You Might Live In Western Oregon If . . . .

There are four different brands of tie-dye kits at the Wal-Mart.

You have to drive 20 miles just to find a Wal-Mart.

Your husband says, “Look, honey, weed in the garden.” And you reply, “Weeds?” He says, “No, weed,” and shows you a wild marijuana plant the size of your little finger.

The big battle for president (or almost any public office for that matter) is more about the democratic primary than the final election.

Your bike is more likely to be stolen than your car, which is bad because you probably consider your bike to be the equivalent of a car.

Liberal bumper stickers are an acceptable alternative to having your car painted.

The Republican Senator runs re-election television ads boasting how centrist he is.

A mom and pop bike shop has $100,000 worth of solar panels on the roof and refers to itself not as a store, but as “a way of life.”

You can buy your gas here. (The prices are a little outdated. Like two weeks probably at the rate it is going up. Also, if you cannot tell, that is grass growing on the roof and the awning is covered with solar panels.)

Someone pumps your gas.

The person pumping your gas hits on you. And she’s a woman. And you’re a woman.

References to the civil war almost always mean any time the University of Oregon Ducks play the Oregon State Beavers. If “Civil War” is capitalized, you are referring to the football game wherein the winner takes home the Platypus Trophy.

Part of the donations for the local food bank come from an organic garden run by volunteers. (This is an actual picture of one of the greenhouses this extremely awesome organization owns.)
Dreadlocks are in even if you’re homeless. Oh, wait, voluntary homelessness is in too.
You hang these instead of wind chimes on your back porch.

Bean Boy

Once upon a time there was a young girl with a difficult family. Her father was old enough to be her grandfather, and though kindly and interesting, he treated his large family with a kind of bemused detachment common to men of his age and demeanor. Her mother was a poor manager of money, of which there was never enough, and an even poorer manager of children, of which there were plenty. The young girl was clever and had a way of seeing quickly to the heart of an issue. She knew that their family was not entirely normal, and did what she could to teach her younger siblings what she had learned of the world despite her tender years.

It was about this time they moved from a smallish city to an even smaller town. It was as though a great magnifying glass had been shone on their oddities. The other girls her age seemed so capable, so tidy, so well-dressed. She felt shabby and embarrassed, and the other kids were happy to ignore or ridicule the girl and her motley siblings.

In the summer, to earn money, the young woman (for she had lived in this town a few years) and her sisters worked at the bean patch. They would work all day in the sun, filling large, flat boxes full of beans. As they filled each box, they would work together to drag and push the heavy flat to the end of the row. When it was in place, one of them would yell, "Bean Boy! Bean Boy!"

The girls who were pretty or popular or well-dressed or able to keep their hair in neat braids, would wait just moments for one of the farm boys to come along and easily lift the box to take to the truck. In the truck, the box would be weighed and a number would be made next to each person's name in the ledger book. At the end of the day, the girls were paid for how many beans they picked.

But to the young woman's deep embarrassment, she and her sisters would stand at the end of the row calling "Bean Boy!" over and over again, and nobody would come to help them, at least not for several minutes. Some times they ended up dragging the heavy box to the truck by themselves.

About this time, a new family of brothers started working at the bean patch. The oldest brother was the same age as the young lady. Despite his small stature, he was popular and athletic. Their family owned a small dairy and they worked hard. His family was even bigger than the young lady's, but his mother was not bad with money or children. She liked the way he had always looked her in the eye and had never made whispered comments behind her back.

But what she liked best is that when she called, "Bean Boy!" this young man would always make sure that her flat or her sisters' flats were picked up immediately. If he was unable to do it, then he asked one of his younger brothers to help her. In her whole life, she had never met anyone as genuinely nice as this boy.

She later married him and they had four children.

One day, many years later, her daughter was home from college. She had watched for years as the relationship between her eldest, bookish, daughter and her husband had deteriorated to almost mutual hostility. For all his generosity of heart, her husband was also stubborn to a fault and took it so personally when he was disagreed with. She wished there was a way that her daughter would see that all she despised in her father was absolutely reflected in herself. Except for her love of stories and the features of her pretty-ish face, she had inherited nearly everything else from him. She could see, as they didn't, that if they would both give in just a little bit, their relationship had potential to bring them much joy.

So the mother watched as her daughter and husband dug into each other one night. The daughter expressing her opinions with no filter and attacking her father for his; the father becoming so frustrated that he finally barked, "Just get out of my sight!" There was silence, the daughter's sharp tongue finally silenced, and a look of resolve the mother had never seen before moved through her eyes. The girl turned on her heel and left the room.

The mother momentarily thought that perhaps the daughter had made a breakthrough: had she finally just learned to walk away when tempers flared? And then, minutes later, she heard a car start in the driveway and walked outside. Her daughter's car was loaded with a mountain of half-finished laundry and she was backing out.

"What? No goodbye?" The mother said carefully.

The response was volatile. "How can you love him! He is mean and angry! He never has a kind word for me and he acts like a child. He hasn't said a nice word to me in months. . . " She went on in this vein for a couple of minutes and though she was certainly exaggerating, the mother knew her daughter did have some valid points.

