Hands up people: who plans their meals a whole day in advance? So as not to repeat a certain foodstuff, or to overload on another? Oh yeah. Me neither.
Yesterday morning I had steel cut oats for breakfast - the kids had already eaten & gone by the time they were cooked, so I could've had a portion for four if I wanted. For lunch I made lentil salad for a friend of mine, to balance out the crusts of grilled cheese that we were 'cleaning up' after the kids. For dinner my mother in law cooked a dish that was Torbjorn's childhood favorite - lentil stew on brown rice, topped with peanuts and raisins. (What this says about my husband? Whole 'nother post.)
Let's just say my system is feeling remarkably.... clean today. But the point of this long and detailed report of my overly-fibrous diet is to say I'd do it all over again, I love the lentil so much. The salad yesterday was made with the tiny pitch-black "caviar lentils" I'd found at Trader Joes, and their texture was perfect alongside exquisitely ripe avocado slices, some arugula leaves, and a sprinkling of goats cheese on top.
A salad - why not. Let's pretend that snow isn't on the forecast for Friday. Let's pretend that the freezing rain that'll probably arrive instead won't knock all the beautiful cherry blossoms off the tree, and let's imagine the spring really is on its way and the days of huge salads in plain white bowls, eaten while bathing in the afternoon sun on your front porch are right around the corner.
Let's pretend I didn't just cross a new threshold into middle age by telling you about the fiber in my diet.
Crunchy Lentil Salad
from Jeanne Lemlin's Quick Vegetarian Pleasures
1 C lentils, picked over and rinsed (do not use mushy red lentils or big green ones. Use Puy lentils, or those caviar ones I mentioned.)
5 C water
1 bay leaf
1 celery rib, finely diced
1 carrot, minced
1/4 C finely diced red onion
2 T minced fresh parsley
1/4 C fruity olive oil
2 T fresh lemon juice
1 garlic clove (pressed or minced)
1/4 t dried thyme (or 1 tsp fresh minced, my preference)
1/4 tsp ground cumin
salt & pepper to taste.
In medium saucepan, combine lentils, water, and bay leaf. Bring to a boil and cook, uncovered, 15 minutes, or until the lentils are tender but still crunchy. Stir occasionally. Pour into a colander and discard the bay leaf. Drain the lentils very well, and let them sit 5 minutes or so to be certain all teh water has drained out.
Place lentils in serving bowl and gently stir in the celery, carrot, onion and parsley.
Mix together the olive oil lemon juice garlic, thyme cumin salt and pepper. Pour onto the lentil mixture, and carefully toss. Serve at room temperature.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
How Simple is Simple?
This weekend I got my chops busted on Facebook for the following phrase: "So often, simple is the very best answer. Simple."
I had no great agenda behind my statement - it was actually prompted by the joy of a quiet Friday night, instead of the hectic one I'd had planned.
But a friend chose to see this as a political statement - or at least to respond to it that way. He posted a link that suggested that choosing to live simply implies a willful ignorance of the inequities and injustices of the world. (The actual specific politics of the link he posted can be tracked down on my Facebook page if you're really interested. But that tangent is beside the point.)
Here's the thing. The conscious pursuit of simplicity in one's life has nothing at all to do with ignoring all that is seriously screwed up in the world.
On the contrary. The pursuit of simplicity - living with intentionality, with a focused discipline on reducing distractions - is surely the only way we can consider the situation of those less fortunate with any meaning, any consequence.
By choosing to live simply, I choose not to purchase, acquire, and consume in the manner that my culture seems to think I should. By choosing to live simply I spend less time focused on the lifestyles of those who contribute [not much] to society and spend more time focused on the lives of those who bring Quality to mine.
I don't mean to preach. I didn't mean to preach when I posted the simple statement on Facebook. But neither do I like to be misunderstood on a matter that is a core belief.
Intentionality. Conscious existence. Stillness. These are the things that allow me to live meaningfully.
Simply.
**************
This little rant was written for Stream of Consciousness Sunday, which I stream-of-consciousnessed about last week.
I had no great agenda behind my statement - it was actually prompted by the joy of a quiet Friday night, instead of the hectic one I'd had planned.
But a friend chose to see this as a political statement - or at least to respond to it that way. He posted a link that suggested that choosing to live simply implies a willful ignorance of the inequities and injustices of the world. (The actual specific politics of the link he posted can be tracked down on my Facebook page if you're really interested. But that tangent is beside the point.)
Here's the thing. The conscious pursuit of simplicity in one's life has nothing at all to do with ignoring all that is seriously screwed up in the world.
On the contrary. The pursuit of simplicity - living with intentionality, with a focused discipline on reducing distractions - is surely the only way we can consider the situation of those less fortunate with any meaning, any consequence.
By choosing to live simply, I choose not to purchase, acquire, and consume in the manner that my culture seems to think I should. By choosing to live simply I spend less time focused on the lifestyles of those who contribute [not much] to society and spend more time focused on the lives of those who bring Quality to mine.
I don't mean to preach. I didn't mean to preach when I posted the simple statement on Facebook. But neither do I like to be misunderstood on a matter that is a core belief.
Intentionality. Conscious existence. Stillness. These are the things that allow me to live meaningfully.
Simply.
**************
This little rant was written for Stream of Consciousness Sunday, which I stream-of-consciousnessed about last week.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
right now, redux
Last week I posted a beautiful quote from Kathleen Norris (you can check it here), about the meaning gained from sharing what's saving my life right now.
Her thoughts travelled along more theological paths, whereas mine tend to get muddled when considering matters of the Divine.
But as I am feeling especially muddled these days, I thought maybe I could share with you what's saving my life right now, in the most visceral and earth-bound sort of ways.
Daffodils. I've told you how I feel about yellow, generally, but these cheerful blooms get a pass all of their own. Daffodils save my very sanity in the dark days of March, when the cold winds persist and the grey clouds scud aggressively across an afternoon sky. Now, in the final days of March the daffodils have triumphed - have seized entire hills and trumpet their victory good-naturedly for all passers-by. They secure the territory for the tulips to follow, and summer's wildflowers after that.
Norwegian chocolate. I don't have much of a sweet tooth - not for chocolate anyway. Never really struggled with the temptation of cocoa goodness in the cupboard. (And before you roll your eyes at my goody-goody-two-shoe'd-ness, please never put a bag of gummi bears in front of me. You'll won't see them again.) But right now we have our beloved Farmor visiting, and she brought with her the Real Deal. Norwegian chocolate, I feel compelled to tell you, will put you off Hershey's for life. I have been replacing my lost endorphins with a whole other sort of rush:
Grace notes. This is a tricky little phrase, sadly co-opted by Hallmark too often, but one originally intended to catch all of those small moments that add up to a joy-filled and deeply grateful life. Grace notes this week include:
Her thoughts travelled along more theological paths, whereas mine tend to get muddled when considering matters of the Divine.
But as I am feeling especially muddled these days, I thought maybe I could share with you what's saving my life right now, in the most visceral and earth-bound sort of ways.
Daffodils. I've told you how I feel about yellow, generally, but these cheerful blooms get a pass all of their own. Daffodils save my very sanity in the dark days of March, when the cold winds persist and the grey clouds scud aggressively across an afternoon sky. Now, in the final days of March the daffodils have triumphed - have seized entire hills and trumpet their victory good-naturedly for all passers-by. They secure the territory for the tulips to follow, and summer's wildflowers after that.
Norwegian chocolate. I don't have much of a sweet tooth - not for chocolate anyway. Never really struggled with the temptation of cocoa goodness in the cupboard. (And before you roll your eyes at my goody-goody-two-shoe'd-ness, please never put a bag of gummi bears in front of me. You'll won't see them again.) But right now we have our beloved Farmor visiting, and she brought with her the Real Deal. Norwegian chocolate, I feel compelled to tell you, will put you off Hershey's for life. I have been replacing my lost endorphins with a whole other sort of rush:
Grace notes. This is a tricky little phrase, sadly co-opted by Hallmark too often, but one originally intended to catch all of those small moments that add up to a joy-filled and deeply grateful life. Grace notes this week include:
- finding my handmade Valentines still in my husband's driver side door - he keeps them to read in traffic. <cold, hard heart melts here>
- Listening to my 3 year old assure me that Go Fish was "God's favorite game."
- Having same child warble Everybody everybody wants to love... Everybody everybody wants to be loved.... oh oh oh... oh oh oh to herself in the backyard swing. When asked, she'll tell you 'oh, that's our family song.' (for the official, non-toddler Ingrid Michaelson version, check here)
- 10 magically quiet minutes where everyone plays outside in the sunshine, and I have the presence of mind to think - this. this is saving my life right now.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Game changers
I'd kind of cooked up a goal for myself this year: flush with the thrill of my big race in October, the girl who'd never run longer than a 10k decided she could run a half marathon. And yes, the dither implicit in that first sentence is intentional - I was torn between the couch potato I'd been for so long and the runner I really believed myself to be.
Late one Tuesday night in February, I had the registration form open for the Frederick Half Marathon. I completed all the fields, but chickened out when it came to making the payment. (Because honestly, spending the $80 is what makes it real, isn't it??) I chose to just leave the window open.
