YummOOOOOHHHH!

I have been meaning all year to send you to my husband's blog. This idea started in January. He is meant to be journaling (at least) weekly and recounting his garden adventures. Prep work. Planting. Growing. Harvesting. Cooking. Canning. And, bless his heart, we thought for two months this spring we might be moving and the garden went in late, then family came to visit twice and summer is his busy season at work. Oh, we are still gardening, and he has taken copious pictures, but the writing part has been a bit neglected. I think he still loves the idea, and maybe with mobile blogging he'll post more regularly. 

After an amazingly successful dinner tonight I decided it was time to post some of this stuff myself. Here I am, complete with the Florence Henson hairflip, the 1950's apron made lovingly by my mother. And barefoot. But decidedly NOT pregnant. Probably I'm just loaded up on good food.

For the 4th of July, the kids did their second annual produce and goodie stand. Jedi Knight worked in the garden for a couple of hours to help Plantboy get everything harvested and ready to go.

This is before the sale. I still have tons of onions, garlic and shallots drying on the back patio that I just use whenever. Because it has been hot this summer, our peas and beans didn't do nearly as well as they normally do, and the potato plant tops died off early, so while there are potatoes in the ground, they aren't really growing. Still, with all the sunshine and heat, the tomato crop is looking to be a bumper one. Every year brings a different experience and new things to learn. I think part of the reason Plantboy enjoys the garden so much is for the challenge of it.

 

 This was last Sunday's dinner offering: Crockpot roast, balsamic pesto, string vegetables over farfalle pasta. The roast was cooked in Plantboy's Italian style stewed tomatoes that he canned last fall. The pesto was made with basil and shallots from the garden. I used a cool shredder tool on three colors of carrots, zucchini and yellow summer squash (all from our garden) for the pasta. The pesto went on top of the pasta and veggies, but they were too pretty to photograph with anything covering them. When you add the vinegar to your pesto it loses some of that pretty green color, but it gains a huge amount of flavor. There are also red peppers in with the veggies, but not ours yet. We still have a couple of weeks to go on peppers. 

 This next meal is Plantboy's fresh caught salmon with two types of quinoa. The veggies include carrots and orange squash (cubed, purchased) that I roasted together in a pan with a teaspoon or two of brown sugar. There is also asparagus and roasted beets. This year we planted nearly all yellow beets because they can be cooked with other food without making everything turn purple!

 This next one is so pretty I could hardly stand to eat it. The meat is from my crockpot cookbook and is called chicken Provencal. Cook the chicken in a can of stewed Italian tomatoes (again, I used Plantboy's) and a can of paste. Add salt, pepper, onions and garlic to taste. About an hour before serving throw chopped red and yellow pepper. In the middle are Israeli couscous. Good luck finding these bad boys, but I think they are worth it. Market of Choice used to sell them in bulk, but this time around we had to buy them in a bag and they were pricey. They are just like huge couscous. They are awesome with Mediterranean food or to make into a lemony-pine nut pasta salad. Hot or cold. Whatever. The veggies here are shredded zucchini and yellow squash topped with fresh Parmesan. I sauteed them in olive oil for about three minutes. Fresh basil. Of course.

Padawan has taken to calling this pie Pentaberry Pie, rather than the traditional Razzleberry pie because it has FIVE different berries. Marion, rasp, blue, straw and black. Awesome. Just awesome. I followed the recipe I posted here before but used a deep dish pie plate and added about 50% more berries and corresponding flour and sugar. I also made a regular dish . . . which, truthfully baked up a little better. But honestly, there were two solid inches of berries in this thing when it was cooled and cut. It was so pretty I wanted to cry. 

 This next meal is boiled garden potatoes--two varieties, just whatever we had, fresh blueberries (picked at a local farm; our garden doesn't produce a lot all at once), green beans locally grown and Plantboy's salmon grilled with a hint of brown sugar and purple onions. His dipping sauce is one we found at Costco. Habenero something or other. I made my pulled pork in the stuff last weekend and it was pretty much the best ever.