Her tirade spent, the mother invited her daughter back in where they could talk. Her daughter refused saying, "I'm leaving today. He told me to. I don't know when I'm coming back." The mother let her go, not saying much, wise enough not to point out that the girl wouldn't get far if she decided to really make a break for it in a car which her father made the payments on.

Four days later, the college girl got a letter from her mother. The letter contained trouser socks: her mom was never able to send a letter without some kind of token present. The letter was four or five pages from a yellow legal pad--every line used on both sides of the paper. In the letter her mother told her why she loved this man by telling her the story of the Bean Boy, concluding with, "Whenever I feel frustrated or angry with your father, I just remember that inside he is still that Bean Boy--caring, compassionate and rescuing."

The girl cried. She drove to the mountains. She prayed. And in the end she heeded the best advice she ever got found at the end of her mother's letter: "I know that he is the adult. I would love to say that if you just bide your time he will one day reach out and this will all be behind you. But I know him. And I know that it is not in his nature to do so. If having a relationship with this man, your father, is important to you, then you must forget yourself. You cannot expect to meet him half-way. You need to go all the way. I think you'll be surprised by the man you find on the other side."

About six months later, that daughter went on a mission to Sydney, Australia. She cried when she hugged and said goodbye to her dad. All barriers down, he too wept unashamedly as he loaded her on the plane for the greatest adventure of her life. She had come to realize that he, in all his imperfection, was a part of who she was. She had finally come to see his generosity, his insecurity, the way he had always supported her, the respect he had for her as an adult. And she didn't have to go the entire distance on her own. He had come to meet her.

Years after her mission, that girl moved to Texas. Her father remarked to her mother that loading her and newish husband into the moving van was the second hardest thing he'd ever done. When asked what the hardest was, he replied, "Putting her on a plane for Australia."

I know this story is true, because it is my story.

I love my dad for teaching me how to work, how to ski, how to do algebra, and how to give. He never begrudges the money or time my mother spends trying to bail out her family. He showed by example that we never turn down callings, even when we feel unworthy and overwhelmed. I love my parents for making the decision early in their marriage to be active in the Church, though many in their families chose otherwise. I love him for coming to endless dance and music recitals and plays, though he hates that kind of thing. I love my dad for calling me on the phone just to say hi whenever he sees and Oregonian license plate. I love him for always making sure there was money in my pocket when I went out with friends and even now, filling up my tank "anonymously" before we head out on a road trip. He IS kind and generous and all of those things my mother helped me to see before it was too late.

Happy Father's Day Bean Boy.

Summer Survival Tips?

It is 11 am on the first day of summer vacation. I am sure there will be some good times, maybe even great times, but I think it is going to be a long few months too.

You home schooler parents are saints.

Pessimism Is More Damaging Than "Secular Humanism"

I like the Sunday School teacher in our current ward. He is always extremely well-prepared and encourages class discussion. He tries hard to cover the material, but not so hard that he overlooks spontaneous teaching moments.

He is, however, occassionally more political that is to my taste. I love the Book of Alma, but I think too many people read it as a treatise on theocracy, capitalism and war. It is true that these elements are there, but the spiritual richness in it should not be thrown out in exchange for Sunday School lessons that are thinly veiled as platforms for the Republican party.

The last few weeks have been fairly frustrating for me.

When we studied the Nephites living in the Lamanite lands under King Zeniff our teacher said, "Fifty percent doesn't sound too bad. At least for their 50% they are left alone. For my 50% the government wants to tell me how to run my life." (insert Appreciative Chuckle here, which was loud enough to drown out the clenching of my teeth) Two minutes later he goes on to tell the real story without retracting the comment--for their 50% they received NO services, but actually supported another nation (they were never PART of the Lamanites) as well themselves. In addition, the Lamanites set guards over them to make sure they didn't escape. They were riduculed and their workload was constantly increased. I don't know about you, but this sounds a lot more like Eastern Germany in the late 20th century than modern America.

Then last week we began the lesson talking about Alma the Younger's conversion from his perspective, both immediately following the event and then years later as related to his son. These scriptures are beautiful, telling us that any person with a sincere desire to repent can be forgiven, his sins washed clean by the blood of the Savior, and returned to the fold. I think that Alma and the sons of Mosiah lived their lives the way they did because they wanted to show God in every action that they were grateful for their incredible second chance. People CAN change. People DO change. We cannot reject this premise without rejecting the core of the gospel.

The problem is that we do it al the time. I'll explain what I mean.

Immediately following the discussion on these poetic, redemptive chapters, we began talking about four forms of government--theocracy, monarchy, republic, and democratic. The general consensus was that theocracy was ideal. At which point I raised my hand and pointed out that the only theocracies in the world today were in the Middle East. Just as Mosiah determined that a democratic republic was the best possible system for imperfect people, our own government follows this model. I added that as frustrated as we are when non-religious people complain and even sue over outward displays of religion in public places, it is actually the separation of church and state that allows our own religion to flourish. Indeed, there would be no LDS church if it was not a for a nation founded by men with no interest in organized religion.