Wednesday morning 6am found me warming up at bootcamp, as I did every Monday Wednesday and Friday. After a flat-out sprint, 6.25am found me hobbling along the baseline of the gym, painfully aware that my goals might suddenly be changing.
When I surveyed friends about treatment for Achilles injuries, the answer was unanimous: GET THE HECK OFF IT. DO. NOT. USE.
That first week, my goal was simply to stretch and ice it daily, so certain was I that it was a minor hiccup in my training plan.
After 7 days' rest, my goal was to do a slow easy run, just to ease back into things. Twenty feet down the street and I knew I wouldn't be running for a long time.
After 14 days' rest, I finally called the doctor. My goal was simply to find out when I could run again.
At the podiatrist's, he cheerfully ventured a guess that I'd probably ruptured it to some extent, and ordered an MRI. More waiting.
A week later, the MRI completed, I waited nervously for the Official Diagnosis. More cheerful: no rupture! he enthused. Just some serious tendinitis. But when, I wanted to know. When can I run?
Five weeks he said. A walking cast for five weeks. A huge, ungainly and extremely inconvenient walking cast. If you're serious about healing this thing, he said, you will wear this for five weeks like it is the hottest accessory this side of Paris.
So now my goal is this: to run, someday. To wrap my head around a season of healing, instead of a season of training. To view renewed strength as success, as a different way of crossing the finish line.
Sometimes, goals are game changers. Sometimes, you have to be ok with the goal itself changing.
************
This post is submitted as part of Peter Pollock's One Word at a Time Blog Carnival, this week on 'Goals'.
Late one Tuesday night in February, I had the registration form open for the Frederick Half Marathon. I completed all the fields, but chickened out when it came to making the payment. (Because honestly, spending the $80 is what makes it real, isn't it??) I chose to just leave the window open.
Wednesday morning 6am found me warming up at bootcamp, as I did every Monday Wednesday and Friday. After a flat-out sprint, 6.25am found me hobbling along the baseline of the gym, painfully aware that my goals might suddenly be changing.
When I surveyed friends about treatment for Achilles injuries, the answer was unanimous: GET THE HECK OFF IT. DO. NOT. USE.
That first week, my goal was simply to stretch and ice it daily, so certain was I that it was a minor hiccup in my training plan.
After 7 days' rest, my goal was to do a slow easy run, just to ease back into things. Twenty feet down the street and I knew I wouldn't be running for a long time.
After 14 days' rest, I finally called the doctor. My goal was simply to find out when I could run again.
At the podiatrist's, he cheerfully ventured a guess that I'd probably ruptured it to some extent, and ordered an MRI. More waiting.
A week later, the MRI completed, I waited nervously for the Official Diagnosis. More cheerful: no rupture! he enthused. Just some serious tendinitis. But when, I wanted to know. When can I run?
Five weeks he said. A walking cast for five weeks. A huge, ungainly and extremely inconvenient walking cast. If you're serious about healing this thing, he said, you will wear this for five weeks like it is the hottest accessory this side of Paris.
So now my goal is this: to run, someday. To wrap my head around a season of healing, instead of a season of training. To view renewed strength as success, as a different way of crossing the finish line.
Sometimes, goals are game changers. Sometimes, you have to be ok with the goal itself changing.
************
This post is submitted as part of Peter Pollock's One Word at a Time Blog Carnival, this week on 'Goals'.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Five Minutes inside My Head
So I've been stalking this person's blog for a while - Fadra, her name is. I only know her from Twitter, and her blog when I actually go ahead &, you know, click the link.
So I've been stalking. And she does this thing, Stream of Consciousness Sunday. And I think to myself, I can do stream of consciousness. Why don't I do more stream of consciousness? I mean, isn't my blog Stream of Consciousness Day EVERY DAY?
This distracts me from Fadra's blog. So, I stalk her for yet another week.
Today, I found myself stream-of-consciousness blogging all day long. Fits & starts, beginning rants but never finishing them, thinking 'oooh this would be perfect for Stream of Consciousness Sunday, a post on a blog which I stalk but never comment on. A little creepy, yes, to be crafting posts for imaginary friends? Yes, yes it is creepy, in case you were hesitating there.
So tonight, I decided, I can do stream of consciousness. But - stupid move - I made the tragical error of checking out other people's streams of consciousness before I typed out mine. Clearly, there are people in the world who have much less polluted clogged up stagnant body-of-water streams than I. My stream of consciousness is pretty much one of those estuaries coming straight out of the Purdue plant and directly into the Chesapeake Bay, all cram packed full of toxic chemicals and chicken feathers.
So. There you have it: my maiden voyage into the putrid, occluded stream of consciousness of NilsenLife. Better luck next week chums.
So I've been stalking. And she does this thing, Stream of Consciousness Sunday. And I think to myself, I can do stream of consciousness. Why don't I do more stream of consciousness? I mean, isn't my blog Stream of Consciousness Day EVERY DAY?
This distracts me from Fadra's blog. So, I stalk her for yet another week.
Today, I found myself stream-of-consciousness blogging all day long. Fits & starts, beginning rants but never finishing them, thinking 'oooh this would be perfect for Stream of Consciousness Sunday, a post on a blog which I stalk but never comment on. A little creepy, yes, to be crafting posts for imaginary friends? Yes, yes it is creepy, in case you were hesitating there.
So tonight, I decided, I can do stream of consciousness. But - stupid move - I made the tragical error of checking out other people's streams of consciousness before I typed out mine. Clearly, there are people in the world who have much less polluted clogged up stagnant body-of-water streams than I. My stream of consciousness is pretty much one of those estuaries coming straight out of the Purdue plant and directly into the Chesapeake Bay, all cram packed full of toxic chemicals and chicken feathers.
So. There you have it: my maiden voyage into the putrid, occluded stream of consciousness of NilsenLife. Better luck next week chums.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
right now
There was a fabulous shout out for NilsenLife in Maryland Family Magazine today (along with so many other tremendous bloggers, such as Carabee and ScaryMommy. Go check it out!) You'd think I would've had a shiny new blog post up and ready for the torrent of new readers that might turn up. (If, you know, they're not completely put off by the homeliest blog in town.)
As ever, your erstwhile blogger has 783 good reasons why it's been quiet around here.
This week I'm working on a project that I so want to get right - precisely because the project has nothing to do with who wrote what, and everything to do with reaching hearts and minds.
Generally when I pile that kind of pressure on myself, I have to plan on a few days of complete paralysis. Total deer-caught-in-the-headlights. Any attempt, any group of three-words-I-string-together starts to look funny, badly written, not the right idea.
When that hits, and all that flows from my fingers to the keyboard starts to look wonky and wrong, I have to walk away. I leave the keyboard, and visit other authors who seem to have reached a detente with language - who find lyricism and fluidity in both syntax and ideas.
This week I've been reading Anne Lamott, Kathleen Norris, and Barbara Brown Taylor. They write about faith - the lack thereof, the search for, the practice of. This particular paragraph (in Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World) caught my attention yesterday:
For a blogger-type person who is writing her heart out in an attempt to stay lucid, to be intentional, and mother with love and grace? This is no less than a reassurance, a call to action, and a mission statement all at once.
So now I'll get back to writing: writing to figure out what is saving my life right now.
As ever, your erstwhile blogger has 783 good reasons why it's been quiet around here.
This week I'm working on a project that I so want to get right - precisely because the project has nothing to do with who wrote what, and everything to do with reaching hearts and minds.
Generally when I pile that kind of pressure on myself, I have to plan on a few days of complete paralysis. Total deer-caught-in-the-headlights. Any attempt, any group of three-words-I-string-together starts to look funny, badly written, not the right idea.
When that hits, and all that flows from my fingers to the keyboard starts to look wonky and wrong, I have to walk away. I leave the keyboard, and visit other authors who seem to have reached a detente with language - who find lyricism and fluidity in both syntax and ideas.
This week I've been reading Anne Lamott, Kathleen Norris, and Barbara Brown Taylor. They write about faith - the lack thereof, the search for, the practice of. This particular paragraph (in Brown Taylor's An Altar in the World) caught my attention yesterday:
Many years ago now, a wise old priest invited me to come speak at his church in Alabama. "What do you want me to talk about?" I asked him.
"Come tell us what is saving your life now," he answered. It was as if he had swept his arm cross a dusty table and brushed all the formal china to the ground. I did not have to try to say correct things that were true for everyone. I did not have to use theological language that conformed to the historical teachings of the church. All I had to do was figure out what my life depended on. All I had to do was figure out how I stayed as close to that reality as I could, and then find some way to talk about it that helped my listeners figure out those same things for themselves. (p xvii)
For a blogger-type person who is writing her heart out in an attempt to stay lucid, to be intentional, and mother with love and grace? This is no less than a reassurance, a call to action, and a mission statement all at once.
So now I'll get back to writing: writing to figure out what is saving my life right now.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Ugly. Beautiful.
Ugly. I went to bed last night in an ugly ol' mood.
My fingers were pruney from wringing out sopping towels, hauling wet rugs, and hoisting soggy cardboard archive boxes from our flooded basement up to the front porch. The rain came down, the floods came up, and the Yellow House on the Hill got WET.
