Trick Carrots, Not Treats

We all succumb to the package of 'easy' when we shop. For the last 3-4 years those slimy, mangled, uniformly small snacking carrots have been thoughtlessly grabbed. They are convenient, and you get used to the cardboard nothingness. I think our minds are tricked, as we remember what a real carrot tastes like from the garden. Isn't this uniform little 'trick' we're eating technically a carrot? It is not a 'treat', however.

The other night, thoughts of an old fashioned pot roast made me salivate. It was drizzly and cold. Pot roast would be just the thing to warm us up, comfort us.

When I went grocery shopping, this loose mountain of bright orange carrots flaunted themselves shamelessly. The 'other' carrots had little appeal. I found such pleasure in picking out and bagging the perfect carrots,red peppers, and papery dry yellow onions.

The browned pot roast was cradled tenderly all day in the arms of my red crock pot. It met the needs of our bodies and souls. The silence, broken by sighs and a few little moans of satisfied pleasure while we scraped our plates clean, proved it.

There isn't a scented candle in the world to compare with the steamy aroma twirling out from under the lid of a pot roast smothered in onions, peppers, Montreal Steak Seasoning, potatoes and sweet caramelized chunks of real carrots.

Ugly Skis

At 14, a shy, scared, wanna-be-adventurous, determined girl learned to ski. Against all odds; financial, cultural, practical and probable. Me.

Because I was so sure about it, and my poverty stricken mother sacrificed to make it happen, it became possible. An odd sport to choose, but it provided years of fun, fellowship, exercise, pleasure and adventure.

In our small eccentric world, we ice skated in dresses, played sandlot baseball, volleyball, roller skated and even wore a dress over pants in P.E. Grandma wanted me to wear a dress over my old fashioned Goodwill warm ups, I refused. First meaningful boundary which mom supported. Rebellious, sinful, beginning skiier! (Instead of picturing a Norman Rockwell, go back about a hundred years to Currier and Ives. Our church was stuck in a legalistic moment we couldn't get out of. Who stopped the clock at 1897?)

My leather tie-up, antique ski boots were from a ski swap. So were my skis. Antique. We had a trendy friend who volunteered to fix me up with some state-of-the-art bindings and somehow retrofitted them so my boots would work properly. Outdated boots, outmoded skis, with really smooth, slick bindings.

Shaking in fear and anticipation, I signed up for 6 weeks of lessons at Soldier Mountain. Every Saturday mom would drop me off at the school's ski bus. The lively 'goings on' in that bus were outside of my experience. A little shocking, but fascinating.

Miraculously found myself in a small class with a kind teacher. I didn't talk to one person or engage with anyone for the entire 6 weeks. Absorbing every word, practicing, risking, falling, learning, watching, stretching to the next level each week allowed me to "graduate". Every Saturday for the entire winter; pure freedom. I looked forward to my meager brown sack lunch in the lodge by the fire, by myself. Other than that and a few potty breaks, every minute was used skiing. I loved the wind in my hair, the speed, the lovely whiteness and the sound of skis cutting in. Glorious freedom!

When I lived in Anchorage, a group of us young'uns would pile in some one's pickup. Sit on each other's laps crowded as toothpicks, and sing out blustering songs louder than the radio.

Being mostly broke even then, I skied once more with ugly skis! There are perks to ugly equipment, however! A rich friend was on his 3rd pair of stylin' skis because the first 2 pairs were stolen outside the lodge. When he bought his 3rd pair, he took them out in the garage and spray painted them black, layered a little red on top then proceeded to furiously 'distress' the top, making them as ugly as ugly can be.

He and I would casually stick ours criscrossed in a snowbank while we walked into the lodge to warm up. Worry free. We couldn't have paid any one to steal them!

My snow gear wasn't ever very cool or in style because scrounging money for the ski pass was a challenge in itself. The lodge was frequently full of really cool people dressed in full fashion runway gear. They spent most of time inside displaying it.

In those days, I felt so out of my league, dowdy, unsophisticated and not part of the cool inner circle. Yet, the freedom and fun, one run after the other, trumps that feeling every time.

Now, I'd on purpose ski with ugly skis. Wonder if I should make my sweet silky blue bike ugly enough to have that same freedom? I can't. I just can't!

Blogger Mullet

It is with a strong mixture of fear, dread, embarrassment, sheepishness, audacity and shame that a new button or gadget gets added to this blog. Adding anything to the HTML code takes me forever, as it is greek to me.

I dread it because seasoned bloggers have moved light years beyond the simple gadget I'm just now adding. It's like I'm wearing a blogger mullet......

It's embarrassing to nakedly expose the fact that a post doesn't have one response or comment.

I'm sheepish for hoping a twitter follower likes what they read and will retweet it. What a glorious thought! Or a seasoned blogger would comment?!?!?!

I feel audacious for thinking the same could/would ever happen.

Then the shame happens as the blank spaces talk.

Then perspective kicks in. After writing for almost a year every single day, like I promised to do, my raw, unfiltered, rough posts have slowly been smoothed a bit. Practice is making them more composed. I'm able to get my thoughts through with less words. Polished? Not. Better? Overall, yes. The shame turns into gratefulness that I don't have a critic doing a review. The blankness is better than that!

