always been grateful that I loved to cook, and that my husband does too. We made a "simple" dish yesterday of beans and rice, but the way we make beans and rice is enough to make you want to serve it three times a week. Plan ahead and enjoy.

My beans recipe is called "Frijoles a la Charra" (Beans in the crock pot) and came from a Mexican-American woman I knew in Texas. She was an aide at our school and brought these beans for the Cinco de Mayo party our faculty hosted each year. I've taken her basic and delicious recipe and made it uniquely ours. I make these beans every four to six months and freeze the leftovers which are excellent reheated any time you have Mexican food. To put the perfect, carnivorous, finish on these bad boys, I always make boneless, pork BBQ spareribs in my crock pot the Sunday before and then chop up the leftovers into the beans about an hour before serving. So here goes:

The day before you want to eat, fill your crock pot about half full of beans. I used a mixture of pinto and black beans this time around. Add water until the beans are submerged by a couple of inches. Sorry to be so cryptic about amounts--it really depends on the size of your crock pot! Allow the beans to soak over night.

In the morning, rinse your beans really well of the soaking water and put in fresh water before you cook them. This cuts down a lot on the gas factor. Return your beans to the crock pot and add just enough water to cover them. You can add more water later if you need to, but if you add too much then your beans will be too soupy. Set your crock pot to high until the water is boiling and then turn it down to low.

The next step will give your beans their flavor. You can add the goodies early in the morning, when you put the beans on to cook, or in the afternoon, but no later than three hours before you plan to serve them. All of the flavors need time to sit together.

On a cutting board, cut up 8 ounces of bacon (about half a package); there is no need to separate the strips. Add them to a fry pan (I actually use a wok) and cook them over medium high heat until the pieces all break apart and the bacon is crispy (this cut ahead technique saves time and a dirty pan and works great any time you need bacon bits and/or grease for any recipe). Watch the bacon carefully when it gets close to being done, as the difference between undercooked bacon and beating your smoke alarm for the next hour with your mop is about 7.8 seconds. Using a slotted spoon, fish out the cooked bacon and put in on paper towels to drain.

While the bacon is cooking, chop up a medium yellow or white onion and peel and chop (as fine or as roughly as you prefer) at least 3 cloves of garlic. I used 8 and left them kind of chunky. If you want your beans to be somewhat spicy, you can also chop up hot peppers at this point. For a large crock pot, I used 2 medium sized jalapenos, but only the seeds from one. Pablano and chipotle peppers are also nice.

When your bacon is fished out, add your onions, garlic and peppers to the hot bacon fat (those are three words I love together) along with 2 tsp oregano and 1/2 tsp cumin. Stir fry until the onions begin to clear and your eyes water. At this point your house will smell so good that a neighbor might drop by just to sit at your kitchen table and sniff. Do NOT allow this weirdo in.

When the veggies have started to soften just a bit, add two cans of Rotel to the the pan. If you don't know what that is, then you have clearly never lived in Texas. In Texas, they say "rotel" the way you might say "levis" or "kleenex." In other words, the brand name of the thing has become the thing itself. Rotel is a brand of diced tomatoes that contains diced green chilies. There are several varieties of Rotel, and other tomato brands have the green chili variety as well. Any of these will do.

Stir the tomatoes until everything is warm. Turn off the heat and check your beans. If it is still early in the day, and the beans have a lot of softening up to do, leave some water in the crock pot. If it is later in the day, and your beans are getting close to being cooked, drain most of the water off as the liquid in the tomatoes will be enough to finish cooking your beans. Add the contents of your fry pan to the crock pot and stir well. My recipe tells me to add my crunchy bacon bits in at this point, but I disagree. I can't stand soggy bacon. It is a sacrilege.

Still with me? Good. Because now you want to take an entire bunch of cilantro and add it to the crock pot. This is a good time to add your leftover ribs too. One last stir and let all of that hearty goodness just sit until it is time to eat.