 How is a dinner list complete without breakfast-dinner? Eggs and bacon NOT grown in the backyard. Not a real animal person here. Fingerling potatoes boiled for a few minutes and then fried in butter and olive oil with fresh shallot and rosemary. The waffle is a to-die-for liege waffle topped for dinner and not dessert--avocado, strawberries, and feta. There was a drizzle of reduced balsamic and/or olive oil for the waffle too. And if you've never had berries and feta in reduced balsamic, well, then, you aren't a true foodie yet.

 I end up with about ten of these pictures every year. Plantboy gets his carrots all harvested, cleaned and lined up and can't help but take pictures. If you are already growing carrots, then get a packet of COLORED carrot seeds next year. Really. It will make you so happy. And if you aren't growing carrots, then, seriously, get on it. What are you waiting for? These beauties are actually no bigger than my index finger. They were the ones Plantboy pulled up when he had to thin the crop. I didn't peel them (too small); I sauteed them as-is. Tops and everything. So lovely. That is a bit of spinach hanging out over on the side. In April and May we had garden salad just about every night.

  
The only thing from the garden here is probably the purple onion . . . we made these a little early in the season for them to be from our garden. Those are sweet potatoes (or yams or whatever you call the red garnet ones), not carrots. I boiled the s.p. and the red potatoes for a couple of minutes before skewering them. It is okay to point out here that somebody with skewers this organized probably has obsessive-compulsive disorder. Yeah. I know.

 An early strawberry harvest. During June we were picking almost this many about every three days. We picked up at a local u-pick farm also so that there were plenty for jam and smoothies for the next several months.

  
Okay, okay, these next two have absolutely nothing to do with the garden, and everything to do with processed sugar, but they are just so cute. I discovered a new kind of food coloring called color gels that are so much better than regular food coloring. The colors are more vibrant and there is no bitter taste. The Youngling got an Oregon Ducks cake for his birthday and Padawan took a Cookie Monster cake to the Blue and Gold banquet. The best part about Cookie Monster is that he was just as blue inside!

 This little creation is called Jarfait. Plantboy and I had this at a delightful restaurant in Newport in June, and then I came home and made up my own version. It is basically a personal trifle. I layered angel food cake, homemade custard (not too sweet) with blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries from the garden. Oh, yeah, everybody loves a Jarfait.

The kids are getting to be better pickers. This was our u-pick haul in about 45 minutes at the farm. Plantboy found out when they were going to be the most "on" and he came home at lunch one day to help us. Freezer jam for a whole year, baby!

 This has been a wonderful year for our harvest. In every way. Although I'm beginning to feel the pressure that comes from beginning a new job and making life changes, I'm also feeling enormously blessed for the life we have here in Oregon. There is so much to see and do and love here. Happy eating!

Remembering

My mother sent me a letter on my mission in which she wrote, "You have the ability to glean a lot of wisdom from everyday experiences." I've often believed this to be one of the greatest compliments I've ever been paid, and a fortunate byproduct of my unfortunate tendency to overthink everything. In my mission journal and my letters home, my hands would ache and time would run out long before I was finished telling what I had observed, and how it had changed me. 

This month in youth Sunday School, the kids are talking about ordinances and covenants. The lesson outlines aren't as clearly delineated from one another as they seemed to be last month, and there is a lot of redundancy built in. The result is that I've read many conference talks this month on the sacrament. The recurring theme I have noticed over and over is the idea of "remembering." I was pondering this word a lot on Sunday. During my lesson, the Spirit was very strong, and the kids were really getting it. I don't know that they were a lot more forthcoming than usual, but there was a definite difference. They were more attentive, brows were more furrowed, and there were even a few glistening eyes. Then, boom, without it being according to plan, there was an account from my mission I felt impressed to share. It was a little thing really, seemingly unimportant, but somehow it was exactly the right thing at the right moment. It was a thing that hadn't been part of my preparation or even conscious thought for some years.

But it was a thing that helped my precious young class to see that their gospel preparation and knowledge is serious . . . and those years between baptism and the temple are vital. The moment was sublime and reminded me of every good reason we come to Church. I felt humbled and grateful that the Lord had put me in a place where I might make a difference.