While there was agreement about the theocracy part, there were several hands defending the general goodness of the founding fathers and their receipt of inspiration. (Which I had never denied.) The resounding agreement then in the class is that there are simply NO good men (nobody said women) running for public office anymore. "It is nearly impossible to vote for a candidate who is honest," declared our teacher who made a less than oblique reference to Bill Clinton. He reduced the state of our country to an us (I'm assuming members of the church and conservative Christians) and them situation.

I felt aghast. Yes, our country has problems. Big problems. But don't the leaders of our church teach that at the time of greatest evil, the greatest good will also be on the earth? Never before in the history of the world have women been given the opportunity and equal-ish status that men have always enjoyed. For all of our faults, people of all colors and cultures generally try to live together. There is more opportunity now for higher education than ever before. We generally have the easiest lifestyle ever conceived in all of human history. In most places, kids are safe, educated, fed, nurtured, loved--spoiled even. Child abuse and drug use are still decried by the population at large. Could an evil-to-the-core society (as we are to often told we live in) have created so much good?

I don't think so.

I am not a moral relativist. (Relatively speaking.) I think there are things that are right, and things that are wrong. But I don't think it is fair for us to judge the "rest" of the world by our own standard. I agree that people are born with the Light of Christ, but it is NOT the same as the Holy Ghost. And even it cannot compensate for a lack of teaching and instruction in things that are right and good.

The founding fathers were smart men. They were moral men, in the sense that they believed in equality and fair play as they understood it. But if these men were suddenly dropped into our neighborhoods, they would probably seem like a rather "unrighteous" lot--cross dressers, adulterous, steeped in worldly philosophy, cantakerous, elitist, smokers, drinkers, slave owners. . . .

To declare a politician to be "good" or "bad" is perhaps not as helpful as asking if he or she will be good for the country. Will that person listen to a variety of opinions and advisors before choosing a course? Will that person recognize the human rights and dignity of ALL people, not just citizens of our country? Will that person be careful before committing to an ideal, but then put their full efforts into a committment once made? Will that person consider both the lessons of history and the ramifications for the future before deciding on a present course of action?

Our two current presidential candidates have each done something very appealing, in my mind. John McCain told a group who isn't necessarily likely to vote for him that he knew his life was different than theirs, but if he was elected in the end, he wanted to be a president for ALL the people. Not just red states. Not just Republicans. Not just those who agreed with him at ever turn. And when Obama talks about hope, I think he is trying to say what I'm trying to say here. There IS good in people. People do want the same general things, and when they are listened to and helped to the right path, there can be real consensus. His message of hope and change is not that America is evil, its that America is the greatest country in the world and we need to start seeing that good in each other too. Either of these men could usher in a new, better era of American politics. Let's pray for these men. These good men. Even if they don't always remember to pray for themselves.

People CAN change. People DO change. Let's stop thinking in terms of "us" and "them" and think instead in terms of being children of God. After all, we all chose to come here. That single act gives us more in common than any of us can truly realize.

Boys, Boys, Boys, I Love Boys

Right after taking this shot, I climbed in the hammock too. How could I resist, right? I was laying there rocking gently, feeling quite content with myself and my life. The weather was beautiful, there was a counter-full of vegetables to go with dinner--most of which game from our garden, and I'd accomplished a fair amount last weekend. Plantboy was a little less relaxed--I think he expected the hammock and its occupants to go crashing down any moment.

The boys giggled and wiggled as we swung, but eventually the mood of lazy contentment took them too and it was quiet for a few moments. All you could hear was the creaking of the hammock as it rubbed against the rafter. Patchy Pirate waxed poetic, "I think the hammock is tooting." Of course Scallywag started laughing so hard that I thought he'd flip the hammock and that of course set me and Plantboy going. The baby then chimed in with his giggles because, hey, everyone else was laughing.

Perhaps it was not the idyllic scene I'd anticipated, but it was good. It was very, very good.

Nine Years and Nine Reasons

Tomorrow it will be nine years since Plantboy and I got married. Nine years ago today I was working frantically to get in grades on the last day of school for my first teaching job. I was so green that I was actually still taking work and grading it that day. Besides getting all the grades in, I had to leave a spotless room because I was changing jobs as well. Oh, and it rained all week, ruining any chance for the outdoor reception Plantboy and my mother had spent untold hours on. The temperature also plummeted to the 40's. Very unseasonable for the first week of June. I remember taking the hour ride to the temple where we were getting married with my parents--Plantboy was coming from another direction and we were meeting there--shivering in my summer dress, snapping at anyone who looked at me wrong, feeling so nervous I wanted to throw up and fighting the tears the whole way.

Hm . . . . probably not the way most people describe their emotional state as they head toward marital bliss, right?

I was exhausted and overworked; I had only spent a couple of days with Plantboy in the month previous because he was working in another state; the weather was a huge blow to our plans; I had just said goodbye to a job and a group of students that I absolutely loved; I was about to spend the summer living with my in-laws whom I hardly knew in another state . . . I suppose that there were definite reasons for my near breakdown the morning I got married.

But it wasn't until I walked into the foyer at the Logan temple that I really knew the source of the anxiety, which mounted and mounted until I actually saw him walk in--about two minutes after we did. He gave me a big hug and I immediately relaxed. I said to him, "You came." He looked at me like I was crazy and said, "Of course." I think in some corner of my mind, I really didn't think that marriage would be a part of my life. I wasn't that old, even, but for those who didn't know me in the 18 months leading up to my marriage, I was pretty much an emotional train wreck a lot of the time: maybe there were too many beginnings and endings and heartbreaks in too short of time for me to be entirely stable.

