Girls. Women. Growth.

I had an important conference call last night.  We coordinated schedules, we had a WebEx number for dialing in, we had a GoogleDocs spreadsheet everyone was looking at.

What's that, you say? Have I gone back to work?  Nah.  Just staring down my 20th high school reunion and had a virtual meet-up with some friends to try and get something organized.   [any Class of '91 readers out there? You know who you are, gimme a shout.]

So anyway, we're all there on the phone, taking time out of our individual crazy circus-act lives.  I'm listening to this group of women talk. As we're saying our goodbyes, our thanks guys, we'll catch up next weeks,  I am surprised by the catch in my voice.

Definitely not an attack of nostalgia.  Let's be clear:  I've already told y'all about how the last day of high school was the Official Beginning of my story. 

I sat for a few minutes, trying to figure out why a bit of database figuring and party planning would get me all verklempt.  Here's the thing:  this was a conversation with a group of amazing women.  Women who have done brave things, difficult things, incredibly smart things.

A get-together in recent years.  I'm 6 months pregnant. Maybe 5. Yikes, only 4? Anyway. Aren't the others fabulous?

When you are 16, you find friends to hang with who make you laugh.  Friends who are in your classes, whose parents enforce the same kind of curfews, who might run track or join cheerleading with you.  You don't really pick 'em according to what kind of adult they'll grow up to be.

But I'll tell you:  last night I realized that I enjoy these people more the longer I know them.  I am so profoundly grateful that I can call them friends. That somehow, the years, the careers, the kids and jobs and partners and houses haven't kept us apart: that instead, we keep finding ways to find each other.

It's almost enough to make me excited about re-living the days of Kid n' Play, Depeche Mode and Bel Biv Devoe.  Here's to reunion planning, even if you're not a party-planning kinda gal.

The Tightrope

Random fact: I am completely obsessed with tightrope artists.  Funnily enough, this doesn't come up often in conversation.

This weekend, friends shared with us that they have hit a bit of a rough patch in their marriage.  Along with the heartache that quite naturally springs from a revelation like this, I was left with a vague sense of imbalance.  I went to sleep troubled, and woke with the vivid image of a tightrope walker on my mind. 

A tightrope stretches in front of each of us, in any relationship that matters.

You begin your journey in confidence.  Of course you step out in confidence!  How else could you be convinced that this was a reasonable undertaking, if not for your blind faith that you absolutely have the skills and abilities to reach the other side?  As you inch your way out over the chasm, your confidence is so great that the twist of rope beneath you feels as solid as a twelve inch plank.

You get a bit further out, and the winds pick up.  Maybe it is a single gust, that blows you momentarily off balance.  Maybe it is a steady breeze that makes each step, each inch forward a challenge. Maybe your legs simply start to tremble.

Whatever the reason, all of the sudden you are wobbling, way out on this woven cord with nothing to hold onto. Every rule of tightrope walking tells you not to look down - never look down - but maybe it's the looking down that made you start to sway in the first place. Maybe you took your eye off the far side, and started focusing on your toes curling around that stupid skinny rope instead.

So you're wavering, and you know good and well that you are the only person who will steady the rope. It won't happen by looking down, it won't happen by flailing your arms around helplessly. The only thing - the only thing - that will stave off disaster is a change of focus. Pulling your eyes up, and finding the far side again.

Maybe some of us won't be able to pull it back. Maybe some of us won't be able to withstand the buffeting wind, or maybe the sway of the rope will have gotten too far out of control. Maybe all that can be done at that point is to consciously look down, to keep looking down, and believe with all your heart that the safety net of those that love & care for you will be there as you fall.

Some of us...some of us will make it through those vicious winds. Some of us will find the steadying stillness, and we won't be sure quite how we did it. The only way through the swaying is to continue: stopping - standing still - is simply not an option. 

So, whilst I've had that vague swaying feeling all day, having heard my friend's news, I will choose to continue along the journey on my own rope, stretching out over the void. Inch by inch, my toes will creep across the twisted cord. 

I have to believe that my friends' toes will keep them moving across the rope too. If not, I sure as hell am one of the people who make up the net underneath.