I look at hundreds of blogs and websites. They are so sophisticated with enticing custom headers, eye catching buttons, ads, gadgets and widgets which I don't even know about. They are intimidating and interesting. Beautiful reflections of their authors. No two the same. Dizzying in appeal and originality. True savvy talent, lighting up the 'brand' or stamping a cool 'makers mark' on their art, writing, etc.

I don't aspire to be one of the big boy bloggers with 243,000 followers/subscriptions. But if I don't put a gadget on for people who want to follow, how can they? If I don't put a retweet button on a post, how can someone click it someday in the future if it's worth a tweet?

Reminded me of something I believe strongly, and was reminded of last Sunday........

Set the frame work for blessing!

Once, for a backyard ladies tea for 40, even though it looked cloudy, overcast and the report was predicting rain, I prayed/asked for a clear afternoon then promptly put out the decorations, gift bags and set tables.......just in case my prayer was answered. It was.

Another time, Tess had a bunch of kids over for a bonfire. Craig got the fire pit set and ready to light, got a pile of wood, then quickly covered the benches, fire pit and wood as it started raining. We prayed/asked for clear skies for the kids when they arrived a couple hours later. It rained up until they showed up. Whipping the tarp off, they had dry wood, dry benches and a dry, ready to go fire. As soon as they broke up to go home it started pouring again.

Set the table. Build it and they will come. Set the framework for blessing! Leave the door open for God to come through in that specific way if'n He wants to.

Gooey House

A friend of mine went to help her son move. He was moving to a duplex he owned. His previous, troublesome renters were off the charts in the messiness realm. He wondered if they ever took their dogs out to the bathroom. Then he wondered if any person ever used the bathroom. My friend helped him clean, prep and paint after the carpet was hauled away and the hardwood floors redone.

With big eyes and her gag reflex almost taking over, she regaled me with the horrid details. Not only were the burner linings on the stove hopeless, but there was at least an inch of gore under the top when lifted. The oven after 3 hours hadn't improved. Cooked on slime, melted cheese, drips, gross sides and a thick layer on the bottom made the decision to just get a new stove easy.

When she tackled the fridge, she said she didn't know how some of the food could have arrived in that location. BBQ sauce, mold, stickiness and rot everywhere. Fridges being spendy, she plugged away till it was presentable. It took hours. Every piece had to be taken apart and soaked.

As she talked about it, I was trying to capture how my stove and fridge looked at the moment. What I imagined, scared me! Seeing it through her eyes terrified me!

I have a serious handicap. I don't see the broken fence, I see the flowers. I don't see the sock on the floor, but the candlelight. The clothes piled on the love seat hide behind the lovely pictures of my children covering the wall. Dishes in the sink are camouflaged by the cuttings rooting in the window. The kitchen table is unusable because of a creative moment. Many times in the garden I simply don't see the weeds, as the flowers dazzle me. I see the dewdrops on the pines out my window, instead of the streaks on the window.

It is a blessing and a curse. I never usually apologize when someone comes unexpectedly; however, I do warn them as I clear a trail, offer them a blankie and a cup of something hot. It's a curse because I love neat and tidy and organized, but just don't notice the mess! My mother is a neat freak and has never understood why I want to live like this. I don't! The blessing is that there have been years and years of beautiful messes at our house. People with magazine picture houses don't let 30 kids pull taffy, make gingerbread houses, have hair dying parties, etc. Being creative, letting others be creative, having fun and easy fellowship means you can't worry too much about how pretty your house is before, during or after. I want people to leave feeling like they have been well loved, full and with a memory or something in their hand as we wave them off from the porch.

I do hope no one gets food poisoning, diphtheria or typhoid at our house though!

Celebrate Her. You.

A long time girlfriend needed to reminded of this again today. She is 'She'. You are 'She'. We are all nourishing nurturers and give life. Sometimes we all need to remember what's true.

"She"

by Kobi Yamada (Compendium Inc-a yummy site)

She must be something special. She is.

Celebrate her.
She loved life and it loved her back.

Celebrate her passion.
She listened to her heart above all other voices.

Celebrate her wisdom.
She pursued big dreams instead of small realities.

Celebrate her priorities.
She saw every ending as a new beginning.

Celebrate her resiliency.
She discovered her real measurements had nothing to do with numbers or
statistics.

Celebrate her self-esteem.
She was kind, loving and patient…with herself.

Celebrate her tenderness.
She woke up one day and threw away all her excuses.

Celebrate her accountability.
She realized that she was missing a great deal by being sensible.
Celebrate her spirit.
She turned her can’ts into cans, and her dreams into plans.

Celebrate her goals.
She ignored people who said it couldn’t be done.

Celebrate her independence.
She had a way of turning obstacles into opportunities.

Celebrate her magic.
She went out on a limb, had it break off behind her, and discovered
she could fly.

Celebrate her faith.
She discovered she was the one she’d been waiting for.

Celebrate her self-reliance.
She added so much beauty to being human.