When we were married, the man who sealed us said that part of the symbolism of the altar in marriage ceremony is that we lay down all we have and are for the sake of the union. A true marriage is an act of sacrifice. He said a lot of other great things, that I'm sure were very useful, but it was that part about sacrifice that has stayed with me these nine years. I've learned that sacrifice brings amazing blessings.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of joy and sensation and yes, exhaustion. The third day of our honeymoon, I told Plantboy that I was going to take a "short" nap. He woke me up five hours later, no doubt wondering if I had entered some kind of alternative universe from which I'd never return. The whole first year of marriage was a little unsettling for me. I had been on my own and independent long enough that adjusting to the new "we" consciousness was a slow learning curve for me.

People talk about the "honeymoon" phase being the earliest part of a relationship and/or marriage. For me, however, I really believe that Plantboy and I finally hit our stride in the summer of 2005. I'm not exactly sure what changed, but since then we have been amazingly happy together. Even when things have been difficult, they are not difficult between us. As a youngish 20-something it was so easy for me to imagine myself being alone, but instead I was blessed to marry a man I'm still so in love with that at times it makes my heart ache for the joy of it. So, here it is,

Nine Reasons I Love Being Married to Plantboy

1. He can never keep the whole truth from me, even if he is trying to tease or surprise me. I can just read him too well.

2. Our favorite dating memory is of cuddling in a sleeping bag under the stars in Logan Canyon. We were way too unmarried to be there (I'm smarter now that it doesn't matter any more), but Plantboy was a perfect gentleman, keeping his hands and yes, his lips to himself while we talked for hours. Though I didn't admit it until several weeks afterward, that was the night I fell in love with him.

3. From the very beginning I always knew where I stood with him. In all the years I had dated (and not dated), I had never known a boy that was crazy about me from the moment he met me. Once I got past the feeling that he was human crazy glue, I knew that I was happy to not play games anymore and just know how somebody felt. Even now, I catch him looking at me sometimes and I know that time has not diminished his sincere and tender attachment.

4. His eyes. Oh yikes. I've never seen eyes as fantastic as his. (Except maybe me oldest son's!) When his optometrist told him that he may not be a great candidate for Lasic, I was secretly happy. I'm afraid that if he starts going around without his glasses on, women will start chatting him up in all kinds of random places whether he is with me or not.

5. Though he is beginning to gray and will probably be totally gray by the time he is 40, I'm just shallow enough to love that he still has a full head of thick hair and probably always will (as did his maternal grandfather). The irony is that every other guy I ever dated or was attracted to was losing his hair: they are probably all bald now.

6. I've never known a man (at least one who was straight and LDS) who loves the natural world the way Plantboy does. I love that our idea of the perfect vacation is to get as far away as possible from other people and look at God's creations. And when we hike or just drive around and I see plants or flowers or shrubs that I love, he can nearly always tell me the common and sometimes scientific name of what I'm looking at.

7. He is a great home teacher.

8. He is willing to listen to the other side of an argument before forming an opinion. We both like to read TNY, National Geographic and listen to NPR: we never run out of real things to talk about.

9. He loves our kids. When he spends time with them, he is NOT babysitting. He is parenting. We nearly always see eye to eye in our approach to raising kids and if one of us is grouchy and short of patience, the other can easily step in. He never acts like he's doing me a great favor when he takes the kids with him to the store or stays home so I can go alone.

I love this man with my whole heart. And, a year from now, I'm sure it will not be hard for me to come up with ten new ones. If you are lactose intolerant, you may want to skip the cheese next year.

Go Ahead, Thank Me for Sparing You the Complete Travel Log

As the Law of Conservation of Film doesn't apply to digital cameras, I took well over 200 pictures in Washington DC. I'll spare you the agony of ruffling through all of them (half of which are repeats and only half of those are really worth keeping), or even having to view them for the next several months on some sort of ongoing slide show on my sidebar.

However, I cannot completely overlook six wonderful days spent with only myself to look after and no bums to wipe, so this will be a DC post, though I'm hoping it doesn't deteriorate to a mere travel log of events. Yankee Girl's side bar says with her typical wry humor, "this blog does have narrow focus--it is all about me!" The same could easily be said here, but I hope this post does a little bit more than that. I want it to illustrate lessons learned from the journey, both literally and figuratively. And a few pictures.

As mentioned in the pre-DC post, my brother and his wife had led a pretty sheltered Utah-life when they moved to DC almost four years ago. Saturday night, I put my arm through hers as we walked the length of the Reflecting Pool on the way to the WWII monument. The moon was nearly full and it was possible to see a few stars, even with the bright city lights. I knew Shay had mixed emotions as she prepared to leave DC and I asked her if she was holding up okay. She said yes, but was quiet for several moments. Knowing that it takes my sister-in-law just a minute to find exactly the right words, I was quiet. She said, "You know, it isn't just that we've seen a lot of cool stuff since we've lived here." She gathered her thoughts again for a moment, "It is that living here as formed who Eric and I are as adults. Our whole world view is different."