My possibly-ruptured Achilles tendon throbbed. As I mopped I ruminated over the podiatrist's cheerful diagnosis, and managed to work up a nice little storm cloud of anxiety about the inevitable negotiations with the insurance company.
My ever practical husband hauled load after load of dampness out of the basement and onto the front porch, draping wet rugs over my cute white rockers and the newly painted woodwork. Our neighbors have tolerated all manner of junk out there on the front porch (including a refrigerator - a serious renovation low point). Right now though, this version of ugly takes the cake.
So yeah. I went to bed mad. Mad that again we are the trashy house with rugs draped on our front porch, the house with crumbs on the floor and piles of paper all over the kitchen and a counter that no one will wipe up but me. An ugly house. Ugly.
At 5.45 this morning, the first headline to catch my eye on my iPhone was "praying for Japan." I checked the news, and as the story unfolded, my complaints of the night before began to feel very small indeed. My eldest watched the stories with me, and asked over and over if our house would float away like those houses on the screen. No, I said. No.
There might be water seeping up between the floor tiles. Our tax documents from 2003-2006 might be sopping wet. But today, we will not be watching a wall of water descend upon us and sweep the unwiped counters and rug-draped porch right back into the sea.
We are all limited by our perspective. The horrific stories continue to pour out of Japan, to run across the digital ticker tapes at the bottom of my screen, and suddenly my home, my life, and my small family are so very beautiful.
Beautiful.
My prayers are with the people of the Pacific Rim today.
******
Oddly enough, I cooked up this post before I checked in on The Red Dress Club today. Guess what: their prompt is a piece that finds beauty in the ugly. Synchronicity strikes again.
My fingers were pruney from wringing out sopping towels, hauling wet rugs, and hoisting soggy cardboard archive boxes from our flooded basement up to the front porch. The rain came down, the floods came up, and the Yellow House on the Hill got WET.
My possibly-ruptured Achilles tendon throbbed. As I mopped I ruminated over the podiatrist's cheerful diagnosis, and managed to work up a nice little storm cloud of anxiety about the inevitable negotiations with the insurance company.
My ever practical husband hauled load after load of dampness out of the basement and onto the front porch, draping wet rugs over my cute white rockers and the newly painted woodwork. Our neighbors have tolerated all manner of junk out there on the front porch (including a refrigerator - a serious renovation low point). Right now though, this version of ugly takes the cake.
So yeah. I went to bed mad. Mad that again we are the trashy house with rugs draped on our front porch, the house with crumbs on the floor and piles of paper all over the kitchen and a counter that no one will wipe up but me. An ugly house. Ugly.
At 5.45 this morning, the first headline to catch my eye on my iPhone was "praying for Japan." I checked the news, and as the story unfolded, my complaints of the night before began to feel very small indeed. My eldest watched the stories with me, and asked over and over if our house would float away like those houses on the screen. No, I said. No.
There might be water seeping up between the floor tiles. Our tax documents from 2003-2006 might be sopping wet. But today, we will not be watching a wall of water descend upon us and sweep the unwiped counters and rug-draped porch right back into the sea.
We are all limited by our perspective. The horrific stories continue to pour out of Japan, to run across the digital ticker tapes at the bottom of my screen, and suddenly my home, my life, and my small family are so very beautiful.
Beautiful.
My prayers are with the people of the Pacific Rim today.
******
Oddly enough, I cooked up this post before I checked in on The Red Dress Club today. Guess what: their prompt is a piece that finds beauty in the ugly. Synchronicity strikes again.
Monday, March 7, 2011
You say 'Future' like it's a good thing
I'm a worrier. A black belt, Ninja-class, expert worrier. So when it came to making a long-term career choice, motherhood seemed to be a perfect fit. If we were pretending that motherhood is a corporate career just like Human Resources or Call Center Operative, we might say that mothering is a synergistic connection to my core worrying skills.
Both mothering and worrying are extremely future oriented. All about what might happen. She might be an actress/comedian, she might be an "actress" complete with satin knickers and bunny ears. He might be a rocket scientist, he might sit at home on my couch knocking back energy drinks called Rocket Fuel. That one might fail the math test, thus proving the theory that she's being failed by the school OR, worse! she might ace the math test, thus proving to her teacher that your concerns are completely unfounded just like she'd said they were in such a patronizing sort of way.
You hear the phrase tossed around a lot around graduation season - you've got your whole future ahead of you! When Whitney Houston crooned "I believe the children are our future"she said it like it was a good thing.
But here's the thing: when a worrier thinks about the future, it's not a healthy thing. Nope. The very best thing for a worrier is to forget the future is ever going to happen. And, actually, my kind of people have to forget the past too, because worrying about what's happened, and what that means for - you got it! - the future, well...
It only leaves one place for people like us: the right now. Right now is when we see the magic of growth in our children, without wondering what the growth will lead to. Right now is when we can treasure the smell of a toddler head, nuzzled under your chin and waking up from a nap. Right now is when we can marvel at the grace with which your eldest carries herself, somehow conjuring a sense of self that your 'helpful corrections' and endless criticisms surely did not generate. Right now is when we can openly, honestly and without [much] irony say thank you to our spouse for scrubbing the toilet when you know it's his least favorite job in the world.
The future. Its promise is a heady thing, and the privilege of waking up to it daily is not something I take lightly. But for someone like me, with a proud genetic heritage in the art of worrying, I will take my eyes off the future and live fully in the Right Now.
*******
This post is submitted as part of the One Word at a Time Carnival hosted by Peter Pollock. I gather the other contributors are looking at the future like it is a good thing. Which is a good thing.
Both mothering and worrying are extremely future oriented. All about what might happen. She might be an actress/comedian, she might be an "actress" complete with satin knickers and bunny ears. He might be a rocket scientist, he might sit at home on my couch knocking back energy drinks called Rocket Fuel. That one might fail the math test, thus proving the theory that she's being failed by the school OR, worse! she might ace the math test, thus proving to her teacher that your concerns are completely unfounded just like she'd said they were in such a patronizing sort of way.
You hear the phrase tossed around a lot around graduation season - you've got your whole future ahead of you! When Whitney Houston crooned "I believe the children are our future"she said it like it was a good thing.
But here's the thing: when a worrier thinks about the future, it's not a healthy thing. Nope. The very best thing for a worrier is to forget the future is ever going to happen. And, actually, my kind of people have to forget the past too, because worrying about what's happened, and what that means for - you got it! - the future, well...
It only leaves one place for people like us: the right now. Right now is when we see the magic of growth in our children, without wondering what the growth will lead to. Right now is when we can treasure the smell of a toddler head, nuzzled under your chin and waking up from a nap. Right now is when we can marvel at the grace with which your eldest carries herself, somehow conjuring a sense of self that your 'helpful corrections' and endless criticisms surely did not generate. Right now is when we can openly, honestly and without [much] irony say thank you to our spouse for scrubbing the toilet when you know it's his least favorite job in the world.
The future. Its promise is a heady thing, and the privilege of waking up to it daily is not something I take lightly. But for someone like me, with a proud genetic heritage in the art of worrying, I will take my eyes off the future and live fully in the Right Now.
*******
This post is submitted as part of the One Word at a Time Carnival hosted by Peter Pollock. I gather the other contributors are looking at the future like it is a good thing. Which is a good thing.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Go Deep
BIG NEWS: Y'all, my tea leaves were totally right. I WON!!!! So watch this space for big changes coming up. In fact, it'll be a different space altogether, but whatevs. In the meantime, I'm thinking if I get a shiny new blog it might be a useful thing to get in the habit of, you know, actually posting on it.
As it's Friday, I'm linking up with The Red Dress Club again. Their prompt: Water gives life. It also takes it away. write a post inspired by one or both of these statements.
In honor of katdish's giveaway, I'm reposting a guest piece I did for her last summer, on water and suspension in its depths.
*********
The water simmers in the summer heat, so when you wade in, the first few steps through the murky pond water feel uncomfortably swamp-like. But just as you reach the point where your feet lift off the muddy bottom, you begin to feel the delicious swirls of cool dark water, mixing with the squelching mud. You strike out for the middle – alternating strong crawl strokes with sneaky head-just-above water breast stroke – until you reach the very center.
As it's Friday, I'm linking up with The Red Dress Club again. Their prompt: Water gives life. It also takes it away. write a post inspired by one or both of these statements.
*********
The water simmers in the summer heat, so when you wade in, the first few steps through the murky pond water feel uncomfortably swamp-like. But just as you reach the point where your feet lift off the muddy bottom, you begin to feel the delicious swirls of cool dark water, mixing with the squelching mud. You strike out for the middle – alternating strong crawl strokes with sneaky head-just-above water breast stroke – until you reach the very center.
Far away you see your grandfather squinting out at you, wondering if he should call you back, but he seems content that his twelve year old granddaughter knows her limits. The powerlines hum and crackle overhead, and the heat shimmers over the treeline of the mountains around you.
Once you are as far as possible from the shore, the trick is to jackknife your body and dive straight down – past experience tells you you won't quite get there, but still you try, diving down…..down…..down until you reach the icy currents near the muddy bottom.