And I understood something I've never quite seen before. 

Though it doesn't appear on any list, remembering, in its many and varied form, is itself a gift of the Spirit. Remembrance takes so many forms and meanings, each of them vital to gospel living. 

Remembering past blessings makes us grateful and humble.

Remembering is how we keep our covenants as we take the sacrament.

Remembering the Savior gives us the integrity to keep our covenants when we are away from Church.

Remembering our own weaknesses can keep us from judging others.

Remembering our ancestors helps us honor our religion and our liberty.

Remembering preserves our spiritual and familial traditions. 

My simple, unheralded event from my mission, came back to my memory in the very moment that my class needed to hear the words. If this is not the Spirit working, then I don't know what is. When I teach my class this week, I am going to ask them to pray with all the energy of their hearts that the Spirit will bless them with remembrance, so that it will be a shield and a protection to them against a world where everything changes and drifts into decay. 

In the words of Teryl Givens:

"I believe remembering can be the highest form of devotion. To remember is to rescue the sacred from the vacuum of oblivion. To remember Christ’s sacrifice every Sunday at the sacrament table, is to say “no” to the ravages of time; to refuse to allow his supernal sacrifice to be just another datum in the catalogue of what is past. To remember past blessings is to give continuing recognition of the gift, and re-confirm the relationship to the Giver as one that persists in the here and now. Few-very few-are entirely bereft of at least one solace giving-memory. A childhood prayer answered, a testimony borne long ago, a fleeting moment of perfect peace. And for those few who despairingly insist they have never heard so much as a whisper, then know this: We don’t need to look for a burning bush, when all we need is to be still and remember that we have known the goodness of love, the rightness of virtue, the nobility of kindness and faithfulness. And ask if we see in such beauties the random effects of Darwinian products, or can we not perceive in them the handwriting of God on our hearts?"

That almost sounds like poetry to me. 

Temple

I think our Father in Heaven communicates with each of us in somewhat different ways. It makes sense; each person is unique in the way they learn. We are each a combination of our history, natural ability, the way we process information and our willingness to learn. Therefore, it stands to reason, that if loving Heavenly Parents are omniscient and know us the best, then they would seek out ways to give us guidance that best suit us. 

From the very first time I attended the temple, I learned that my Father in Heaven has great capacity to reach me when I am there. It is one of very few places that I'm still and not busy. I realize this is not the case for everyone, and my intention here today is not to tell you that you are duty bound to be there THIS WEEK. I only wish to express gratitude for my experience there last night.

Usually our temple attendance takes some long term organization and planning, because it is about 7 hour round trip when we go, but last might was more thrown together on a whim late Thursday. I had just interviewed for a job (the second in the week) and thought I was in need of some direction and help making a decision. Both interviews went well and I had every confidence that I would make it through to the next round for both.

Within 15 minutes of leaving on Friday, I got a call from one of the principals at an interviewing school. It was a rejection, but it was the strangest rejection ever. She seemed legitimately sad to be not choosing me, saying that she just saw me in a high school position. That comment was strange, considering most of my experience has been in middle school. Her tone and other words were equally strange. I think she is really hopeful that I get the high school job I applied for . . . her own students feed into the other school. Anyway, it was just weird. And yes, rather disappointing. My next thought was then to go to the temple with fervent prayers that the other job would work out.

Fast-forward four hours later to the temple session. I felt really happy there--probably more attentive and reverent than I normally am. And I felt fine about the rejection, but with no need to pray about the other.  I didn't really have a strong impression that it will happen for me, necessarily. Instead I mostly felt very impressed that whatever happens we are in God's hands. There was a gentle reminder that He knows both our needs and wants and that He has never let us down yet. For some shining moments last night I knew that God recognizes our consecrated efforts to His Church and our family, and He will not let us down.

I am not without wonder and some anxiety about what happens next for us; it is my nature to be this way. But I'm not without faith, and I know that we have prepared both spiritually and temporally for whatever the Lord has in store for us next. Things may not unfold in the coming weeks how I want them too, but I believe today that they will transpire how they are meant to.