I nodded, understanding perfectly what she meant. The places I've lived have likewise helped form my adult self--it isn't just what you see, it is who you've become.

Because self is constantly evolving, I would like to echo Shay's sentiments here and talk about some of the things I learned from my latest trip to DC. Because as much as I love monuments, museums, art galleries, relaxing and shopping, travel is more than all of this. I think its great value lies in the lessons taught when we immerse ourselves in things we've never seen before, when we try to think about things from other prespectives and see things for a moment as others see them.

So here are my travel insights. No doubt, your own visits to DC have taught you other things. Feel free to comment:

1) Can there be anything more sickening than the shoes, particularly the tiny shoes, in a large pile at the Holocaust Museum? I did not visit this venue last time I was in DC, and I was really grateful that I didn't pass it up a second time. I spent two hours in a haze of realization beyond anything I've ever learned about this "final solution" master-minded by a totalitarian government. While there, I imagined a young mother with three children and her strong husband, leaving behind every worldly posession but a small carpet-bag and the clothes on their backs. They are crammed into a box car with scores of families. On the journey, her children cry out in hunger and fear--it is dark and they are given nothing to eat or drink. They know they are headed east, someplace cold, and so the mother had insisted that each of her children were well-bundled, but these clothes become a terrible liability as the heat climbs and there is no way to catch a breath, or room to remove clothing. If her family of five manages to survive to the death camp, she and her darling, beloved little children will be sent one way, and her husband another. We know what happens next.















What constantly amazes me is that nobody in the chain of command said, "Wait! Enough is enough! People cannot be treated this way!" 2/3 of Europe's Jews wiped out in a handful of years, with a resistance so weak as to be almost negligible. The exhibit's final section is about the rescuers--both those who came in at the end of the war and closed the camps and those who helped in "small" ways during the war--but the blame heaped on the German people, a Fascist government, appeasing neighbors, governments unwilling to expand refugee quotas and individuals is apparent. And, I think, deserved.

It is easy to look back and say, "Why didn't the US do . . . ?" Insert just about anything you like into the elipse. It is probably a worthy question. But to the people of the time, the political questions were just as complicated as those bandied about daily by heads of state in regards to Kosovo, Rwanda, Darfur, Afghanistan, Kurdistan, Myanmar, North Korea and any other place where human rights are violated regularly and viciously. Germany's descent to the hellish nightmare it became in the 1930's and 1940's started with the suspension of basic rights for all Germans and the burning of books that allowed any room for dissent. Targeting homosexuals, the disabled, Jews, Blacks and other minority groups became easy once any voice of argument was strangled. I hope that history will not judge us as harshly as the groupthink rationale that allowed the Holocaust, but I have my doubts.

And, my fellow Latter-day Saints, lest we get too complacent about genocide, let's not forget how few generations our own people are from an extermination order. If there are any people who should reach out to those in desperate circumstances, it should be us. There are no easy answers here--the lessons of large scale intervention have their own history that is just as harsh as doing nothing.






















2) Last week I paid my first visit to the Library of Congress. The exhibit on Thomas Jefferson's library is amazing. As I looked at his books I was literally awestruck. I love the words of the Declaration, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain, inalienable rights . . . " I believe firmly that men and women are inspired to do and say great things, but I think that this inspiration is easier to give to the mind and spirit that has been prepared for it. The soul of Thomas Jefferson lives on in those books, though his spirit has long departed and the worms have eaten his body.























3) I didn't notice last time I was at the Lincoln Memorial the simple phrase "I have a dream" engraved in the center steps, in perfect alignment with Lincoln, Washington's monument and the Capitol Building. On that great August day in 1963, Dr. King challenged America to make good on Thomas Jefferson's "promissary note" found in the Declaration of Independence. We are so blessed to live in a country that, for all of its problems, at the very least was founded on the principle that all men are created equal. Lincoln was right--it is better for us to live together and compromise about our many issues than to fraction ourselves off every time we disagree. America is indeed the great democratic experiment: subject to testing and re-testing every generation or so. I feel like our time of testing is now. The Lord always promised that the righteous would be delivered to this land and then subject to the condition of remembrance: remembrance of forefathers, faith, God and true patriotism. Without remembrance, only pride in our own abilities is left. For all of our powerful belief in self-determination, make no mistake that divided we will fall.























4)As Eric graduated from GW, I was so impressed. He, and his wife, have worked so hard. I was struck as I watched those 130+ graduates of varying ages, colors, cultures and sexes walk across the stage that some of America's best and brightest were on display. This group, and other groups like them, will help determine the future of health care in this country. (Indeed, their visiting guest-speaker talked to this very issue, which my mother sniffed at as being way too political.) I feel in my bones that change is in the air. I haven't yet decided if that will be a good or a bad thing. I guess that depends entirely on how willing people are to be committed to principles instead of simply to policy.















5) My reading of choice on the trip was "The Fire of the Covenant." I learned I had an ancestor in the Martin Handcart company. It was a moving book to read in the middle of a city where it is impossible not to think about the sacrifices of so many who've gone before me. I think my late night reading was as profound as the day time sites.