Underwater, the sting of almost-freezing temperatures assaults your toes, even as you look up and see the rays of hot July sun pierce the green water above. It feels like hours, spent diving and floating, floating and diving. Snatches of conversation drift out over the water – someone asks the grandfather if he isn’t worried, worried about the girl floating in the water all the long hot afternoon. No, he laughs. No – that girl knows exactly where she is.
At twelve you haven’t grasped the the symbolism of suspending yourself in the depths. At twelve you can’t articulate the magnetic draw of the water – the elemental appeal of submersion. But what you do know at twelve is that you have struck out on your own – you’ve been given the freedom to go to the depths, with unwavering confidence in your ability to return to the surface.
Perhaps an indulgent grandfather had no way of knowing the profound lesson he taught that day. But never once has that swimmer entered the water without remembering the day she was allowed to go deep.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Berkshire Cottage Room
It was a room in which everything about us would change.
When we moved in the walls were a vivid amethyst, sponge painted with a glittery silver on top. Many weekends were spent finding the exact shade of parchment - not cream, not beige - the color of expensive stationery, of empty pages. Stroke by stroke the non-color erased the purple, painting in reverse: layer by layer the room became a blank canvas.
Just as I have doodled on every page of every notebook of my life, I doodled on these walls too. Careful khaki-colored stripes, then freehand curves, winding along the baseboards of the entire room, up over the painted door, down under the low window, in and out around the old fireplace. I laid my growing belly on the floor and painted sideways, as I couldn't reach around, sitting up. If its a girl, I said, I'll paint little ladybugs in all of these stripes. So many months, it seemed, until I'd know if I needed to learn how to paint a ladybug.
A mullioned window looked out over the long green gardens, and it was through the divided panes I spied sunshiny faces of daffodils peering up at me, welcoming all of us to the little cottage on the corner. Through the drafty glass I watched the plum trees along the street bloom - early in February that year - as if they understood that this year everything would happen quicker, ahead of schedule.
The scrubbed pine floor always seemed to glow, even on the rainiest days. Covered by a big square red rug, a giant Dala horse embroidered in the middle, they never felt cold - it was as if the old floorboards had absorbed the warmth of a hundred years of sunshine, of the many layers of varnish, of the abrasion of the sander we used to take it all down to bare wood. We had no idea that it would become so critical to know which of these boards creaked and where, how many minutes of our lives would soon be spent tiptoeing over the floorboards, out of the room.
A rocking chair, unfinished oak - a chair I'd insisted on over all of the plush enveloping gliders that were storming the market. All of Berkshire had been combed for what I thought was a simple request - a plain wood rocker. Maybe if I'd known how many hours I'd spend in it, how many songs would be sung, how many tears would drip onto a tightly swaddled, tiny body... maybe I would've gone for a bit of upholstery. The beauty is in the not-knowing.
A tiny wood bookshelf filled the unused fireplace, stocked with Good Night Moon, The Runaway Bunny, and Moo Baa La La La. How could I know how much more time I'd spend sticking the books back on the shelf, instead of reading them? That of a room filled with educational stacking blocks, beautifully neutral stuffed animals and a Babar pull-car, the biggest attraction would be pulling those books off the shelf?
Baskets of tiny onesies, tiny diapers, wet wipes in bulk. Bigger baskets of receiving blankets - white, red, yellow. None that would commit us to a life of pink or blue.
Giant Babar posters hung on all four walls, inviting us to adventure, to reading, to worlds where an elephant certainly could rule a kingdom. Babar in a hot air balloon was always my favorite: the one across from my rocking chair. Babar and I might've flown away at any second, away from this squalling package of sweetness.
It wasn't finished, wasn't ready, wasn't perfect, when my strangely beautiful changeling made her debut, five weeks early. Welcome to this family, I told her, where nothing will be perfect or ready or finished - where the story keeps unfolding every day, and we have to unfold with it.
I never got the ladybugs painted on those walls. But to this day, she is my Ladybug: a name earned so many months before she came to live there.
When we moved in the walls were a vivid amethyst, sponge painted with a glittery silver on top. Many weekends were spent finding the exact shade of parchment - not cream, not beige - the color of expensive stationery, of empty pages. Stroke by stroke the non-color erased the purple, painting in reverse: layer by layer the room became a blank canvas.
Just as I have doodled on every page of every notebook of my life, I doodled on these walls too. Careful khaki-colored stripes, then freehand curves, winding along the baseboards of the entire room, up over the painted door, down under the low window, in and out around the old fireplace. I laid my growing belly on the floor and painted sideways, as I couldn't reach around, sitting up. If its a girl, I said, I'll paint little ladybugs in all of these stripes. So many months, it seemed, until I'd know if I needed to learn how to paint a ladybug.
A mullioned window looked out over the long green gardens, and it was through the divided panes I spied sunshiny faces of daffodils peering up at me, welcoming all of us to the little cottage on the corner. Through the drafty glass I watched the plum trees along the street bloom - early in February that year - as if they understood that this year everything would happen quicker, ahead of schedule.
Red and white gingham swagged cheerfully over the five feet of window. I wondered if a boychild would take issue with the cheerful gingham, with the swags, and figured I might have a few years to figure it out. Eighteen months later, as we prepared to leave this room, this cottage, only then would I realize that the gingham had never been hemmed - never quite as prepared as you think.
The scrubbed pine floor always seemed to glow, even on the rainiest days. Covered by a big square red rug, a giant Dala horse embroidered in the middle, they never felt cold - it was as if the old floorboards had absorbed the warmth of a hundred years of sunshine, of the many layers of varnish, of the abrasion of the sander we used to take it all down to bare wood. We had no idea that it would become so critical to know which of these boards creaked and where, how many minutes of our lives would soon be spent tiptoeing over the floorboards, out of the room.
A rocking chair, unfinished oak - a chair I'd insisted on over all of the plush enveloping gliders that were storming the market. All of Berkshire had been combed for what I thought was a simple request - a plain wood rocker. Maybe if I'd known how many hours I'd spend in it, how many songs would be sung, how many tears would drip onto a tightly swaddled, tiny body... maybe I would've gone for a bit of upholstery. The beauty is in the not-knowing.
A tiny wood bookshelf filled the unused fireplace, stocked with Good Night Moon, The Runaway Bunny, and Moo Baa La La La. How could I know how much more time I'd spend sticking the books back on the shelf, instead of reading them? That of a room filled with educational stacking blocks, beautifully neutral stuffed animals and a Babar pull-car, the biggest attraction would be pulling those books off the shelf?
Baskets of tiny onesies, tiny diapers, wet wipes in bulk. Bigger baskets of receiving blankets - white, red, yellow. None that would commit us to a life of pink or blue.
Giant Babar posters hung on all four walls, inviting us to adventure, to reading, to worlds where an elephant certainly could rule a kingdom. Babar in a hot air balloon was always my favorite: the one across from my rocking chair. Babar and I might've flown away at any second, away from this squalling package of sweetness.
It wasn't finished, wasn't ready, wasn't perfect, when my strangely beautiful changeling made her debut, five weeks early. Welcome to this family, I told her, where nothing will be perfect or ready or finished - where the story keeps unfolding every day, and we have to unfold with it.
I never got the ladybugs painted on those walls. But to this day, she is my Ladybug: a name earned so many months before she came to live there.
********
This post was written for The Red Dress Club's Tuesday Memoir feature.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
This Old Blog - aka So Two Thousand and Late
So you know this is one of the oldest blogs in the blogosphere, right?
Yep. Yep. Been typin' round these here parts since way back in Oh-Five. 'Course, back in the day, it was a lot more photos and a whole lot less of my own take on the world. At that point, with a three month old baby and a two year old, I was celebrating more than four hours of consecutive sleep in any one night and speaking in full sentences once in a while.
Now. By the standards of modern blogging in 2011, this here blog is downright homely. That's right - I said it. Homely. Not obnoxious, with huge blobs of multi-colored scrapbooking paper strewn about. But just... plain.
I've been stewing over this sad & homely state of affairs for quite some time now. Never mind that I have a posting schedule that could only generously be called haphazard. Never mind that I go long stretches where the cleverest thing to cross my head is by jove, I've got it! Oatmeal for breakfast! I just keep pretending that if my blog was high-class, high speed and self-hosted (dontcha know) then I would absolutely be inspired to post every day.
So here is where I share exciting news: do you remember katdish, who so kindly invited me to guest post last summer? At this very moment, she is hosting a giveaway on her blog - sharing the giveaway, in fact, with Peter Pollock - that offers the chance at a new life. A new blog life anyway.
If I win [she fluttters hands over her chest excitedly] Kathy & Peter would help out with getting me switched over to Wordpress, sorting out my very own domain name, and getting the whole site hosted. There are 3 separate prizes, and if you're at all interested I'd strongly suggest going on over there to check out what's going on.
Here's there deal: I saw in my tea leaves the other day that I am totally going to win the Big Enchilada. But... if you enter too you may be almost as lucky as me and win like, second or third prize. And I promise I won't lord it over you on the winner's podium. Scamper on over and check it out. Tell 'em I sent ya. But don't delay - the giveaway ends tomorrow!