I'm Thankful for Old Friends, but Mostly for New Memories

The night of high school graduation, in the midst of the chaos of 700 graduating seniors on the football field and a threatening rainstorm, a group of 7 or 8 of us who had all been together through all of school ended up in the same place at the same time. Many of us had long-since drifted apart, but I think we knew that at some level we could all still count on one another. In just a couple months time, we would all be headed in new and mostly different directions. We were young and didn't know the terrible and wonderful things that awaited us over the next year . . . the next ten years. One of our group said, "You guys, no matter where we go or what we do, it will always be like this."

Uh . . . I might have been young, but I wasn't naive. And I was more than ready to move on.

My friend was right in some respects, and there were times, hard times, when we were there for each other. But there were other times too. Times that we weren't there for each other, and not merely because of distance. Some of it was by choice.

Then, through the miracle of Facebook, we learned that Pocohantas' mother died suddenly in a terrible car accident in October. (If you want to learn more about Pocohantas, see this post from a couple of years ago. It might be helpful because she figures into my posting every now and then.) Within two days the "old gang" was contacted and we agreed to get together for lunch the day before Thanksgiving. I think the death of our friend's mother, brought us together in a way that enough passage of time had not been able to.

I was admittedly nervous about the get-together. It has been many years since we've all seen one another. This was also my group of friends that I never felt I quite measured up to. I always felt like I was on the fringe of their group: student body officers, a head cheerleader, seminary council, a couple of amazing singers . . . you get the picture. I think I was best known through high school as the girl with a series of crazy hairdos in junior high, the one most likely to adapt a Saturday Night Live skit for an assembly and a charter member of the Save Our Earth Club. What mostly characterized my separateness from the group, however, is that I never had a boyfriend. These girls always did. And not just any boyfriends--the big men on campus types. The kind of boys who would never have even thought twice about dating my could-pass-for-a-chubby-12-year-old self.

If you know that Taylor Swift song, "You Belong With Me," you can pretty well peg exactly who I was during that era. Only the girl who was the cheer captain was also one of my closest friends, and eventually a roommate. Talk about awkward.

So why dredge all this up? Stay with me here.

Fast-forward to lunch in November 2009. The conversation was wonderfully thick with happy reminiscences of a time which so shaped us that we never quite put it behind us as we moved on. While we sat talking and laughing and sharing stories and marveling at how good we each looked, I realized something really profound: I am no longer intimidated by these women.

My feeling isn't based on any kind of comparison, they are each as wonderful and successful as ever. But being with them on that pleasant afternoon showed me that I have finally grown up enough to learn to just enjoy their company and their personalities without needing to prove anything to anybody. Without wishing that I could trade places with any one of them for any length of time. Without any petty jealousy.

Perhaps even deeper than my feeling of being totally at ease in the company of such old friends, however, was feeling completely devoid of judgment toward any of the women at the table. Our lives have taken a lot of turns and twists. In times past I have found myself highly critical of my old friends for various reasons. Perhaps you will think this sounds awful? I hope so: It means that you've already overcome this comparison obstacle, or that you never had to in the first place.

One particular friend, whose story I will not share the details of, as it is her story to tell, went through a few very difficult years. Partly as a result of difficult circumstances, and partly because of her own choices removing herself from those circumstances. As she and I said our goodbyes I hugged her and told that I was especially glad to see her, that I thought we hadn't stood by her very well in her difficult time, both because we didn't know how to, but also because we had just failed.

She smiled, a genuine smile of forgiveness, and said, "You know, I would never repeat the last five years of my life, or wish it on anyone, but it was worth it to be where I am now. I'm really happy."

You know, I would never repeat those high school years of my life, even the great parts. But all of the angst was worth it to be where I am now. I'm really happy just being myself. I hope we don't wait ten years before reuniting again. On that graduation night, when one of our crowd said, "It will always be like this," she was, of course, wrong; but maybe her sentiment has some merit. With your oldest and dearest friends it it always possible to re-connect. And while you may not pick up like no time has passed, you have enough respect and affection for one another to meet where you are at and love what you find.