Still, family is family and just being with my sibs for a few days was a great part of the journey too. My brother may be a doctor, but he is definitely not above wearing his doctoral hood as an actual hood and re-enacting the final scenes of Return of the Jedi. Or pretending to stand in a Depression Era unemployment line. We were also not above asking Daddy to pay when we ate at a fancy restaraunt after graduation. And what is a family outing on a blustery, sunny day if mom doesn't impersonate the unibomber at least once. Amanda and I worked it with the concierge to get a free movie in our room (on the premise that our stay was not all it could be because the hot tub was broken). National Treasure: Book of Secrets, of course. Amanda and I also rented 27 Dresses on the plane ride home. I think the guy sitting next to us was ready to kill the two of us. My older brother was so sick of my sister and I by day 6, that I'm sure he just went home and hugged his wife for 30 minutes straight.

And while we reverted back to our "typical" family roles for a few days, there is something really refreshing about being with the people who best know your quirks because they share a lot of them. Still, I was very glad to get back to the home I've actually chosen, grateful in every way for where I have come from and where I'm headed.

One Year

I really need to get my camera hooked up so I can finish my DC post, but this post-trip week has been pretty crazy. I have exactly four minutes today to blog and I need to wish my Little G a happy birthday. He turned one yesterday. He is still so sweet I can hardly believe it. I appreciate more than I yet understand the lessons on faith from his birth and the months leading up to my pregnancy with him.
I hope to one day understand the full purpose behind why he chose to come to our family. But, for now, it is enough to know that he did. I am eternally blessed to be his mother.

Don't Tell My Brother, It Will Go To His Head

I have to take a few minutes this morning before the chaos starts to tell you about my fantastic "baby" brother. He is smart and funny and hard-working. Personality-wise, I've always meshed with him better than anyone in my family. Though seven years apart, I remember playing with him as a child more than anyone else. Or, more precisely, he was a child and I was a tweenie. He was always the clown and the center of attention. He is the youngest, and our family was busy by the time he was born. When he was in early elementary school, much of his read-aloud time was done by me. One of my favorite memories is being cuddled with him on his top bunk in the basement of my parents' old house bawling over the last chapters of "Where the Red Fern Grows." I'm also sure that the current owner of that house is still digging up "dead" GI Joe guys out of her flower beds.

Well, my little brother is graduating from GW Medical School on Sunday, and I couldn't be prouder of him. Four years ago, he and his brand new wife prepared to move to DC with much trepidation. Neither of them had really ever been away from home and they were overwhelmed by the cost of everything. My brother had been pretty bummed when he didn't get into the U of U, but they loaded their car and took off anyway.

As anyone who has moved away from family early in their marriage can attest to, their cross country adventure has turned out to be the best thing for them. They have made friends and valuable professional contacts. They have learned a lot about trusting and taking care of one another. They have learned they are stronger than they could have imagined.

One of the most exciting things is that my brother, who kind of scraped his way into medical school, has emerged as one of the top in his class with super high test scores, honors in every section of his rotationals, and a coveted residency at, yes, University of Utah. My family could not be prouder of him. But don't tell him, he can be a bit of a punk and we've got to keep him in his place.

My parents, my older brother, my younger sister and I are headed to DC tomorrow for the week. No spouses, no kids, just a brother-sister vacation for the first time in nearly 15 years. I'll post pictures when I get back.

On Summertime Movies, of Which I Always See Too Many

Plantboy and I kind of have a standing rule about movies: if it will be just as meaningful on the small screen, for goodness sake, don't pay $8 apiece to see it when you can Redbox it for a dollar if you are a little bit patient. This is because (a) we are cheap and (b) date nights are limited. What it really means is that I haven't seen a chic flick (aka, movies with good acting, characterization, and getting acquainted before sleeping together) in the theatre since roughly, hmmmm, the Clinton administration.

In fairness to Plantboy, I DO like action-adventure movies, though I put my foot down to PG-13 comedies staring Jack Black or Adam Sandler. This is a fair trade-off, I think, for the allergic reaction he always fakes when I say "Jane Austen" or "Masterpiece Theatre" or even "period piece."

But we both have a deep and abiding love for movies based on comic books. Granted, some of these are better than others, and I haven't seen all of them. Since Tim Burton's Batman (4th of July weekend, the summer after 8th grade), the best of these have been X-Men I, Batman Begins and Spiderman II. The worst list has to include Daredevil, Catwoman, and Fantastic Four.

Yes, they are formulaic. Yes, they can be a little bit creepy. Yes, you have to suspend all belief for two or more hours to lose yourself in such film-making.

And, yes, I love them. There is nobody in this forum from my college days (pity), but I will admit that for several years I hung a poster of the Fox cartoon Batman on my wall. Holding out for my own hero I suppose. I guess we all need a little bit of guilty pleasure in our lives.















But last night, I think I may have just seen the best of the lot. Ironman is pretty much awesome.
And though everyone is saying it right now, Robert Downey Junior is really great in this role. He takes a bad rap because he was such a crackhead in the late 90's, but some of his earlier stuff is not bad. (His performance in Heart and Souls is particularly good.)