When I made these in Texas, I would always ask Plantboy to stop at our favorite Mexican restaurant on the way home and pick up a half quart of rice and a dozen tortillas. I've yet to find an acceptable substitute for Cucos' homemade tortillas, but we have re-created their rice. Here goes:

Brown 1 1/2 cups long grain white rice with a tbsp of butter. While the rice is browning, mix 1 1/2 cups chicken bother, 1 1/2 cups warm water, 1 tsp of garlic powder (NOT salt) and 2 tsp of tumeric. When it is well mixed (it will be quite yellow), add it to the rice. Cover and simmer until the water is absorbed and the rice is cooked. About 20 minutes.

While the rice is cooking, dice a carrot, finely chop 2 Tbsp red pepper (we actually used a combination of those tiny Costco fajita peppers this time--lovely!) and a dice one small onion. Add a couple of tsp of olive oil to a fry pan and stir-fry the carrots for two minutes, than add the onion and peppers for another minutes. Add 1/3 cup of frozen sweet white corn and saute everything together until some of the vegetables have started to sear a little bit and a the corn is warm. Stir this mixture into the cooked rice along with about a third a cup of finely chopped cilantro. This picture is nice, but if you add the cilantro, your rice will be elevated to the level of art!



Invite plenty of folks over and pass around the napkins.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 9

A couple of Sundays ago I volunteered to hold a friend's baby while she actually sat through the end of a meeting. Before I had children of my own, I was always kind of anxious around babies--adorable from afar, downright scary up close. I didn't really play with baby dolls when I was little, nor did I really want the kitchen set to use for playing house. The kitchen I did like was a Barbie kitchen, and we pretended it was the kitchen for the sorority house. I never wanted the Barbie with babies, only the one who had a career. And I loved my Rocker Barbies the most.

Coming back the point now . . .

Now that I've had my own kids, I like babies a lot better; probably because I feel more comfortable around them. My initial thought in picking up my friend's baby was to help her out, as my own Church-of-the-Hallway days are not that far past. But as I held his cherubic, chunky, five month-old self close, I inhaled deeply and thought my reasons for holding him were probably entirely selfish. I do love the smell of a baby.

Not that Baby Magic smell--my own kids were too sensitive for any scented soap. Nor that poop smell--formula or breast milk, both are equally toxic. I mean that natural baby smell that makes you want to bury your face in their furry little heads and just forget any bad thing that has ever happened to you. Not every baby has that wonderful smell in equal measures: my first smelled lovely but I was too stressed to appreciate just how unique and fleeting that scent is. Isn't he cute?






My second child didn't really have a good helping of that baby smelliness, but he more than made up for it in cuteness. He was honestly the best-looking baby I've ever seen. I mean, look at this kid! In the first picture he is just a month old and we used to laugh until our sides hurt over that gorgeous head of hair. I mean, honestly, he looks like he is wearing a wig. He wore this delightful, pensive expression when he was trying to figure things out. Now and then I still catch that same expression on the face my little boy. (*wipes tear*) He smiled by the time he was a month old.




Baby number three smelled great, and I was smart enough to enjoy it. He spent the first several weeks of his life being a baby to a temporarily single mother. I did a lot of couch sitting and sniffing of him while my kids ran amok. I just let everything go. Guess what? The world didn't end. Here are a few pictures of #3. Oh, heck, he is just so cute too.





Conclusion: I love baby smell, but mostly I love(d!) my own babies. Oh, good grief! Where did the time go?

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 8

I love stories.

No, it isn't doubling up since I already used "books" since books are an excellent source for stories. What I mean is that I love hearing about other people lives, and the events and moments that touched them and and made them who they are. My extended family on my dad's side are great story-tellers. I remember sitting in my grandmother's always crowded and frequently too-hot living room on Sunday nights, listening to my uncles tell stories and laughing until the tears ran down my cheeks at the best.