I Get So Emotional

I was a very emotional teenager. Which statement, no doubt, is ridiculously redundant if you were ever a teenage girl yourself.

This extreme emotion lasted a long time. Even through my twenties as I served a mission, finished school, taught, married, moved, had children. . . . each change seemed to bring on such strong roller-coaster emotions that I often despaired of ever really feeling like I'd arrived in a place (or with a self) I was comfortable with.

Hitting thirty was a little overwhelming for me, but my mother kept telling me that her 30's were her best decade. I soon learned what she meant: my life didn't really stabilize, but my approach to it did. Maybe it is being enough years away from high school that only a few choice memories remain. Maybe it is nearly ten years in a marriage that finally gives me a sense of security. Maybe I have had enough of a taste of trials and resolution to trust the Lord better. Maybe my need to please others has finally taken a backseat to the need to please myself. I don't know. But the few years I have attained have given me perspective and understanding I never had a decade ago.

And then a day like yesterday comes along.

My emotional range yesterday made multiple personality disorder look tame: foolish, tired, edgy, diligent, responsible, impatient, triumphant, harried, frustrated, headachey, adored, pious, bored, forgetful, uplifted, covetous, judgemental, incredulous, shocked, angry, (the last three all from Relief Society, but that is a story best left untold!), loving, grateful, unctuous, apologetic, verbose, critical, indignant, guilty, passionate, repentant, generous, prideful, annoyed, grouchy, punctual, gregarious, intolerant, irate, punishing, conciliatory, resigned, committed, snarly . . . .

Maybe if I took the time to analyze each day for its emotions, I'd find similar results. Or maybe yesterday was especially extreme. It sure felt that way. I hit my knees with the sincerest prayer I've said in a long time last night.

This morning, I delivered papers in a snow storm. While I'm glad this is not a daily event, I was grateful for it this morning. The lonely, quiet, whiteness gave me a lot of space in which to reflect. During a frustrating moment with my 7 year-old last night, I told him that the best part of a new day is that we got to try again. We get to start over without mistakes. This thought seemed to cheer him, as it has me many times, enormously. I thought of this mistake-free day idea a lot as I looked at the lovely, blank, bright snow.

It occurred to me that I don't want to be UN-emotional, or even mellow. I like feeling things deeply. But where I seem to get into trouble, is that all of my emotions are strong. The snow made me think of the Savior and his purity. It made me think that my strongest emotions need to be much more like the Christ-like attributes we bring up in every Sunday School lesson--charity, loyalty, faith, commitment, integrity, purpose, goodness, and the like. On the other hand, my natural-man emotions need to be tempered. It is these emotions that lead to stupid actions, guilty feelings and self-loathing.

As I ran from house to house, I thought of two ways I want to work on making myself a person who listens more and judges less: The first is that I just need to shut my mouth. Not ALWAYS, but maybe 50% of the time when I think I should speak: instead should just nod my head and listen. I also need to focus on being more grateful. If I focus on what is good, maybe I won't have the time to get thinking about all that is wrong with everything. And everyone.

These thoughts came to me, making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside despite the cold and wet. Then my car wouldn't start. Five a.m. Six inches of snow. Running nearly 30 minutes late on my papers. Parked practically in the middle of the road. Twenty-five degrees. Five miles from home. AND MY CAR WOULDN'T START.

I called Plantboy and gave him directions to my stranded car and he agreed to be out the door and on his way. I sat for a moment in the rapidly cooling car and did the one thing I could do. I gathered the biggest armful of papers that I could and a clip of paper bags and kept delivering papers. I might have been a damsel in distress, but the last thing I was going to do was sit around and WAIT to be rescued.