*********

There are millions of blogs out there - funny, frank, or starkly painfully honest - that will freely discuss our failures as parents. But I find that when it comes to our failures in relationships, we are less able to open up, to admit that we are wavering.

Just for today, let Your People know that you love 'em, no matter where they are on (or off) the rope.

Thankful: for Family, Trees, and Friends

In the middle of handing out mini-Snickers and Reeses Cups this Halloween, I was busy snipping pieces of kraft paper into a vague sort of tree outline:

It's our Thankful Tree.  I ran across the idea somewhere in the blogosphere last year, and it was a big hit here in the Yellow House.  The concept is simple:  each night, we go around the table and each family member names one thing they're thankful for.  If certain 2nd graders insist, they are given rights to the coveted brown Sharpie marker to write their own leaf.

The 2010 tree was extremely prolific:  as the leaves tumbled off the oaks, maples and poplars in our backyard, the paper leaves grew and grew on the Thankful Tree.  Some of my happiest moments this month have been craning my neck to check out all the funny little things my kids are grateful for.  Except, not so funny:  many of the adults' and kids' leaves turn up with some version of  'grandparents' or 'my friends.'



Ahh, friends.   Today on Classic Play I am guest posting all about a Friends Thanksgiving - the meaning of a holiday spent with The Other Kind of Family.   Let us never forget the gift of our families, crazy as they might be, but also?  Keep those friendships on your Thankful Tree.  There's nothing like 'em.

Different Kind of Family

This post was written in response to two photographs - the first was over at The Pear Tree's blog, where they featured this image, and asked for our responses to it.  

Shortly after that, I came across the photo below, and decided I wanted to tell you about a family member who shares none of my genetics.  There is nothing else this person can be for me, except Family - Family in the most profound way possible.

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We met when I was 13 - a gangly, awkward and - frankly, ugly - 13.  He was 14, newly arrived in the country and at school.  The seventh and eighth grade were all a-flutter over his Australian accent.

We found out we were both into Oingo Boingo and Talking Heads when many of our peers were embracing Bon Jovi and Richard Marx.  And thus began a music geek friendship that would take us to concerts around the world - from outdoor festivals to huge stadium events to tiny grotty clubs in London.  My parents trusted him implicitly, and as soon as I assured them I'd be with Jamie!, I was allowed to go pretty much anywhere.

We commiserated over crushes as well as breakups through the years. He was best friends with my high school sweetheart, and yet he said nothing unkind when we broke up; he found a way to stay friends with both of us.

J and K, circa 1993? 1994?

He went off to England for college, and I missed him.  I'd get the infrequent letter scrawled on pale blue aerogrammes, apologizing for not writing more often.  The next year when I was utterly lost at the University of Maryland, his letter came:  Kir -  You sound really unhappy.  Get on a plane and come to England already.  I'll look after you!

Five weeks later I stepped off the plane at Heathrow and was met by his friend (thanks  again, Brian!).  Jamie had arranged it all for me ahead of time.  We adventured all over Europe - rode silly bikes in Belgium, slept in parks in Paris, stayed out all night in a club in Berlin.  Again, my parents were happy with only the occasional collect call because they knew - I was with Jamie.

We've seen each other at our our happiest, our saddest, our most inebriated.  I attended his eighth grade graduation, his high school graduation, his college graduation.  He once changed a tire for me, I cooked a fair few dinners for him. We've watched each other get into dustups with friends and partners, but I can't think of a single time we've fought.  (Of course, sarcasm and snide remarks don't count in that tally.)

I sat in the car with him the day he decided to leave America for good.  We knew it meant he'd miss my wedding two weeks later. We also knew we wouldn't see each other for such a long time.

I've only seen him once since then. And every minute of that visit was like having all of our teenage years back again, only better.   That visit he brought with him the beautiful Justine, who was (and is) perfect for him.   The day it was time to take them to Heathrow, my heart broke all over again - knowing it would again be years before we would hang out.

Jamie has taught me much, but most important is this:  he taught me that family can be many things beyond shared genes, the same blood.  Jamie is my family, just as surely as my brothers are, and he owns his very own place in my heart.