Celebrate her presence.
She walked in when everyone else walked out.

Celebrate her friendship.
She just has this way of brightening the day.

Celebrate her radiance.
She made the whole world feel like home.

Celebrate her warmth.
She decided to enjoy more and endure less.

Celebrate her choices.
She decided to start living the life she’d imagined.

Celebrate her freedom.
She colored her thoughts with only the brightest hues.

Celebrate her optimism.
She was an artist and her life was her canvas.

Celebrate her brilliance.
She ran ahead where there were no paths.

Celebrate her bravery.
She crossed borders recklessly, refusing to recognize limits, saying
bonjour and buon giorno as though she owned both France and Italy and
the day itself.

Celebrate her joie de vivre.
She held her head high and looked the world straight in the eye.
Celebrate her strength.
She not only saw a light at the end of the tunnel she became that
light for others.

Celebrate her compassion.
She designed a life she loved.

Celebrate her joy.
She took the leap and built her wings on the way down.

Celebrate her daring.
She said bye-bye to unhealthy relationships.

Celebrate her happiness.
She remained true to herself.

Celebrate her authenticity.
She made the world a better place.

Celebrate her.

Brown Paper Bag

Any kind of plain brown kraft paper is one of my hot buttons. Anything made from it I like. I'll buy something if it has a label made from it. Cards, packages, bags, stationary, envelopes, cardstock, tags, packaging, etc. There is some kind of organic connection when I touch it, bringing the same comfort as I remember when sucking my thumb. Weird? Can't help it, it's true.

Flashy glittery things have never really appealed to me. Natural things appeal more than synthetic things.

I'd rather be at the water's edge than buy a fountain. I'd rather use compost than fertilizing pellets. I'd rather have an old wooden boat than a Bayliner. I'd rather be there in a mud floored palapa than be trapped on a cruise. I'd rather buy from the artist than have a made in china one. I'd rather have a bag of potatoes than a box of instant. The list could go on for miles.

This is a quote from a post last February entitled, "Amazingly Plain and Brown":

I am married to a plain brown potato who is more precious than any words could express. He is priceless. He is my beloved and amazingly plain and brown.

We fit, as not only do I love plain brown kraft paper, but I very much am a plain brown paper bag.

Brown paper bags still come in handy at times, even in our high tech world. Hopefully.

True Colors

Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors" lyrics shake and sort me out at times. What if we saw each other like this? What if we lived like we knew our Maker sees us like this?

But I see your true colors
shining through
I see your true colors
and that's why I love you
so don't be afraid to let them show
your true colors
true colors are beautiful
like a rainbow

A curtsy to you my beloved, for making me, rainbows and so many astonishing colors. Thank YOU! You take my breath away too!

No Fleas

This morning was one of those days. Morning is never prime for me, but this day, well...........hope it makes someone laugh.

We went on vacation a couple weeks ago. Before we left, along with other chores, I gave Maggie a good scrubbing with her special oatmeal flea shampoo so she would look and smell pretty for our friends who were keeping her.

Blinded by sleep and the shower, I reached for shampoo this morning. After thoroughly working up a thick suds, I noticed it felt different and smelled different than usual. Realizing it was Maggie's flea shampoo, I frantically rinsed and rinsed. I'm officially without fleas today. I hope my brains haven't been compromised!

After my shower adventure, I went to the pile of unfolded laundry on the couch and pulled out my jeans. Uh-Oh~ eating well and relaxing sure put some pounds on me. EEEEEK, I couldn't get them up properly and instinctively knew they weren't going to be buttoning. The gap was too far apart. Laying down was not going to help. Huffing and puffing, I untangled from them and disgustedly looked at the tag. They were my daughter's. Can you imagine my relief? You know that commercial, 'These aren't your daughter's jeans" It's a lie. They were!

Today is good. No fleas, ticks or lice and I'm not any fatter than I was before. What joy. And my hair is really soft with a nice sprightly sheen.........

Altogether Nourishing Day

Tess and I watched nourishing movies today. PJ day all day! Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, How About You and 84 Charing Cross Road. They were so sweet! A movie that is nourishing to your heart and soul leaves you watered, fertilized and 'dug around'. They were honest. Genuine. Hopeful.

After seeing 84 Charing Cross, I think I found my 'imaginary friend & muse to write to'. Don't worry, freak out or laugh, he's dead. In my mind's eye, every post from now on will begin with:

Frank Doel

Marks & Co.

Antiquarian Booksellers

84 Charing Cross Rd

London, England

Maybe I just crossed over into crazy with Gnarls Barkley? When it begins, Dear Frankie, umm, well, that means I've been blogging for 20 years?

Book Grazing at Powell's

Last spring, a friend and I foraged and grazed for 3 days at Powell's Books. Once a year is not enough!

My journal scribbles from that luscious feast has a few treasures.

Here's one from "The Library at Night" by Alberto Manguel.

"Those who read, those who tell us what they read, those who noisily turn the pages of their books, those who have power over red and black ink, and over pictures, those are the ones who lead us, guide us, show us the way."

(Aztec Codex from 1524-Vatican Archives)