Instead of thinking about how miserable I was in the steadily picking up snow and the wind, I tried to remember what I had just been thinking about. Having no opportunity to practice shutting my mouth around other people, I decided to be grateful. Here was the mantra:

Grateful that it is Monday and the papers are small.
Grateful that my parents are still in town so Plantboy can leave the house.
Grateful that my feet are dry.
Grateful that I am on the second half of my route so that the houses are closer together.
Grateful for the additional exercise the running in the snow offers.
Grateful that my cold is almost cleared up.
Grateful that I didn't get the nasty cough with my cold.
Grateful for snow that will make people more forgiving (or later to sleep) when their papers are late.
Grateful for the quiet.
Grateful for the beauty.
Grateful for imagination that keeps me company every morning at 3:30.
Grateful that Plantboy happened to see me just as I delivered the last paper I'd been able to carry and I could ride the six blocks back to the car instead of jog . . .

Plantboy started the car with no trouble.

I started to cry.

I'm grateful for a husband who doesn't berate, criticize or belittle when I do something dumb: he just gave me a hug and created a hokey explanation for my scientific mind about why the car would suddenly start for him. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful.

But I still cried and felt very sorry for myself and very stupid. Maybe I will have to start my exercise in building Christlike attributes/more tempered emotions TOMORROW.

Flipping. Deseret. Book.

It is pretty much no secret that these folks are not going to be making my favorites list anytime soon, but recent events take the cake.

I live nearly two hours from the nearest Deseret Book. (Yes, Mom, you'd refer to this as "the mission field.") For one of our crafty-day projects, in October, if you recall, we made these photo album Sacrament quiet books. I wrote a little doctrinal thing about the sacrament, simplified for young kids, to match the pictures in Greg Olsen's small picture kit called "Images of the Savior." You put the words and pictures mounted into a photo album. The result is quite sweet. These cost about $8 each to make and several sisters signed up for multiples in order to give them to grandkids for Christmas.

Eighteen kits ended up being ordered. As soon as I had the money, two weeks before the Souper Saturday, I got on-line and ordered what I wanted. I put the money in my account and then I waited. And waited. And waited.

The day before I needed them, I called Deseret Book. Sorry, they are on backorder. Hmm . . . and you didn't let me know this over my email because? I mean, isn't that the POINT of having such technology? Not to worry, they assured me, they will be here in mid-November.

I passed on that information and when I had nothing by the 20th of November, and also realized they had never charged my card to begin with, I called again. Sorry they are on backorder. Again? Do you ever tell people anything? Well, she said sweetly (she is probably somebody's grandmother), I can tell you that our next shipment will be here December 14th and that we will FedEx them to you right away. OoooKaaaaaaaay. Oh, and you have until the 4th to cancel the order if you need to.

I spent a good chunk of the rest of that day calling the women who had signed up for the project to find out if they wanted me to cancel their orders and they could just get them at DB next time they were there? I could refund money? You know the drill. It was a huge headache.

Then, Saturday, I went to the temple with a friend who was getting her endowment. It was a lovely day, if a bit hectic. (Plantboy and I went together and left the kids for a few hours with a friend that moved there from our ward. It turned out to be an 8 hour round trip. And while it seems really sacrificial and righteous for the temple to be such an effort, I mostly just grumble and wish it was closer.) On a whim, we found the Deseret Book and hunted all over for the pictures.

I think the pictures are on backorder because the Portland Store is hoarding at least 250 of these things.

Very cleverly, I put 18 of these babies on my credit card. Plantboy, acting as the voice of reason for a change, said, "are you sure you can cancel the other?" Oh, yes, I assured him, I have until the fourth. But this is perfect. Everyone will now get them well in time for Christmas and I don't have to deal with it any more.

Sunday I took an hour and half to deliver them. Why so long? At every stop I was asked to do something. Each request was prefaced with, "I'm so glad you dropped by! I've been meaning to call you . . . " Monday I crashed big time. Don't even ask me how many hours I read or what kind of cheesy re-read romance novels I had my nose stuck into. (Okay, one of my selections was Twilight; and no, my opinion has NOT changed.)