Miss you, my friend.  Miss you so very much.

Busy weekend?

Why yes, yes it was a busy weekend, now you mention it.

Let's see... swim team potluck & pep rally (Friday night) :: swim team photos (Saturday a.m.) :: swim meet, 7.30 a.m. to 1pm :: lunch with grandparents :: big manly chainsaw project :: Tour de France Junior party, complete with a red dotted hill-climb jersey, flags to wave, and Gallic cocktails for grownups :: early Sunday 4-mile run :: church :: lunch at Grandma's house :: Slip n' Slide on grandma's front lawn :: dinner with friends

= EXHAUSTED.   

And no clean up time.  At all.  The entire weekend.  Wanna see?

This is our front hall.  The place where Every. Single. Blessed. Item got DUMPED as we walked in the door this weekend.  Dumped, forgotten, and abandoned as we moved on to next activity, next activity, next activity. [Do you love Mr NilsenLife chilling in the middle of it all?? Oh yes, I do too. Mmm hmm.]

Clearly, I have no shame.  My poor mother will be mortified when she sees I've published this evidence of my slothful housekeeping.

But just wanted to say that even people trying to keep it simple sometimes....... don't.

Have a great week y'all!!

More than Lovers

All this chat about long distance letter writing might lead you to think that it's strictly the torrid paper romances that weigh heavily on your friendly blogger's mind.

But actually, my thoughts on letters have lead me to the many beautiful friends around the globe that I have loved and then been obliged to leave.

Life has taken me on so many paths - to places far flung and places extremely local - and at each stop I have made what Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary calls 'heart gut friends.'  These are the friends who own your very spirit almost from the beginning:  the ones who inspire honesty, who call out your wickedest sense of humor, your noblest sense of compassion, and your drunkest protestations of loyalty.

All the chat about letter writing reminds me that I haven't written nearly enough to these friends - not paper, not email, not Facebook.  As they travel the world - to Yemen, to China, to Holland, to Togo, to Germany, to Azerbijan, to Australia - I have tracked their progress, known where they were, but maybe at times have lost the heart-gut connection.

Doesn't mean I've forgotten them.  Their marks on my heart are deep, and permanent.  Before my last big move, from Europe back to the States, my lovely friend Esther (she of the most beautiful heart in the world) protested but how can you move?!? I feel that you will be moving out of my life, not just the country.  As much as her words hurt my heart, I knew it was true that I might not see her for years (and I haven't.  Seven long years later.)  But what I had to tell her that day, what I have to believe, is that my heart-gut friends will only be around the next corner, always.

When I see them, we will pick up immediately where we left off.  When we meet, we will offer great strong genuine bear hugs, and maybe cry and definitely laugh and know that there will be no recrimination for unwritten letters, for un-dialed phones, for unsent emails.  We will sit down immediately and eat and drink and laugh and drink a little more and remember all the things about each other that bind us forever. We will meet new partners, new lovers, new children, and in all likelihood we will love them immediately too.   We will go to sleep - maybe camped out on someone's couch, maybe all tucked up in a newly-remodeled guest room - glowing in the knowledge that we are back with our People.  People who get you, who love you, and will welcome you back into their lives at a moment's notice.  More than lovers:  these friends are My People.

No matter where in the world they are tonight, they are mine.  Y'all know who you are.

Bad Case of Compassion

It's true - I've had a terrible case of compassion this week.

Bursting into tears left right & center - not only for sadnesses, but also for transitions, for big moments, even just for beautiful writing.

Historically speaking, I'm not the weepy one.  Or at least I wasn't. Then I did something that (I think) chemically altered my brain: I had a baby -  three of 'em, actually.  Not sure what neurochemical Molotov cocktail exploded there, but I find that as I grow into mothering, it has blown open my spirit to all the pain in the world - and now I take it on as my own.

I worry.  I hurt.  And yes, I cry. 

I hear about a missing mother on the news - her children left alone in the home, and I worry.  My heart breaks for the fear those kids are feeling.  I watch Law & Order, and my heart breaks for the kids whose parents are wiped out in the opening scenes.  (Yes I do I feel silly getting choked up in front of the TV, thankyouverymuch.)