In the meantime, I will carry on with my fake Gold Rush Miner accent and massacring metaphors here on my homely site, counting the hours until I hit the bigtime.
So. I'll let you know if the tea leaves were telling it straight.
Yep. Yep. Been typin' round these here parts since way back in Oh-Five. 'Course, back in the day, it was a lot more photos and a whole lot less of my own take on the world. At that point, with a three month old baby and a two year old, I was celebrating more than four hours of consecutive sleep in any one night and speaking in full sentences once in a while.
Now. By the standards of modern blogging in 2011, this here blog is downright homely. That's right - I said it. Homely. Not obnoxious, with huge blobs of multi-colored scrapbooking paper strewn about. But just... plain.
I've been stewing over this sad & homely state of affairs for quite some time now. Never mind that I have a posting schedule that could only generously be called haphazard. Never mind that I go long stretches where the cleverest thing to cross my head is by jove, I've got it! Oatmeal for breakfast! I just keep pretending that if my blog was high-class, high speed and self-hosted (dontcha know) then I would absolutely be inspired to post every day.
So here is where I share exciting news: do you remember katdish, who so kindly invited me to guest post last summer? At this very moment, she is hosting a giveaway on her blog - sharing the giveaway, in fact, with Peter Pollock - that offers the chance at a new life. A new blog life anyway.
If I win [she fluttters hands over her chest excitedly] Kathy & Peter would help out with getting me switched over to Wordpress, sorting out my very own domain name, and getting the whole site hosted. There are 3 separate prizes, and if you're at all interested I'd strongly suggest going on over there to check out what's going on.
Here's there deal: I saw in my tea leaves the other day that I am totally going to win the Big Enchilada. But... if you enter too you may be almost as lucky as me and win like, second or third prize. And I promise I won't lord it over you on the winner's podium. Scamper on over and check it out. Tell 'em I sent ya. But don't delay - the giveaway ends tomorrow!
In the meantime, I will carry on with my fake Gold Rush Miner accent and massacring metaphors here on my homely site, counting the hours until I hit the bigtime.
So. I'll let you know if the tea leaves were telling it straight.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Beach Blanket Bingo
Sometimes, there is deep meaning to a photo, profundity in a post.
Sometimes, a snapshot is just exactly that - a sliver of a moment, a tiny snatch of a silly birthday party in the dead of winter. Mr NilsenLife welcomed one of the final years of his thirties yesterday, and we needed to greet a grim number like that with a heavy dose of tropical thinking.
Sometimes, a snapshot is just exactly that - a sliver of a moment, a tiny snatch of a silly birthday party in the dead of winter. Mr NilsenLife welcomed one of the final years of his thirties yesterday, and we needed to greet a grim number like that with a heavy dose of tropical thinking.
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| the girls were in full-on swimsuit mode, Lars modestly stuck with just flip flops |
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| each of the coasters is an atoll |
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| sometimes, it really is as simple as making your own sunshine |
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Resume
It's been a rough few days, mothering-wise. You know those days, where you start to mentally brush up your resume for your imminent return to the workforce? Like, tomorrow? This thought process is always aided by the tax season and a few unexpected bills that drop in uninvited.
So I've tossed around a few points I can now add to my CV, points that will surely secure a high-powered role in this brave new world of back-to-work moms.
NAME: KIRSTEN SCHNEIDER NILSEN, aka Mooooooooooooooooom!
DOB: after JFK died, but before Grace Kelly and Rock Hudson did
ADDRESS: THE YELLOW HOUSE
CONTACT: just stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell for me. That's what everyone else does.
EDUCATION: elementary/highschool/college/gradschool [does my high school GPA really matter? my college GPA even? can't I just confirm I was there, loved every minute, would do it all over again, but feel that at this point in my life that none of it will get me any sort of gainful employment?]
WORK EXPERIENCE
NAME: KIRSTEN SCHNEIDER NILSEN, aka Mooooooooooooooooom!
DOB: after JFK died, but before Grace Kelly and Rock Hudson did
ADDRESS: THE YELLOW HOUSE
CONTACT: just stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell for me. That's what everyone else does.
EDUCATION: elementary/highschool/college/gradschool [does my high school GPA really matter? my college GPA even? can't I just confirm I was there, loved every minute, would do it all over again, but feel that at this point in my life that none of it will get me any sort of gainful employment?]
WORK EXPERIENCE
- 2003 - present: Commander in Chief of NilsenLife Inc. All-round ringmaster, part-time teacher, extremely part-time housekeeper. Utter failure as PTA member, but bake kick-ass chocolate chip cookies.
- 1998 - 2003: Human Resources Manager. Management training and development, employee policy develop....[hang on, are you yawning?!?! It FELT important at the time, ok?]
- 1991-1998: Professional Student, aka The Golden Years. Student loans, overseas education, lots of travel, fair bit of wild oat sowing. (purely metaphorically, you understand)
- 1988-1991: Lifeguard. Best. Teenage. Job. EVER.
STRENGTHS
- Proficient with middle-of-the-night soothing (measurable success rates over 8 years: can now boast that rates of 2am cries decreased 300%)
- Efficient self-dressing skills: my entire routine, shower :: fully make-upped can now be completed in under 18 minutes. (Levels of beauty will vary.)
- Skilled in reading aloud in character. Best demonstrated in stories with regional dialects, e.g. Eloise, Madeline or Mrs Piggle Wiggle
- Potty Training Ninja
- Finely-tuned Reflexes: recently caught all vomit in intended receptacle when wakened from dead sleep by a faint but ominous cough.
- Strong constitution re: shots, blood, poop, snot, and stitches.
- Proficient in artful draping of crepe paper streamers
- Create delicious and nutritious sandwiches, with or without crusts
WEAKNESSES
- Making up stories after 9pm
- Any child-oriented activity after 9pm
- Resolutely weak-stomached when confronted by vomit
- Profound lack of sympathy for generalized weepiness (see also: Whining)
- Restoration of laundry to proper drawers or closets
- Patience with unnecessary drama
- Tracking lonely unmatched socks
- Darning. [What is darning?]
- Homework submission. [theirs. not my problem if they miss recess, right?]
- Tolerance of picky eaters
- and... job hunting, apparently.
Sigh.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
5 Minutes that Mattered
What 5 minutes would you give your kids?
Over at The Red Dress Club they've started a new Memoir feature on Tuesdays. Hey, ya'll know me, I can *do* memoir. Their first prompt was this: after you have died, your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see?
Maybe there are more noble moments in my life. Certainly there are more touching, more gentle, more 'me' moments in my life. But when asked what 5 minutes should my kids know about me ? This is what instantly came to mind.
I knew immediately which 5 minutes I wanted my kids to know about me. Five minutes that instantly foretold what courage laid within me, that I would fight the fights in which my kids needed me, that I wouldn't always worry about not rocking the boat, that I absolutely would stand my ground when I needed to.
*****
I heard it before I felt it. A screeching, whining gut wrenching sound of sheet metal scraping against sheet metal.
My equilibrium shifted along with the front corner of my Ford Ranger, angling up off its front wheel, lifted by the sheer force of the school bus grinding along my front left corner. I watched a wall of bright yellow travel the arc of its lane change, scraping along my truck the entire time.
The stupid green pickup truck. The ridiculous truck that I carpooled my younger brother back and forth to school in. My father and brothers had insisted that guys dig girls in pickups! but I didn't buy it. (Still don't.)
I sat in shock at the red light, looking at my brother with goggle eyes, speechlessly gaping my mouth with the unsaid question hanging: Did that bus just hit us?!?!
I did hate that pickup. I hated it with all the passion a spoiled suburban parochial school girl could muster. But I knew in that suspension of time, in that split-second of hanging between present and future, that there was no future that involved me walking into my house and telling my dad I'd banged up his precious truck. Knew with certainty that my protestations of but but but! BIG! YELLOW! BUS! would hold no water with the person who paid the insurance.
Here's what you need to know about your 17 year old mom, my treasures:
At the next stoplight, I hopped out of the driver's side, sprinted up to the school bus in front of me, and banged the crap out of the driver's window. Banged until she was forced to slide open that 12x14 pane of glass and demand what the hell I wanted.
The girl who never complained, the one who in her lifetime stoically endured all manner of insults, shouted up at that school bus driver that she'd just HIT MY TRUCK, and that she needed to hop on out of that yellow behemoth and come check it out. That ponytailed introvert planted herself there in the middle of Randolph Road until the Montgomery County police rolled up (this was in the long-ago days before camera phones and speed-dial 911 on your cell phones, dear children).
Insurance details were exchanged, accompanied by the diarrhea of complaint from the bus driver about my punk ass self makin' sure she was goin' to traffic court! I practiced a steely stoicism that I'd need often in 20 years or so.
Your 14 year old uncle cringed with mortification, there in the cab of that pickup truck. His sister didn't pull stunts like this. But here's what you need to know: I did. Without a second's hesitation, I pulled a stunt like that. Not for a show, not for the thrill, but because it was What. Had. To. Happen.
This, my cherubic offspring, tells you so very very much about all that your mother was to be.
Over at The Red Dress Club they've started a new Memoir feature on Tuesdays. Hey, ya'll know me, I can *do* memoir. Their first prompt was this: after you have died, your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see?