But mostly I love stories that demonstrate the power of the human spirit. I want to share one of these today. It comes from Madeline Albright's memoir, and is one of her few shared stories that is just about regular people. Try not to get lost in the details--I read all of the chapters preceding this story and the politics are still hard to grasp--and just concentrate on Fadil Fejzic's generosity.

Albright writes,

"On New Year's Day, 1996 . . . I came across a story . . . that illustrated much of what our efforts had been about. It was an illustration of what I call 'the Bosnia idea,' the simple premise that every person has value and that neighbor must look upon neighbor not as Serb, Croat and Muslim, but as one individual to another."

"It told of a Bosniak farmer named Fadil Fejzic, who lived in a the mostly Muslim town of Gorazde during the years it was under siege, and a Serb family, Mr. and Mrs. Drago Sorak, who also lived in Gorazde and refused for a long time to leave despite the heightening tensions.

"In June 1992, Muslim police had taken the Soraks' eldest son, Zoran, who never returned. . . Not long after, Zoran's widow gave birth to a girl, but food was scarce and the mother unable to nurse. The family gave the child tea, but it was clear the infant would soon die. It happened that Mr. Fejzic owned a . . . cow, which he kept outside of town to avoid Serb snipers.

"On the fifth day after the Sorak child's birth, the family heard footsteps on the stairs. A half liter of milk was handed up to their small apartment by a man they barely knew. On the sixth day the same thing happened and on the seventh, and so on for 442 consecutive days, until the Soraks left for Serbia. Notwithstanding cold and snow and shortages of food, Mr. Fejzic never missed a day and never accepted anything in return. When the war ended, the Times reporter found Fejzic huddled in a room with other Bosniak refugees, his home destroyed and cow long since dead. Told by his visitor that he had seen Mr. and Mrs. Sorak, Fejzic's eyes brightened. 'And the baby?' he asked. 'How is she?'

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 7

I love church. Now, don't get me wrong, we have as much trouble getting there as anybody else, and those years when you have a babe in arms and walk the hallways are no picnic. Then you have a day like today--from the opening prayer to the closing, it was just wonderful. I felt uplifted as I heard my brothers and sisters share their testimonies of Jesus Christ, with a healthy smattering of people sharing their stories of being converted to the Church*. TamathyC always presents a Sunday School lesson that is carefully thought out, and despite our studying the Old Testament this year, her presentation always seems totally relevant to our modern lives. This week, I taught our Young Women, but even that contributed to my overall good experience at church this week.

I feel re-energized to face my week, and am grateful for Heavenly Father's gift in giving us a day of rest each week.


*In most parts of the country, if you hear "the Church" they are talking about Catholicism. In Utah and in LDS circles, the same phrase means The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. (Mormons, Saints, LDS, Latter-day Saints.) When I use church with a small "c" I am referencing attending worship services each week. When I use a capital "C" I am referencing the entire, formal organization as restored by God through Joseph Smith. When I say people shared conversion stories, it is the journey that brought them to the Latter-day Saints, not just to church that particular week.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 6

Books. Books. Books. I love books. Love. Them. LOVE them.

Just the other day I started reading These is My Words by Nancy Turner. I have heard such amazing things about his book, and after just about 20 or 30 pages I was convinced that it was the most over-rated book I'd ever heard of. The grammar drove me crazy. A series of horrific events had already happened. Everything from the journal point of view was so stilted. Could it really be that I was expected to get through a nearly 400 pages book without a scrap of dialogue?

But then something--I'm still not sure what--pushed me over the hump and I've been reading off and on all day. It has been a long time since I read a book that I really just wanted to devour whole like this.

There has been discussion here before about the purpose of literature and reasons for reading--escapism, education, self-improvement, being uplifted or entertained, etc.--and I suppose that there are nearly as many reasons as there are people. And probably multiple reasons in the same person. In the movie Shadowlands, CS Lewis says, "We read to know we are not alone." I am not certain if Mr. Lewis actually ever said these words (a quick Internet search wasn't helpful), or if they are a brilliant construction of a very good screenplay writer, but I've always really liked this statement as an accurate description of why I read.