This week I had friends share bad news, disappointments, frustrations - my head swirled with all that they were dealing with.  Heard news about the end of a marriage, and it broke my own heart into pieces.   Heard about a family hashing out their darkest secrets in court, and it hurt deep in my spirit.

In the run up to Easter, our pastor talked at length about the intersection of the Passion and compassion, and described to his listeners how mapping our lives on this model leads us to live a 'cross shaped life' as well.  He illustrated for us how

[...] It’s the sharing of the experience that transforms – and here we see the great cost in living this way, because to live in our guts, to feel with compassion inevitably means we will be changed, we won’t be the same. To take on another’s suffering and pain, to participate in it with them, to stand with them or attempt to share the experience with them means we will inevitably be changed. There’s no way we can go to such depths without it having some kind of impact upon us. And that scares us – rightfully so.

Regardless of your religion, if you 'go to the depths' with the people in your life - if you choose to feel deeply, to share the experience with them - you will be changed forever. Your heart will be marked by the suffering of others, but also it will be made strong - so strong.

It hurts, to bear the suffering of others.  At the very least, it is distracting.  But in an effort to live authentically, to live in honesty with those in my life, I think I want those pangs of compassion.

Front Porch

It was the end of a long stupid week.  Not tragic, not incredibly stressful, just lots of silly mistakes and parenting mis-steps.  

The kids went to bed hot and grumpy, despite the gift of a weekend visit from their beloved Farmor, and I was so happy to shut the door on their bedroom and whisper Good night Nilsen kids, I love you. (and then whisper under my breath so much more than I showed you this week.)

The week had ended with more of a whimper than a bang - we missed our usual rowdy Friday night happy hour with neighbors, and both of us were feeling out of sorts. 

Then, out on our porch, we heard footsteps, and the front door cracking open.  Friends, unsure of the end of bedtime but certain of an unlocked door, were stopping by to end the week with us.  They'd shipped their kids off to grandparents, and at 9pm all four of us were ready to imagine a life of finished sentences, fresh new ideas, and sleeping in.  (I did say 'imagine.')

We poured some gin, splashed some tonic, and went back out the door to the front porch, and an almost-hot night.  In the dim light of a spring evening the peeling paint wasn't obvious, the flickering lanterns we lit added a vague charm, and for the briefest of moments, the four of us sat quietly listening to the spring peepers. 

Then we talked - late into the night - about plot lines for Larry David, bike lanes in our town, public school shenanigans, why rich people have handlers (do the handlers floss for the "handled"??) and other pipe dreams, large and small.  We dabbled a little in public policy, we reminisced a little about past triumphs.  

The gin was refreshed, the tumblers sweated, and still we talked. Rocked in the big white rockers on the front porch, and let the ideas pour out of our mouths as if Monday was at least a month away.

It wasn't the sort of night that will change a person's life.  But it was exactly the sort of evening that reminds you that life can be measured in the small moments - the moments celebrated with beat-up tumblers of gin, rockers coated with the pollen of 98 trees, and friends who will find the same contentment in a warm evening, cold drinks, and a few mismatched lanterns. 

We set our worlds to right, on Friday night, and honestly? It really didn't take much.

Front Porch Dreaming, Spring '09

Transformed: More than meets the Eye

The decade between 26 and 36 is not overly obvious in the changes it wreaks.  Most definitely there are few bits & pieces headed south that weren't, ten years ago, but it's not like there is puberty or even a graduation to mark the passing of the years.

But on the last day of The Aughts when we review such things, the transformations of my life in this decade couldn't be more profound.

I added the title of Mother to my resume.  And have been sure that I'll be fired, every day since.

I started the decade loving good food.  I end the decade with a love of honest food.

I moved house, I moved continents, and I created Home.  (Even after leaving the place I call home.)

I consciously voted for less snark in my life. (Less is a moving target, of course.)  For those that knew me in the years before, you will grasp just how groundbreaking this shift was.

I went from believing that marriage is easy to knowing that marriage is hard, but absolutely worth any and all work required.