Maybe there are more noble moments in my life. Certainly there are more touching, more gentle, more 'me' moments in my life. But when asked what 5 minutes should my kids know about me ? This is what instantly came to mind.
I knew immediately which 5 minutes I wanted my kids to know about me. Five minutes that instantly foretold what courage laid within me, that I would fight the fights in which my kids needed me, that I wouldn't always worry about not rocking the boat, that I absolutely would stand my ground when I needed to.
*****
I heard it before I felt it. A screeching, whining gut wrenching sound of sheet metal scraping against sheet metal.
My equilibrium shifted along with the front corner of my Ford Ranger, angling up off its front wheel, lifted by the sheer force of the school bus grinding along my front left corner. I watched a wall of bright yellow travel the arc of its lane change, scraping along my truck the entire time.
The stupid green pickup truck. The ridiculous truck that I carpooled my younger brother back and forth to school in. My father and brothers had insisted that guys dig girls in pickups! but I didn't buy it. (Still don't.)
I sat in shock at the red light, looking at my brother with goggle eyes, speechlessly gaping my mouth with the unsaid question hanging: Did that bus just hit us?!?!
I did hate that pickup. I hated it with all the passion a spoiled suburban parochial school girl could muster. But I knew in that suspension of time, in that split-second of hanging between present and future, that there was no future that involved me walking into my house and telling my dad I'd banged up his precious truck. Knew with certainty that my protestations of but but but! BIG! YELLOW! BUS! would hold no water with the person who paid the insurance.
Here's what you need to know about your 17 year old mom, my treasures:
At the next stoplight, I hopped out of the driver's side, sprinted up to the school bus in front of me, and banged the crap out of the driver's window. Banged until she was forced to slide open that 12x14 pane of glass and demand what the hell I wanted.
 |
| Photo courtesy of photobucket.com |
The girl who never complained, the one who in her lifetime stoically endured all manner of insults, shouted up at that school bus driver that she'd just HIT MY TRUCK, and that she needed to hop on out of that yellow behemoth and come check it out. That ponytailed introvert planted herself there in the middle of Randolph Road until the Montgomery County police rolled up (this was in the long-ago days before camera phones and speed-dial 911 on your cell phones, dear children).
Insurance details were exchanged, accompanied by the diarrhea of complaint from the bus driver about my punk ass self makin' sure she was goin' to traffic court! I practiced a steely stoicism that I'd need often in 20 years or so.
Your 14 year old uncle cringed with mortification, there in the cab of that pickup truck. His sister didn't pull stunts like this. But here's what you need to know: I did. Without a second's hesitation, I pulled a stunt like that. Not for a show, not for the thrill, but because it was What. Had. To. Happen.
This, my cherubic offspring, tells you so very very much about all that your mother was to be.
 |
| That stupid pickup in happier times (me with my Norwegian) |
Monday, February 14, 2011
Everything Good Between Men and Women
"...has been written in mud and butter and barbeque sauce."
This was the beginning of the poem my husband gave me on Valentines Day.
You might be sick of Valentines by now. The holiday, full of its chocolatey, stuffed-bear and balloon cynicism draws to a close tonight, and I have a dispeptic belly-full of cheap jewelry ads and schmaltzy marriage proposal stories.
But the mystic in me finds it hard to hate a day that remembers how central love is to our existence. Remembers that all the world for love may die. [Ben Jonson] Love, in all of its iterations, is reason to exist. Ok - a bright pink stuffed bear has not nearly enough gravitas to make it real. I'd submit that a half-pound of dark chocolate sea salt caramels just might.
But love is real. Realer than anything else that drives us. Here is what I know, today, about love:
Love is the husband who calls his wife driving home from the city in the middle of the night, just to keep her awake over the miles.
Love is the husband who jumps up later that night to get a bowl for a feverish wife who feels like she's about to hurl.
Love is the husband who makes the kids heart-shaped waffles on Valentine's morning and lets his wife sleep until 8.10 when he absolutely-has-to-really-must-leave.
Love is the husband who posts a poem that he knows will break his wife's heart in a million (mostly good) ways as a gift, right out there for all of Facebook to see.
Love is the husband who leaves work after a quiet, miserable call from his sick wife. Leaves work, arrives home with laptop in hand and plops himself on the floor to build a marble maze with three cabin-feverish kids.
It wasn't your standard Valentine celebration at the Yellow House this year. But oh, it was filled with love! The kind of love that makes days, weeks and months into rich and full lives. Not happy perfect filled-with-glitter-and-champagne-and-swanky-dates lives, but lives filled with Quality.
Surely we can't hate a holiday that celebrates that.
This was the beginning of the poem my husband gave me on Valentines Day.
You might be sick of Valentines by now. The holiday, full of its chocolatey, stuffed-bear and balloon cynicism draws to a close tonight, and I have a dispeptic belly-full of cheap jewelry ads and schmaltzy marriage proposal stories.
But the mystic in me finds it hard to hate a day that remembers how central love is to our existence. Remembers that all the world for love may die. [Ben Jonson] Love, in all of its iterations, is reason to exist. Ok - a bright pink stuffed bear has not nearly enough gravitas to make it real. I'd submit that a half-pound of dark chocolate sea salt caramels just might.
But love is real. Realer than anything else that drives us. Here is what I know, today, about love:
Love is the husband who calls his wife driving home from the city in the middle of the night, just to keep her awake over the miles.
Love is the husband who jumps up later that night to get a bowl for a feverish wife who feels like she's about to hurl.
Love is the husband who makes the kids heart-shaped waffles on Valentine's morning and lets his wife sleep until 8.10 when he absolutely-has-to-really-must-leave.
Love is the husband who posts a poem that he knows will break his wife's heart in a million (mostly good) ways as a gift, right out there for all of Facebook to see.
Love is the husband who leaves work after a quiet, miserable call from his sick wife. Leaves work, arrives home with laptop in hand and plops himself on the floor to build a marble maze with three cabin-feverish kids.
It wasn't your standard Valentine celebration at the Yellow House this year. But oh, it was filled with love! The kind of love that makes days, weeks and months into rich and full lives. Not happy perfect filled-with-glitter-and-champagne-and-swanky-dates lives, but lives filled with Quality.
Surely we can't hate a holiday that celebrates that.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Soupish sort of Sunday
The novelty of cutesy soup titles will wear off eventually, but in the meantime, I guess soup is a vaguely entertaining way to distract ourselves from unending weeks of freezing temperatures.
So you're ok with green soup, right? I mean, we're not talking a plehgmy week-old pea soup green. We're talking kelly green, emerald green, GREEN. This is my new favorite winter soup, and the fact that it is perfect for St Patricks Day or, I dunno, Green Day at preschool is just extra happiness.
The recipe originates from a Silver Palate cookbook, but honestly I can't tell you which one. I have a grubby wrinkled & dog eared photocopy of the recipe that I got from someone at work, carried around in my purse for a month or so, and then finally managed to get all the ingredients in the house at one time and decided to dive into the green.
And lest you needed any further encouragement to embrace the green, I'll go ahead & deliver the punch line now: it's got BACON. You know my feelings on that wonder food. Now, technically it can absolutely be made without it, or with those Bac-O chips again, but [sucking teeth] you really want to try the bacon if its at all ok with your ethics/diet plan.
Winter Vegetable Soup
4 slices bacon, cut into 1-in pieces
4 Tb (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
2 C finely diced leeks (white part and 1 inch green)
1 1/2 C finely diced onions
1 C finely diced celery
1 1/2 tsp dried tarragon
1/2 tsp dried thyme (I used fresh, then you'd do about 1 Tbsp)
salt and freshly ground pepper
5 C chicken stock
2 1/2 C finely diced potatoes
1 pound tender spinach, well rinsed, stems removed, cut into 1/8" slivers
1/2 C heavy cream (I use half & half, and I'm pretty sure even whole milk would work)
1. In large soup pot, cook the bacon over low heat, until fat is rendered, 5 minutes. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon, and discard. [They say discard. *I* say keep keep keep for garnish.]
2. Add the butter to the pot. When it has melted, add the leeks, onions, and celery. Cook over low heat until wilted, 15 minutes. Season with teh tarragon, thyme and salt and pepper. Stir well.
3. Add the stock and potatoes. Cover, and simmer until the potatoes are tender but not mushy, 15 to 20 minutes.
4. Add half the spinach. Simmer for 1 minutes more.
5. Remove the soup from the heat. Puree half the amount in a blender or food processor, and return the puree to the soup pot. [Here is the part where it is pretty much day-glo green.]
6. Place the pot over low heat, and add the remaining spinach and the cream [cream = deelish. But sadly, it does soften the shade to a brackish jade color.] Heat through, stirring well, but do not boil. Adjust the seasonings, and serve. I top each bowl with a spoonful of sour cream, and the bacon you saved back at the beginning.
You know the drill - serve with crusty bread, a great salad, and you're golden. Or green. Or, you know. Happy & full of soup anyway. Make sure you have brownies for dessert. Bathing suit season is so far off.
So you're ok with green soup, right? I mean, we're not talking a plehgmy week-old pea soup green. We're talking kelly green, emerald green, GREEN. This is my new favorite winter soup, and the fact that it is perfect for St Patricks Day or, I dunno, Green Day at preschool is just extra happiness.