I love finding a gem of a statement in a book that resonates so powerfully with you that you want to jump up and shout Yes! or better yet, YAWP!!!!! so that all the world has a chance to hear your epiphany. That is the thing with epiphany, though, is that it is most powerful when it happens in your head and there is a moment of understanding so profound you think you'll never forget that moment as long as you live. When you try to explain your astounding insight to somebody else, they just look at you like, "huh?" or a patronizing, "that's nice," or "cool."

I had just such a moment reading today. In a single paragraph, Turner summed up what I was trying to get to in this post. It too me 12 paragraphs to rather clumsily construct my thoughts. Turner's amazing heroine writes in her journal after learning she has passed the 1880's equivalent of the SAT by being entirely self taught. And not just passed. She got a 94 1/2 percent. The end of her journal entry follows:

"It seems there is always a road with bends and forks to choose, and taking one path means you can never take another one. There's no starting over nor undoing the steps I've taken. It isn't like I'd want to not have my little ones and Jack and that ranch, it is part of life to have to support yourself. It's just that I want everything, my insides are not just hungry, but greedy. I want to find out all the things in the world, and still have a family and a ranch. Maybe part of passing that test was a marker for where I've been, but it feels more like a pointer for something I'll never reach."

I read to know I'm not alone. Thank you for your gift today, Nancy Turner, even though you wrote those words over ten years ago.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Plantboy would like it duly noted that he did not catalog trees on our honeymoon video while I was sleeping. He cataloged trees on our honeymoon video while we were at Butchart Gardens. Either way, it watches like a documentary. And not an interesting one.

Day 5

I wake up at three every morning. For those of you new here, it is for a paper route, and not for some noble reason like scripture study, or cooking my family an enormous breakfast or curing cancer. It is safe to say that this early wake up is hard nearly every day. Every. Single. Day. If I could got to bed at eight, when the kids do, it probably wouldn't be so hard, but I'm working on preserving my marriage too. Though perhaps, it might be argued, at the expense of my sanity. Only time will tell.

Anyway, three a.m. on cold, wet winter mornings is especially difficult. Even if there is no rain, this time of year is generally overcast and sometimes foggy. The humidity penetrates every hair on my head, bringing new life to the term "frizz." Sometimes the wind blows.

And then sometimes, it is clear and beautiful. Oregon's air quality is better than any place I've ever lived, and when it is clear, all you have to do is get a few feet away from a street light to see the stars in sharp relief against their inky backdrop. On such mornings, my heart soars as Orion watches over and keeps me company. On such mornings, my job seems like an enormous blessing instead of the craziest thing I've ever spent 2 years, 2 months, 1 week and 2 days at. But who's counting?

So while I don't exactly love my current job, I do love starry, starry mornings.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 4



I love sleep. If I could write a sonnet or an ode, it would be to sleep. Sometimes I crawl in the covers at night, and the relief and joy is so intense that it is a wonder I ever get out of bed. Ever.

My mother tells me I was always a kid that needed a lot of sleeps--still napping occasionally in the afternoons after coming home from kindergarten. Except for the ages of about 6-15, I have been a champion napper. I can nap for three or four hours in the middle of the day. No problem. None of that wimpy (and effective) power napping for me. No sir. I'm going to sleep until I've had at least two REM cycles.

Here is my favorite illustrative story: Plantboy and I got married the day after I finished my first teaching job. As a newbie teacher I was pretty much clueless about end-of-year protocol and made a huge project due for my AP class the LAST DAY OF SCHOOL. Not the last working day, I mean the last day when everybody is signing yearbooks and nobody goes to class. School let out by eleven, and I spent a long, feverish day grading the projects that actually were turned in, and trying to work out how to fairly grade those that weren't when I realized what a complete moron I was. Most of the kids were seniors, for crying out loud! Anyway, I finally got the grades in, though I'd been seriously tempted to just chuck it all. I was, after all, getting married the next morning; and I was, after all, not going back to that school. Duty called, and I got home about five that day. Utterly exhausted.