I went from thinking friends were just lovely to believing that friends belong in the same category as water, food, and oxygen.

I went from traveling to seven different countries in one year (2001) to traveling to seven different preschools in 2009.  (Really only one preschool and one elementary, but it feels like more.)  I also haven't traveled further than the next state over for two years.

I became an excellent cook.  And in the last six, I've cooked spaghetti, black bean chili, and macaroni and cheese at least once a week.

I found a community of faith that, literally, surprised me with its joy, and its depth.  Here is a sermon that left my jaw hanging open.

I realized I am a writer.  I spent so many years believing that my unique skill laid in appreciating what others wrote, never understanding that my time would come.

I fulfilled almost every childhood dream, and then learned that even a Dream Come True is complicated.

I became more educated than I ever imagined.  And I finish the decade aware of just how little I do know.


Somehow, all that I have learned in the last ten years seems to have 'settled' in 2009.  More and more I find myself feeling that finally I am glimpsing the Big Picture:   that all of the disparate elements listed above have come together to show me the way forward.  Is this all a bit mystical for you?  I'd say that's something new to me in recent years too.

I am willing to believe there is a great deal out there we don't know, or understand. I know that we must show love, and kindness, to make anything work. So there's my Super Duper Schmooper Big Idea:  be kind, show love, and don't ask Kirsten, because she's just figured out she doesn't know all that much.

Happy 2010 to all of you.  May it bring you great joy. 

Communion: aka Pomegranate Chicken

Food is never just food. It's also a way of getting at something else: who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be. (Molly Wizenberg, from A Homemade Life)

We were saying goodbye to good friends tonight.  We had good friends here to help.   There was a sense of occasion:  of wanting somehow to mark the transition, but not be too dramatic about it.  How does one bid a fond adieu anymore?

Pomegranate Chicken was the only answer.

It was an odd recipe, handed to me by a colleague, with the endorsement "only you would make a recipe this weird." Indeed I would.  I made it first for a newlywed husband, who was appropriately enthusiastic.  I made it next for friends of ours, known to appreciate their fair share of odd recipes (shout out to Paulo and Maria!!)  Made it next for the closest friends I would ever have (shout out to the Berkshire Massive!) and we all raved over it.  Made it the following year as a way of marking the year's passing, and as a way of trying to reclaim the territory dominated by the previous month's arrival of Gorgeous Firstborn. Ended up nursing said firstborn on a stepstool in the kitchen, directing Doting Grandma and Best Friend who were making the recipe in my stead.

When we moved to the States, Pomegranate Chicken was left dormant.  No kitchen to call our own.  The communion meal laid dormant.    November 2003, November 2004, November 2005, November 2006, November 2007.  All passed without the merest mention of pomegranates.   

And then came November 2008.  Gradually I began to see life re-forming into something I recognized.  I was slowly, tentatively sending my roots out into my community, finding friends who were My People all over again.  My People mentioned they might like to do a photo shoot - of people making food, Real Food, to share with each other. I knew what recipe would work.  At that meal, I raised a toast:  "this meal, this food?  It is food I only want to share with those I love.  So here's to those friends: the friends in the past, the present, and future that I love."

And now it is 2009.  A season of pomegranates, a season of goodbyes.   This November we are toasting friends that, last year, were part of the toast's future - and friends that I love nonetheless.  This meal is about communion:  a meal shared together that becomes so much more than the sum of its parts.  The meal reaches all of your senses - when people enter your home they will say "everything smells so fantastic!"  When they take a bite of carrot, of onion, of chicken, they will say "this is amazing - what is IN this?"  If they are any kind of artist, they will exclaim over the glow of the ruby pomegranate seeds on the amber carrots, over the pinky-purple onions,  over the gingery tinge of autumn that radiates from the dish. 

After almost 10 years in my recipe box, tonight I want to share Pomegranate Chicken with you.  Make it - share communion with Your People, whomever they may be.  Those whom you love will gather around your table, and affirm the fellowship that values "who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be."