The recipe originates from a Silver Palate cookbook, but honestly I can't tell you which one. I have a grubby wrinkled & dog eared photocopy of the recipe that I got from someone at work, carried around in my purse for a month or so, and then finally managed to get all the ingredients in the house at one time and decided to dive into the green.
And lest you needed any further encouragement to embrace the green, I'll go ahead & deliver the punch line now: it's got BACON. You know my feelings on that wonder food. Now, technically it can absolutely be made without it, or with those Bac-O chips again, but [sucking teeth] you really want to try the bacon if its at all ok with your ethics/diet plan.
Winter Vegetable Soup
4 slices bacon, cut into 1-in pieces
4 Tb (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
2 C finely diced leeks (white part and 1 inch green)
1 1/2 C finely diced onions
1 C finely diced celery
1 1/2 tsp dried tarragon
1/2 tsp dried thyme (I used fresh, then you'd do about 1 Tbsp)
salt and freshly ground pepper
5 C chicken stock
2 1/2 C finely diced potatoes
1 pound tender spinach, well rinsed, stems removed, cut into 1/8" slivers
1/2 C heavy cream (I use half & half, and I'm pretty sure even whole milk would work)
1. In large soup pot, cook the bacon over low heat, until fat is rendered, 5 minutes. Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon, and discard. [They say discard. *I* say keep keep keep for garnish.]
2. Add the butter to the pot. When it has melted, add the leeks, onions, and celery. Cook over low heat until wilted, 15 minutes. Season with teh tarragon, thyme and salt and pepper. Stir well.
3. Add the stock and potatoes. Cover, and simmer until the potatoes are tender but not mushy, 15 to 20 minutes.
4. Add half the spinach. Simmer for 1 minutes more.
5. Remove the soup from the heat. Puree half the amount in a blender or food processor, and return the puree to the soup pot. [Here is the part where it is pretty much day-glo green.]
6. Place the pot over low heat, and add the remaining spinach and the cream [cream = deelish. But sadly, it does soften the shade to a brackish jade color.] Heat through, stirring well, but do not boil. Adjust the seasonings, and serve. I top each bowl with a spoonful of sour cream, and the bacon you saved back at the beginning.
You know the drill - serve with crusty bread, a great salad, and you're golden. Or green. Or, you know. Happy & full of soup anyway. Make sure you have brownies for dessert. Bathing suit season is so far off.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Renewal: Not Just at the Library
I wasn't a runner. And then I was.
I wasn't a writer. And then I was.
I wasn't a teacher. And then I was.
I have become things that I'd categorically dismissed - those definitions? Those people? They weren't Me. I was the armchair athlete. I was the enthusiastic supporter of other writers - people who were good, you know? I was in awe of my kids' teachers, certain that it was nothing I could ever organize, this teaching children to ... do stuff.
Yet. Yet. Somewhere deep in there was a spirit that refused to let those definitions stick. A spirit that fought against decisions I thought had been made. A spirit that kept piping up, whispering but you might be that. You could be that.
Indeed. This year, I became all of those people.
Here we run up against the word that gets tossed around at spa days, at therapy sessions, after a good cry: "I feel renewed."
Renewed. Made new. NEW. It isn't a fluffy word that simply means "oh hey I feel so much better!" It isn't the lazy woman's way of saying "wow I'm so relaxed and now I feel happier about the world." Renewed is when the raw materials are taken, re-molded, and transformed into something entirely new.
I have been renewed. I have been remade, by these deep gut messages that say You are NOT only this, just that, merely these things. In seismic, unalterable ways, I have become new. A new person who does do things like sign up for a half marathon. Who returns to the writing again again again like a horse returns to the stable each evening. Who teaches a small boy every morning, never failing to marvel that he is actually learning something.
And I am not finished. I have been renewed, have become something new, and the most transformative thing of all is realizing that we are never finished. I will be formed, and then formed again. The raw material that makes Me will be many things.
Renewal - again and again and again - is the sign of a life well lived.
*****
At this point in my life, I have to say that the first thing to come to mind when thinking "Renewal" is all of my overdue library books. But I was grateful to be asked to think further. This post is part of the One Word at a Time blog carnival: Renewal hosted by Peter Pollock. To read more posts considering Renewal, visit his blog, PeterPollock.com.
Also, anyone out there interested in a Christian perspective on renewal - the "making all things new" - please do read this by Rev. Doctor Ken Kovacs. Powerful words, transformative words. The very best kind.
I wasn't a writer. And then I was.
I wasn't a teacher. And then I was.
I have become things that I'd categorically dismissed - those definitions? Those people? They weren't Me. I was the armchair athlete. I was the enthusiastic supporter of other writers - people who were good, you know? I was in awe of my kids' teachers, certain that it was nothing I could ever organize, this teaching children to ... do stuff.
Yet. Yet. Somewhere deep in there was a spirit that refused to let those definitions stick. A spirit that fought against decisions I thought had been made. A spirit that kept piping up, whispering but you might be that. You could be that.
Indeed. This year, I became all of those people.
Here we run up against the word that gets tossed around at spa days, at therapy sessions, after a good cry: "I feel renewed."
Renewed. Made new. NEW. It isn't a fluffy word that simply means "oh hey I feel so much better!" It isn't the lazy woman's way of saying "wow I'm so relaxed and now I feel happier about the world." Renewed is when the raw materials are taken, re-molded, and transformed into something entirely new.
I have been renewed. I have been remade, by these deep gut messages that say You are NOT only this, just that, merely these things. In seismic, unalterable ways, I have become new. A new person who does do things like sign up for a half marathon. Who returns to the writing again again again like a horse returns to the stable each evening. Who teaches a small boy every morning, never failing to marvel that he is actually learning something.
And I am not finished. I have been renewed, have become something new, and the most transformative thing of all is realizing that we are never finished. I will be formed, and then formed again. The raw material that makes Me will be many things.
Renewal - again and again and again - is the sign of a life well lived.
*****
At this point in my life, I have to say that the first thing to come to mind when thinking "Renewal" is all of my overdue library books. But I was grateful to be asked to think further. This post is part of the One Word at a Time blog carnival: Renewal hosted by Peter Pollock. To read more posts considering Renewal, visit his blog, PeterPollock.com.
Also, anyone out there interested in a Christian perspective on renewal - the "making all things new" - please do read this by Rev. Doctor Ken Kovacs. Powerful words, transformative words. The very best kind.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Surprised by Sad
Heaving with sobs. Silent, huge, racking sobs.
I can count on one hand the number of times in his entire almost-six-years my son has cried like this.
It took me a second to jolt out of my Family Movie Night, room-darkened, popcorn coma to realize he wasn't kidding. He climbed onto my lap, buried his face in my neck, and cried and cried and cried.
He begged us to turn off the movie. Insisted, over and over, that he didn't want to watch another minute, and please could we just go upstairs to read stories.
Were we watching Old Yeller, at the bit where the dog dies? Nope. Were we watching Finding Nemo, at the bit where Nemo gets flushed down into the sewer? We were not. Were we watching the super scary part in Empire Strikes Back where Luke Skywalker battles both Darth Vader AND the Emperor, the part that still makes me pee my pants a little? NO.
Ramona and Beezus. That's what we were screening tonight. A fun family film, so innocuous that even Focus on the Family couldn't find fault.
But here's the thing: when I realized what was breaking my son's heart, it broke mine too.
Ramona, the middle sister in a family of 5 had decided she wasn't important in the family any more and was running away. Her mother, being the reasonable and clever parent that all movie moms are, had helped her pack, including one of Daddy's sweaters, "you know, since you'll be gone forever." The movie then pans over Ramona trudging through Portland neighborhoods, dragging a heavy-ass suitcase.
We hadn't gotten to the part where the family finds her, and insists they could never live without her. Lars really thought Ramona had left her family forever.
It is heart-shattering, to feel emotion that strongly. I watched the storm of sadness, identification, empathy and confusion pass over my boy's face and felt it as viscerally as watching a hurricane on the Atlantic coast. Raw emotion, with no filters. Just a child, knowing the hurts of another child.
In those few moments, before I was able to calm him to explain what might happen next, to reassure that really sweetie, I promise she's not headed for a life of prostitution, I felt I'd seen right to the bottom of the human heart. To the dark places in all of us that want to yell Turn it off! Turn it OFF! I just don't wanna feel that anymore!
Emotions aren't comfortable. But the only way through them is to live them. Just like a five year old.
I can count on one hand the number of times in his entire almost-six-years my son has cried like this.
It took me a second to jolt out of my Family Movie Night, room-darkened, popcorn coma to realize he wasn't kidding. He climbed onto my lap, buried his face in my neck, and cried and cried and cried.
He begged us to turn off the movie. Insisted, over and over, that he didn't want to watch another minute, and please could we just go upstairs to read stories.
Were we watching Old Yeller, at the bit where the dog dies? Nope. Were we watching Finding Nemo, at the bit where Nemo gets flushed down into the sewer? We were not. Were we watching the super scary part in Empire Strikes Back where Luke Skywalker battles both Darth Vader AND the Emperor, the part that still makes me pee my pants a little? NO.