I've recounted that emotional day here before. The rain, which had lasted all week, was hourly erasing the hope of the outdoor wedding we had planned for all spring. Last minute changes were made, Plantboy finally came into town after living in another state and working for a month, and I was a wreck. The wedding day stress melted into honeymoon stress over money, tickets, travel, sex, etc. etc. By the time we arrived at our beautiful cottage on the Puget Sound I was emotionally and physically at my limit. Our second afternoon at the house, I laid down for a "nap" as I told Plantboy. I slept for six hours.

That section of our honeymoon videotape is hilarious. Plantboy took a long walk BY HIMSELF along the beach videotaping twenty different varieties of trees. He taped every part of our cabin. He taped me sleeping. He may have taken my pulse once. It is safe to say that my dear, sweet husband got a taste very early on exactly what he was dealing with when it came to me and sleep. He didn't learn about my attractive snoring until I was pregnant the first time.

This is the actual cottage. I can't decide what I want more this minute--to book a weekend and find someone to farm the kids off on, or just a really, llllloooooonnnnnngggggg nap.




Look at that bed! My gosh I'm tired . . . .

I love sleep.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

I'm kind of a Valentine's Day hater. I am willing to own it. I have never really had a romantic or a great one. One year, while living in Texas, we did eat at a fabulous hole-in-the-wall Italian place on Louetta, but I don't think that was right on Valentine's Day. Come to think of it, that may have been an anniversary thing. The truth is that I'm happily married to a man who makes me feel loved every day, and "big" occasions for gift giving are more just a part of the continuum. I am also highly practical. He will sometimes come up with some big, dramatic plan for fun and I'm the one to say, "Uh, what about . . . ?" and the fun stuff gets lost in the logistics. As the years pass, a lot of my practicality has rubbed off on Plantboy and any spontaneous, romantic gestures we might have once had are pretty rare these days.

Case in point: Last weekend we went on a date. To Sizzler. Topped off with a rented movie.

Thrilling, eh?

It's okay. Just as I freely embrace my general dislike of Valentine's (s'?) Day, I will also freely embrace that I'm as comfortable with Plantboy as my favorite old jeans, and that I'm totally happy with that. Am I a romantic? Hm . . . that is a really good question, and I'll have to think about that one. After all, I am learning my own version of happily ever after. I might be too practical to really earn the title of romantic, but I still get weak in the knees every time I read Austen and wonder if, once again, Mr. Darcy will really change his nature for his beloved Elizabeth. And I really want my movies to have happy endings. (Thanks very much for those of you who recommended 500 Days of Summer, by the way. I might still be depressed over it.)

So while the jury is still out as to whether or not I believe in the sappy, book version of romance, it is totally safe to say that I believe in love. Absolutely. Totally. Completely. I think those that we truly Love never leave us, but that they each touch and change our life fundamentally in some ways. I think the relationships we have with one another are the glue that holds life together. I think the things we love (with a small letter "l") can brighten our days and give us outlets for our pleasures and interests. As long as we keep the people we love ahead of the things we love, I think it is okay to love things too.

I once met a woman who was very devout and faithful to her version of Christianity, which differed rather sharply than mine. In fact, I had seldom met a person of such faith in any religion. She was militant about her dislike of the word "love." She believed it was so overused as to be meaningless and would only use it in context of talking about God. She even believed the term "in love" should also only be used to express love of God. (Correlation is not causation, of course, but she was divorced.)

It's true that our language would better serve us if it had multiple words for "love," like the Eskimos and their dozens of words for "snow." But it doesn't. And so I will freely use the word love for my religion, skiing, my mother, fresh vegetables, farmer's markets, pretty baskets, my children, flowers, my husband, ice cream, and chocolate. Though not necessarily in that order. (Chocolate should be higher. Oh, and Plantboy too.)