My friends and I were all pretty much in love with him in junior high/high school. He isn't such a hottie now--he's looks like he's been around the block a few too many times, and he has those same fakey white veneers that every Hollywood star pays way too much money for, but this movie is just great.



Except for one thing. He never kisses Pepper Potts. Which is just lame. Who can resist the intelligent, red-headed, freckly Gwenyth? Or does she resist him? Either way, huge mistake.

Epicurus Would Be So Proud

Last weekend turned out wonderful. We didn't go anywhere special or do anything spectacular--but it was a weekend of culinary and sensory delights. I felt light-hearted and rested Monday morning. It isn't often that I feel so, because I'm usually completely stressed and under-accomplished and thinking, "Here we go again."

My weekend cooking has gotten more elaborate as of late. The reason is that we are in a dinner group with four other families. (I can't believe I haven't blogged about this yet! This topic could probably be a blog all on its own.) I cook on Fridays and deliver food to everyone in the group. I don't, however, cook on Mondays-Thursday. This works out well with all that I've got going on in late afternoons and early evenings. Because I'm not cooking as often, I find that my weekend meal ideas are not as boring and we try a lot more new things. It has also made the kids a lot less picky, because they have to pretty much eat whatever shows up.

So here is my weekend, complete with recipes:

Friday we went to dinner with Drs. Jamin and Tabula Rasa. We ate at P.F. Chang's. I've only been there one other time and wasn't really impressed. I think it is because I was in my first trimester of pregnancy #3 and was sick often. Asian food never sits well with me during pregnancy. Anyway, our family style dinner on Friday was wonderful--Mongolian beef, noodles, lettuce wraps, citrus chicken, spicy green beans--everything was very good. I am sure that we will go back. I'm inspired now to try and recreate their lettuce wraps. I've done this before, but I don't think I've got it quite right. I'm going to keep messing around. Plantboy was just happy that they had rice. Which "shortage" he says, by the way, cannot be a real thing. In the US we grow a lot of rice and don't import it. The only way there is a rice shortage in the US is if more of the product is being sold overseas because of the ridiculously high profit margin right now.

Saturday night, the missionaries came over. I think I've fed these two nice boys six or seven times in the last two months. We seem to be having a problem getting people to sign up lately. This. Is. So. Not. Cool. Not the feeding them thing, so much as the people not agreeing to feed them thing. Don't get me started. Anyway we had a hamburger buffet that rivaled Red Robin for its options. (See my last post for the hamburger concoction that is pretty much my new favorite.) Here is the chimichurri recipe as promised:

First of all, chimichurri is bascially a pesto with less oil. Chimichurri is an herby kind of meat rub or condiment, pesto is more of a sauce used for pasta and often contains nuts and cheese along with the herb, usually basil. My chimichurri is kind of a marriage of these two:

Mince 1 whole bunch of cilantro. Mix well (do NOT process, it is better with texture) with 2 tablespoons olive oil, a teaspoon of red pepper flakes, 2 tablespoons finely chopped pine nuts, 2 tablespoons diced red pepper, 1 tablespoon each of parmesan cheese and red onion, and 1 teaspoon of basalmic vinegar. (For a slightly different flavor, leave out the flakes, cheese, red pepper and vinegar and put in a tablespoon of lime or lemon juice.) Add black pepper, salt and garlic powder to taste. Pestos typically use fresh garlic--I do not. I think uncooked garlic overpowers everything else and takes away from the herb flavor. If you love garlic, however, do what you want. At least you'll be safe from vampires.

The lettuce on our hamburgers was this gorgeous stuff from Plantboy's garden. If each of you lived closer I'd bring you over a big bag of this delightful, organic spring mix. I have no idea what we are going to do with it all. We cut it back and eat it, but it just keeps coming. I've signed up to do LOTS of salads with dinner group over the next few weeks. I love the look on my hubby's face as he eats produce that he grew. It is going to be a good summer for vegetables. Oh, and there is Swiss chard a-plenty if anyone is
interested. I wilted some down into some wheat


penne with the leftover chimichurri and it was really delicious. It tastes a little spinachy and it slightly bitter. No wonder everyone keeps telling me to serve it with salt, pepper and heaps of butter. (Heaps of butter, hah! That is such an Aussie expression. That is how everyone in Australia told me they were able to eat vegemite sandwiches . . . )





On Saturday we put in a few more garden items--tomatoes and a variety of herbs. I didn't ever report on my indoor herb garden I put in last fall because it didn't last. Our house is too dark, particularly in the winter, for anything but the housiest of house plants. Still, Plantboy reserved a beautiful spot as close as possible to the kitchen for my herbs. We also pulled out some nasty ivy and tilled up a large spot for my squash that Plantboy has finally agreed to. I guess he is afraid that if I grow squash and zucchini then I am going to make him eat it. The answer to that is--of course I will.
















I also noticed that our lilacs are in bloom, which pretty much means that all is right with the universe. I once wrote a really mediocre poem called "Memories of May" that was mostly about a series of tender recollections evoked by the smell of these purple gifts straight from Heaven. They make lousy cut flowers and can really only be fully appreciated when they are in their natural habitat. Lilacs, for me, are a symbol that spring has really come and that, perhaps more importantly, that my birthday is imminent. I'm grateful that it is a Leap Year because I dodged the Mother's Day/birthday holiday bullet. It was great when I was a kid--a special day for just me and mom--but as an adult, the proximity has been a real kick in the pants. Six years ago these happy events coincided and, well, lets just say that Plantboy and I had to have a long talk about special days and the nature of gift-giving.