Pomegranate Chicken

4 chicken breast fillets, skin on
3 Tbsp sesame oil
grated zest & juice of 2 lemons
2 Tbsp honey
2 lg carrots, shredded  (I like to make long ribbons with a mandoline/peeler, but either way really)
2 lg red onions, finely sliced
1.5  Tbsp fresh grated ginger
2 pomegranates, peeled & seeds removed
4 Tbsp chopped coriander/cilantro (depends on your side of The Pond)
Salt & Pepper

Marinate chicken with 1 Tbsp sesame oil, zest & juice of one lemon, cinnamon and honey.  Stir well, marinate at least 20 mins.

Preheat oven to 375 F, 190 C

Heat 1 Tbsp sesame oil in a pan, add carrots, onion, and ginger and cook for 2-3 minutes.  Stir in remaining  juice and zest and seasoning to taste, cook another 2-3 minutes.  Remove from heat.

Heat remaining oil in pan, add chicken and cook over high heat 2-3 minutes for each side of the breast.

Transfer chicken to roasting tray, skin side up.  Add a little water (say, a half cup? Less?) to the frying pan.  Stir to remove sediment.  Pour over chicken with half the pomegranate seeds and bake 15-20 mins. (Until meat thermometer indicates between 160 and 170 F. )

Stir the coriander into the vegetable mix and heat through.  Serve the chicken on top of the vegetables, with the juices and remaining pomegranate seeds poured over.

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Me?  I like to serve this with a roasted beet salad topped with goats cheese, flat leaf parsley and a balsamic vinaigrette.  But you could pair it with a nice rice pilaf and green salad and be just as happy, or maybe some couscous made up with sliced almonds and currants.  However you serve it, make sure you do so with friends  - friends with whom you are happy to toast and say 'to the past, the present, and future.'

This, this - this is the meaning of food.

Would you be mine, could you be mine? Won't You Be my Neighbor?

It's a beautiful days in this neighborhood/ A beautiful day for a neighbor/ Would you be mine?/ Could you be mine?

**UPDATE:  The Editorial Board decided, based on the sharp eyes of our readers, that we needed to ensure correct lyrics posting.  The Sesame Street song can be its own post someday.


Anyone else spend a good part of their early-70s childhood watching Mr Rogers bounce into his front room and toss his sneakers from one hand to the other?  I looooooooved Mr Rogers - always have, even when it got cool in the 80s to make slurs about his sexual orientation.

I'll admit (and this will definitely out me as the nerd that I am) that the little theme tune runs through my head every time I wander up to the bus stop, and catch up briefly with other parents.  It pops into my head as I watch a dad from up the street play catch with a whole pack of neighborhood boys, and as I watch an elderly neighbor cruise slowly by in her ancient red Volvo and wave at my kids in the front yard.

One of the most unexpected gifts we discovered in moving into this house, in this neighborhood, in this town, was the incredibly diverse community offered right on our front steps.  Our neighborhood has big houses, small houses, and yes, a Yellow House. There are big families and small, young families and retired couples.  Economically, you have a group of households that run the gamut, with all of us feeling the pinch of the recession in our own ways.

We've got police officers, fire fighters, software analysts and woodworkers, doctors and nurses, people working for the city and a good number of parents at home.  There are at least two families with grandparents who live just a few houses away, there are teenagers willing to babysit, and a few 'tweens willing to play with the toddlers while the moms catch up.

My eldest was our Social Director when we first arrived in Paradise.  She would swing from the branches of the cherry tree right by the road and shout greetings at passers-by.  Many people would stop to strike up a conversation, and naturally Cecilie's parents would get sucked into the conversation (because although we like to think of ourselves as low-key, you can't just let your kid stand out on the street talking to strangers.)  In this way our neighbors came to learn a great deal about the Nilsens that no one needed to know that we might not have shared otherwise, and in return we quickly came to know many faces and families that passed by those first months.

One May evening this year Cecilie found us a new family:  a mom and her two little girls, just slightly younger than my kids.  We chatted, the girls dashed off to play in our treehouse, and Lars ran after to see if they'd let him push the swing. (They would.)