All of this musing brings me to my point. I've never done one of those post-every-day-for-a-month things, but I'm going to try this month. (Please don't point out that I've already missed two days. I'm making up for it here.) Each day I'm going to post about something I love. Some of these will be things I LOVE, and others will just be things I love. I hope that you will understand the difference, and that posting about chocolate chip cookies one day and my children then next doesn't mean that I take cookies too seriously or my children too lightly. It just means that there is a lot of dang good stuff to embrace in this life. I'll post three today, but hopefully just once daily from here on out.

1-- I love music. It is odd really, as any actual talent I have in this area is minimal. I play the piano a very little bit and my singing voice could probably just be termed "adequate" as long as I'm in a group and have other melody-singers to follow. I've got dozens and dozens of hymns memorized and love to sing loudly at church, my adequate voice harmonizing with Plantboy's sweet tenor. When you sing without the book, you are free to look up and imagine the music swelling toward Heaven where the angels join you and make even the mediocre godlike. It makes me feel like I'm worshiping instead of just reading text.

My iPod is one of my most-used possessions and I download between five and ten songs each month. I have thousands of songs organized onto 45 playlists, and I think most activities should have some kind of theme music in the background. My tastes are pretty broad, but not necessarily daring. I read music critics and admit to being a bit clueless about what they are talking about most of the time. If it makes me sing along and evokes some kind of emotion, then I'm happy. I love the lyrics of music and will sometimes decide after several listenings that I really do like a song after all, once I really know the lyrics. Probably because I love words also . . . oops, that is a separate love.

2--I love Australian accents. After living in New South Wales for 16 months, and connecting so deeply with so many amazing people, the barest phrase spoken in that lazy, sloppy drawl evokes such wonderful memories that I could listen all day. Learning Aussie slang (of which there is plenty) was like unlocking the key to some mysterious code. This slangy, accented talk is such a part of the fabric of Australian life, that they don't even realize how delightfully charming they are. And that makes them even moreso. Fair dinkum.

3--These cookies (my own version of Ghiradelli's Milk Chocolate Chip Cookies):

Mix 2 cups flour, 1 1/2 cups quick oats, 1 tsp baking soda and 1/2 tsp of salt in a bowl and set aside. Cream 1/2 cup of butter, 1/2 cup shortening, 3/4 cup sugar, and 3/4 cup packed brown sugar together until SUPER creamy--beat like 4-5 minutes. While beating add two eggs and 2 tsp vanilla. Add the flour mixture and combine until all the flour is moistened. Get out the BIG wooden spoon. Here is my favorite part. Add 3 (that's right THREE) cups of your favorite goodies. Any variation is fantastic. My favorite is 1 1/2 cups of the really fat milk chips, 1 cup of chopped pecans, and 1/2 cup of dark chocolate chips (not semi-sweet, dark) and 1/2 a cup of peanut butter chips. Oops! Does that add up to 3 1/2 cups? Too bad. Plantboy prefers raisins to the nuts (ick!) and my kids like them with no nuts or raisins but with extra peanut butter or white chips. Can you tell that we divide the batter at our house?

Anyway, once you have made this decadent batter, get a spoon and start eating. NO!! Don't be a fool! You don't want to waste a single baked gem! Drop them by oh, I don't know, whatever size you like, onto an ungreased* cookie sheet. I use a small scoop that holds about a tablespoon and a half. Bake them at 375 degrees for 8-11 minutes. Your first batches on cold sheets will need closer the 11, your very last batch might only need 7. The key to keeping your cookies soft and luscious for days after baking is to get them out of the oven just as the shine comes off of them (NOT BROWN) and leave them on the sheet for a minute or two before removing them to a wire rack for cooling. As soon as you are no longer in danger of burning the roof of your mouth off, pour milk into the largest glass you have in your house (quart-sized mason jars come to mind), and start two-fisting these.


So there it is. Three days of things I love. Because I'm sure you were hanging out for it like that. Stay tuned . . . .



*My great-grandmother used to say, "Any cookie that can't grease its own bum, isn't worthy of the name 'cookie'." You can take that advice to the bank.