Yesterday morning, I opened my e-mail to find the following cheery message from Deseret Book, "You're order: qty 18 "Images of the Savior" has been shipped!"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How is the h*** is November 25th the equivalent of December 15??? By what stretch of the imagination is "you have until December 4th to cancel" the equivalent of them sending the cards Sunday night? When I called, the grandmotherly voice on the other end apologized about 400 times, all the while repeatedly telling me that there is no way that a representative from Deseret Book would have given me an exact shipping date and then gave me a crash course in the logistics of DB's ordering structure. She also emphasized how unreliable ordering over the Internet was and that they would be happy to take a phone order any time. Thanks for that. She did, however, graciously offer to send me a return slip. Here is how this will play: I get the order; I wait for the return labels; I repackage the order so that it doesn't say "FedEx" anymore; I drag my pre-schooler and toddler to the post office to mail the thing; I wait for the order to clear through DB and THEN I get refunded. Oh, yeah, my checking account SO needed the $80 hit four weeks before Christmas.

I must go bake. It will help to ease some of my anger at the universe. On the upside, I caught Tiny Fey as a pirate on Sesame Street this morning. She said that they needed to come up with some words that began with a pirate's favorite letter.

Yes, Yes, I thought it was "RRRRRRRRRRR" too.

But no, Tina argues, pirates love F-words. Well, that seems appropriate too.

Gratitude. Gratitude. Must remember to be grateful . . . .

A Time of Thanks. And Stress.

In Australia, they use the term "whinging." Like many Aussie words, it takes a bit of translation. First of all, it is pronounced "win-jing." It is similar to murmuring, complaining, and grouching. Most Aussie-isms are abbreviations or combinations of other words. This one is a like like "binge whining," which is highly descriptive. I've griped to just about everyone in the last few days, so while I'm on a binge I thought I'd whine to you a little bit here too.

Nearly a year ago, our the Enrichment counselor and I booked all of our dates for 2008. Twice now, the activities committee, scheduling just a few weeks late has either booked over our activities or within close proximity. Our summer activity had to have a last-minute move because of the ward camp out. Now the ward's Christmas party is just two days after our RS Christmas Social. (Don't even get me started on how bad I hate that we are doing a social instead of a service project at Christmas time.)

This doesn't sound too bad, except that the ward activity is easily the biggest of the year. It is probably better attended than most of our Sacrament meetings. The activities committee commandeers anyone who will say yes to help. Which, in our ward, unfortunately, is not a very large number of people.

Three days before Souper Saturday (NOT a misspelling) and the day before Jedi Master's birthday party, the Activities Committee Head Person calls and says, "I just need to ask you something; now I know you are busy."

"Yes. What is it?"

"Just think about it before you tell me no."

"Yes. What is it?" The panic rising in my voice now.

"I have tried to think of someone else but your name just keeps coming back to me."

"Debbie. What is it?!"

"Would you be in charge of the program for our Christmas dinner?"

The overdone, too-long, noisy production from last year flashed through my head. As well as the word "Herdmans." I am sure that she picked up on the silence at my end. She repeated, "I know you are busy, I just felt so strongly that I had to ask you."

Later I said to Jeff, "What do you say to that?" He shrugged and mouthed the word "no." When I told the story to my snarky and sometime irreligious little sis she said, "Good grief! Does she think she's the bishop? She didn't need to act like an angel had come to her and named you as the chosen vessel!"

I am not the chosen vessel, but I did not say no.

I was given a small committee who is mostly out of town for the next two or three weeks, a program I greatly disliked, and no real direction to go.

I'll spare the rest of the gory details, but between the social and the program, I think I have easily put in 20 hours for church in the last week and a half. Maybe 30. On the upside, after December 6th, I get to cruise for about six weeks. And the Youngling will enter nursery, so at least I might get to sit through a couple of church meetings for a change!

Whinging done, now on to the things I did today to find a bright spot in my too-much-Mormon-culture-universe.

I made amazing cookies this afternoon. A-flippin'-mazing. Use Ghiradelli's sweet chocolate chips and their recipe with the following modifications: Use half butter, half shortening; Increase the flour by 1/3 of cup and add 3/4 cup of oatmeal; add a cup of peanut butter chips with the chocolate. The secret to any fantastic chocolate chip cookie, however, is to cook it just until the shine is off, let them sit for about a minute on the pan and then cool. They will stay soft all week. If they last that long.

Padawan made pilgrim and Indian hats at pre-school this week. Youngling wanted to try one out, just like he saw his older brothers do.