Sunday we broke our fast with an amazing salad like something from Chipotle or Mucho Gusto or Cafe Rio. On top of the baby greens, we put sweet pulled pork, black beans, cilantro-lime rice, corn salsa, avocado, creamy cilantro-lime dressing, chips, cheese and salsa. (Scroll down to the bottom for recipes.) Oh, and Jell-O. Hey, the kids had to eat too.


Sunday night after putting the kids to bed, I read to Plantboy while we lay in his double-wide hammock that he bought in Brazil as a missionary to give to his wife someday (which he did the night before we got married along with a copy of the Complete Works of Jane Austen). The funny sounds of karoke drifted over the fence from our Asian neighbor's party (really) and there was a pleasant scent of lilacs wafting over us. We read the last part of The Work and the Glory: Praise to the Man. Even mediocre writing shines when the subject matter is so profound. As we rocked in that luscious hammock, even the difficult events of Joseph Smith's martyrdom seemed like a part of the joy in the life I have.


It is true that American soldiers have insured our Constitutional rights and and bodily freedom, but I owe all the true beauty and goodness in my life to the courage of Joseph Smith. Other Christian religions leave far too many gaps for me to have ever come to Christ in some other way than by the religion Jospeh was directed to start. Mormonism appeals to my sense of logic, fair-play and intellect as much as to my spiritual yearning to be saved. When Joseph looked back across the river, at the intersection between freedom in the Rocky Mountains or turning back to face his accusers, he said, "If my life means so little to my friends, then I guess it means very little to me." Could there be anything more heartbreaking? What if Joseph had gone west instead that night? Did the Church survive in spite of his martyrdom, or BECAUSE of it?

In the book Prince Caspian, Lucy hesitates a long time before following Aslan, though she knows she has seen him when no one else has. When she finally follows him, she says (paraphrased), "What was I supposed to do? Leave the others?" One look from Aslan tells her that this was exactly what he had in mind. She despairs and asks him if her leaving a day or two earlier might have made a difference in the outcome of the battle. Aslan shakes his great, wise mane and tells her that we can never know what might have been. Only what will be. That is a powerful lesson. We cannot know what might have happened if Joseph lived, but we can write our own future as faithful members of the Church, never forgetting the many sacrifices that were made to make our lives possible. So, while it was a weekend of much pleasure, I did have some thoughts that gave pause to the pleasure to reflect on actual happiness.

But perhaps the most fabulous part of the weekend was that we ate on this!



(Now, read this next part in your best Bob Barker voice.) Thats right! A new dining room table. This six-chair, expandable leaf table has a beautiful light oak finished top with inlaid, laminate wood work. The contrasting wood is creamy white with a slightly antiqued finish.

If it was really the Price is Right, I would next be telling you about the matching hutch, but that will take a few more months of delivering papers. The leaf really expands it out, but I've only got the six chairs. Besides, it is already so big for the space that increasing its length would mean moving the couch. So, who is coming for dinner?

The last photo is just Scallywag with his spiky hair. I've got to take a lot of pictures of him over the next few weeks because he has THREE loose teeth. He lost two on the bottom last fall, but two of these three are the top two in the middle. My little boy is soon going to look like a big boy and there are parts of me that want to hang on as long as possible to this:

Recipes

Sweet Pork
The roast I bought was called a pork sirloin roast, so it was fairly lean with a good combination of dark and light meat. It was also HUGE, but only like 1.80 a pound or something. I put it in my crockpot with half a jar of tomatillo salsa and 1/2 cup of brown sugar. Set it to low for 8 hours. It will then shred easily. Warm the rest of the salsa with 1/4 cup of brown sugar and pour it down over the shredded pork. This will make a ton of meat. I fed 20 people with it.

Cilantro-Lime Rice
You need 2 1/2 parts rice (something long grain or even a little bit fancy like basmati or jasmine rice), 2 parts water, 2 parts chicken broth and 1 part lime juice for this. Saute rice in butter until it clears a little bit. Add chicken broth, water and lime juice. When the rice is cooked through, fold in chopped cilantro (to taste: I added a whole bunch to it) and salt and pepper.

Corn Salsa
This is really Plantboy's baby, so I'll just tell you what he puts in it and then you'll just have to modify everything to your taste: frozen, rinsed and drained super sweet white corn. Let it sit until kernels easily separate and warm up slightly before mixing other ingredients into it. This "recipe" bases itself on a whole bag of corn. Layer everything in the bowl and just stir a little bit at the end, you don't want to overmix. 1/2 bunch diced cilantro, 1/4 cup diced red peper, 1/4 cup diced purple onion, 1 green onion, 1/2 tsp tabasco sauce, 2 tsp vinegar, 1/2 fresh jalenpeno, no seeds (this is for the spicy option, eliminate tabasco if you do this), and 1 medium firm tomato, diced.