And in the blink of an eye, with one shout from the cherry tree we'd found ourselves a new family in the neighborhood.  Clare and Jer, and Eleanor and Rose, joined our neighborhood Happy Hour and became a part of our Friday evenings as we sat around the picnic table in the backyard and watched the kids catch fireflies.  We'd shout over the fence at them if we saw their bikes in the cul-de-sac.  Tonight we had to peel little Rose off of Cecilie's lap because she just couldn't stop giving 'once last hug.'

Sadly sadly, the charms of this little corner of Paradise weren't quite enough to make it a great fit for this great family.  (Somehow, transporting the entire family of 4 into Washington every morning of the week brings an exhaustion that cannot be treated even with the happiest of Happy Hours. Go figure.) Today they delivered the bad news that moving day is next week.  So this Friday night we raised a toast to our lovely new friends, and wished them the very happiest of hours spent in their new home across the street from the National Zoo. 

May the joys of Paradise travel with you, friends!

Run Away With Me

Uh oh. I shouldn't be surprised, really. I know all about the 4 hours of sleep I got last night, and the 5.5 hrs the night before. I remember all-too-clearly the ugly scene I made at bathtime about the kids choosing to fight with each other about who gets the 'good' end of the tub. I should have known when the Cheer Me Up cup of vanilla ice cream didn't work.

And now.... we're in the waning hours of Sunday night. Torbjorn is away for a business trip. The bombsite, I mean, OUR HOME, needs to be - ahem - tidied. The list of calls to make stretches out as I scribble in my notebook about the upcoming week.

Here we are, fully in the throes of Woe Is Me. I am remembering the Spell-A-Thon I haven't been preparing Cecilie for. I think about how I left Annika to cry it out at bedtime because I. Just. Couldn't. Be. Near. A. Kid. Another. Moment. I'm thinking these brand new pants are too short because I've been a little too enthusiastic about returning to eggs & dairy. I'm reading other people's blogs and comparing my life/my kids/my home/my creative efforts - never a winning proposition.

SO ANYWAY. Run away with me, for a moment. Play a silly little game, won't you? Recently Amanda posted a fun thought on her blog, about spending Brewster's Millions. Amazingly enough, I'd been thinking along the same lines. When I puddle along through my day, I ask myself:

"What would I do with an extra $200 today?"

It's a silly number, of course. These days, the answer could just as well be "my groceries" or "my late fees at the library," but that wouldn't be in the same spirit of escapism, now, would it?? But I like the $200 limit. It's far too little to pay off debts (at least too little for me!!), too little to 'buy my friends and family a house', too little to "travel travel travel" (unless you count driving to, oh, Lebanon, MD or something.) Of course not too small a sum to make a difference in someone's life who's on the streets, but work with me here: we're running away.

Fun money. You can't do anything USEFUL with it - you must be willing to do something to chase away the February blahs. What'll it be? 10 lipsticks? That deep freezer at Costco that you've sooooooooooo been coveting? A serious caffiene binge at Starbucks? A lovely dinner at your romantic French restaurant in the next town? Ooooh, maybe a massage?

I'm also going to pretend, just for tonight, that I have a crazy popular blog like Dooce or Pioneer Woman with lovely readers from all over the globe. Oh wait, I do have lovely readers from all over the globe. All 10 of them. Anyhoo, if you're reading this, I need to hear from you, Internet. Play the game, escape for a few seconds. The Polly Pockets an laundry will still be there when you wake up.

The House Shoot

As confirmed non-artists, we consider ourselves so blessed to have friends with talents - so when Dave asked to 'borrow our kitchen' to shoot a cooking related series for his portfolio we scrubbed the calendar and took the phone off the hook.

On the menu was pomegranate chicken, a most lush and colorful dish loved by many Nilsen Friends, accompanied by roasted beet salad with goats cheese.

Peeling roasted beets...
...veggie love...
A joyful chef ready to deglaze the pan

Pomegranate Prosecco - and Kirsten finally realizes her life-long dream of being a hand model...



Not your regular Dr Evil...
Some finishing touches...
...and et voila!

...this proclaimed in my best Patrick Stewart voice: "and if you listen very carefully you might recognize the christmas card inside the wolf..."

True creative genius can make the simplest object a still life. And thus, Dave captured NilsenLife.