The second this hat went on, the hand went to the mouth and "Ay, yi, yi" started. He can't talk, but he sure loves to copy.

Jedi Master then said it was time to do a little pilgrim-Indian show. He rowed the couch to the new land of America. When he arrived, Padawan greeted him and showed him how to plant a fish with his corn and helped him build a house.

Then, his headdress regained, the Youngling began chasing his brothers all over the house. As with most of our games, this one ended in a wrestling match.

It only took 500 years, but it looks like the Indians finally came out on top.

The third great thing that happened today is that my mom surprised me with the news of a spontaneous visit in mid-December. They found uber-cheap tickets and will be here for Padawan's birthday. I cannot even express how happy this makes me. This year will be the first that we have not been with family or had family with us for either Thanksgiving or Christmas. I'm a big girl now with a family of my own, but I didn't realize just how much I wanted to see family for the holidays until my mother gave me her news. Though they won't be here exactly for either of them, their visit will certainly lift my spirits after all the above rigmarole.

Like you, my posting may be fairly irregular over the next several weeks. Happy holidays everyone. May you find the peace that you crave.

It's Not Like I Did This!

Monday night I spent some serious time getting some amazing orange roll dough ready to roll out for FHE. I promised Jedi Master he could help. Orange rolls are rolled out like cinnamon rolls but filled with sugar, orange peel and dried cranberries. Our dough was all rolled out into a beautiful, soft, stretchy rectangle. We were waiting for Padawan to wash his hands so he could join us when JM did a loud sniff right over the dough telling me it smelled good.


From the sniff I could tell that there was a lot more going on inside his big-kid nose than just air and so I said, "Please don't do that; you don't want to accidentally get boogers on the dough."

He said, "It's not like I did this!" He leaned over the dough and did a farmer blow. A huge booger striped its way across the beautiful dough. I screamed. He screamed. This is a child who only learned how to blow into a tissue about three weeks ago. And yet, already, his blowing skill is very advanced.

Still, Elder Wirthland said that we needed to learn to laugh more at ourselves. It took a few minutes, but I was able to.

October was a very full month for us. Earlier in the month I put up several pictures from my parents' visit. A few days after they left, Padawan's pre-school went to the pumpkin patch. His outfit is totally ridiculous, but he is so happy. This is Padawan's best little buddy. We'll call her the Princess, and these two are just hilarious together. For all her petite cuteness, she is a bit rough and tumble and loves boy toys. Padawan kept telling her which pumpkins to pick because he didn't want to get dirty. Very gentlemanly.














Later that afternoon, my in-laws came into town for several days. While they were here, we took a trip to the coast and to another pumpkin patch. The kids also painted and carved some pumpkins, but I haven't taken those pictures yet.

The day after they left, we had the Star-Wars-Party-O-Rama here at our house. I was pretty much feeling like mother of the year: at least on THAT day. I've never seen so much 6 and 7 year old aggression when I said "light saber" and "pinata" in the same sentence.

Two days after Jedi Master's Party, I was in charge of our Relief Society's "Souper" Saturday. I haven't said anything about this here, though it has consumed many of my thoughts and too much of my energy since late August. I'm trying hard to have a better attitude about my calling (Enrichment Leader) and we DID end up with a really great turn out. Maybe nine months from now (it takes three months to plan the dang thing) I'll be geared up for it again. Maybe. Anyway, here are some pictures of the results of one of the craft classes that I ran:

Last night was Jedi Master's soccer banquet. It must be admitted that they were pretty much the worst team ever. (Okay, like anyone can know that . . . .) We only scored a few goals all season and got a very thorough thumping from every team we played. When I told Jedi that we were headed to have a pizza party with his soccer team he was very excited, but when I told him he was getting a trophy, he said, "Why?"

Why, indeed.

The selected trophy is a boy kicking a soccer ball. Instead of a head, he has a bobble soccer head. The trophy is personalized. Kind of. The spelling of Jedi Master's first and last name is so butchered that I'm not exactly certain if the trophy was intended for us. Whoever heard of a bobblehead trophy?