Ramona and Beezus. That's what we were screening tonight. A fun family film, so innocuous that even Focus on the Family couldn't find fault.
But here's the thing: when I realized what was breaking my son's heart, it broke mine too.
Ramona, the middle sister in a family of 5 had decided she wasn't important in the family any more and was running away. Her mother, being the reasonable and clever parent that all movie moms are, had helped her pack, including one of Daddy's sweaters, "you know, since you'll be gone forever." The movie then pans over Ramona trudging through Portland neighborhoods, dragging a heavy-ass suitcase.
 |
| photo: diszine.com |
We hadn't gotten to the part where the family finds her, and insists they could never live without her. Lars really thought Ramona had left her family forever.
It is heart-shattering, to feel emotion that strongly. I watched the storm of sadness, identification, empathy and confusion pass over my boy's face and felt it as viscerally as watching a hurricane on the Atlantic coast. Raw emotion, with no filters. Just a child, knowing the hurts of another child.
In those few moments, before I was able to calm him to explain what might happen next, to reassure that really sweetie, I promise she's not headed for a life of prostitution, I felt I'd seen right to the bottom of the human heart. To the dark places in all of us that want to yell Turn it off! Turn it OFF! I just don't wanna feel that anymore!
Emotions aren't comfortable. But the only way through them is to live them. Just like a five year old.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Soupity Soup Soup
This recipe is the soup of my life. This soup is the end of an afternoon of leaf-raking, it is the welcome back after sledding, it is families at our house for potluck suppers. I watched my grandmother ladle it from her giant soup pot, I watched my mother spoon it into bowls.
It is comfort food at its best. Rich, creamy, and decidedly not recommended by Weight Watchers. But it will feed your spirit as well as it feeds your belly, and it will garner all kinds of mmmhmm! from the people gathered around your table.
Now. My entire non-bacon eating childhood, I ate this soup made with Bac-O Chips. Yes, the soy-laden, sodium bombs sold in a handy plastic jar. What did I know what I was missing? So whilst I am a bacon lover of the first order, I'll tell you that this soup is delish with those Bac-Os, and just Off. The. HOOK. when made with real bacon. You decide.
So: Grandma Joan's Corn and Cheese Chowder
2/3 C Bac-O chips
1/2 C butter (yep, that's a whole stick)
1/2 C onion, finely diced
1/4 C flour
*** melt the butter in large pot until foaming, then cook 2 minutes at a low heat. I add the flour after the butter, Bac-Os and onions have had their time in the sun, so to speak. If you use real bacon, you could use the rendered fat from the bacon in place of some of the butter. Make sure you saute the bacon until nice & crisp, but not crunchy.
4 C Water
2 C Potatoes, diced small
1/2 tsp dried sage (I use fresh, as it still sort of survives out in my garden, but dried is ok)
2 large bay leaves
*** add these, cover, cook 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender.
2 C cream, evaporated milk, or half & half
2 C boiling water
2 C grated cheddar (I use orange cheddar, to add color, but a well aged sharp cheddar is most delish)
4 C corn (if frozen, you don't have to defrost. Frozen from the farmer's market = heaven.)
Salt & freshly ground pepper
***Add these ingredients, heat just to a boil
The very most important thing to remember here is, once you've added that last batch of ingredients, do not let the soup boil. Really, I'm not kidding here. It curdles and gets remarkably gross, very quickly.
That's it. Pretty simple, pretty humble. But sooooo delicious. As always, the better quality ingredients, the better the soup will be. It is perfect with a crusty wholegrain bread, a huge green salad, and maybe some fruit for dessert.
Soup. Does the body good.
It is comfort food at its best. Rich, creamy, and decidedly not recommended by Weight Watchers. But it will feed your spirit as well as it feeds your belly, and it will garner all kinds of mmmhmm! from the people gathered around your table.
Now. My entire non-bacon eating childhood, I ate this soup made with Bac-O Chips. Yes, the soy-laden, sodium bombs sold in a handy plastic jar. What did I know what I was missing? So whilst I am a bacon lover of the first order, I'll tell you that this soup is delish with those Bac-Os, and just Off. The. HOOK. when made with real bacon. You decide.
So: Grandma Joan's Corn and Cheese Chowder
2/3 C Bac-O chips
1/2 C butter (yep, that's a whole stick)
1/2 C onion, finely diced
1/4 C flour
*** melt the butter in large pot until foaming, then cook 2 minutes at a low heat. I add the flour after the butter, Bac-Os and onions have had their time in the sun, so to speak. If you use real bacon, you could use the rendered fat from the bacon in place of some of the butter. Make sure you saute the bacon until nice & crisp, but not crunchy.
4 C Water
2 C Potatoes, diced small
1/2 tsp dried sage (I use fresh, as it still sort of survives out in my garden, but dried is ok)
2 large bay leaves
*** add these, cover, cook 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender.
2 C cream, evaporated milk, or half & half
2 C boiling water
2 C grated cheddar (I use orange cheddar, to add color, but a well aged sharp cheddar is most delish)
4 C corn (if frozen, you don't have to defrost. Frozen from the farmer's market = heaven.)
Salt & freshly ground pepper
***Add these ingredients, heat just to a boil
The very most important thing to remember here is, once you've added that last batch of ingredients, do not let the soup boil. Really, I'm not kidding here. It curdles and gets remarkably gross, very quickly.
That's it. Pretty simple, pretty humble. But sooooo delicious. As always, the better quality ingredients, the better the soup will be. It is perfect with a crusty wholegrain bread, a huge green salad, and maybe some fruit for dessert.
Soup. Does the body good.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Trying to Be Positive Here
So. Winter is not taking our breakup very well. In fact, as I look out the window at freezing rain coating the streets, I realize it is entirely possible Winter has decided to turn stalker, and seriously punish me for even trying to break up.
So I decided to try and find just a few things about Winter I can still appreciate, that'll get me through until I score a Restraining Order, or until the Vernal Equinox. Whichever comes first.
1) Soup Weather. It may be cold, we may be stuck inside with each other, but somehow it all fades away when we gather around bowls of steaming hot soup. Tomorrow I'll share a recipe for one of my favorites.
2) Shrove Tuesday, also known as Pancake Day in the UK. I guess down South they call it Fat Tuesday, the idea being that you use up all the butter and eggs before Lent. I'm not so hardcore with the Lent thing, but hoo boy do I love some crepes for dinner. Yes sirree. [Strictly speaking, with Easter so late this year, Pancake Day is March 8, which will be in spring-ish weather. Can you tell I'm grasping at straws here?]
3) Coming inside to toasty warm houses. That welcoming whoosh of hot air as you re-enter your home?? Loverly. I mean, walking back in to an air-conditioned room after a steamy summer day? Also nice. But walking into the warmth is particularly cozy.
4) Ice Skating. The players of NilsenLife have just re-discovered this little diversion recently, and all three kids have taken to it like, well... like ducks to a frozen pond. Cecilie doesn't think she needs lessons, because I'm about as fast as it gets!, she told us at dinner last night.
5) I'll get my money's worth out of this tricky snow gear I scored. What, you thought I was kidding about getting Mama geared up for snow? Well I was NOT.
6) Reading. Somehow everyone is much happier about cuddling up on the sofa to read a new story or listen to an old favorite when the weather outside is frightful. Summer reads for us are lighter, quicker, more on-the-fly.
7) Of course we can still count Valentines Day on our list of things to look forward to. We've had a busy few days with stickers, scrap paper, glue sticks and glitter here at the Yellow House. Don't be offended if you don't get yours in the mail - the kids lose interest before it ever gets to addressing envelopes. They are 'process people', apparently.
8) Last but not least we have the Dad of the Nilsen's birthday. The kids and I love to plan a new theme every year, and as Cecilie gets older the themes only get more and more elaborate. This year, my main man has requested a Beach Party. Even the most stoic of Norwegians needs a little sand, sun and margarita in his February.
So that's it. That's the very best I could do to find positive bits of winter to wax poetic about. What about you, my lovely readers? Can you think of anything I've missed? Throw us a bone here - tomorrow's Groundhog Day and I will weep if that dumb rodent says 6 more weeks of winter.
So I decided to try and find just a few things about Winter I can still appreciate, that'll get me through until I score a Restraining Order, or until the Vernal Equinox. Whichever comes first.
1) Soup Weather. It may be cold, we may be stuck inside with each other, but somehow it all fades away when we gather around bowls of steaming hot soup. Tomorrow I'll share a recipe for one of my favorites.
2) Shrove Tuesday, also known as Pancake Day in the UK. I guess down South they call it Fat Tuesday, the idea being that you use up all the butter and eggs before Lent. I'm not so hardcore with the Lent thing, but hoo boy do I love some crepes for dinner. Yes sirree. [Strictly speaking, with Easter so late this year, Pancake Day is March 8, which will be in spring-ish weather. Can you tell I'm grasping at straws here?]
3) Coming inside to toasty warm houses. That welcoming whoosh of hot air as you re-enter your home?? Loverly. I mean, walking back in to an air-conditioned room after a steamy summer day? Also nice. But walking into the warmth is particularly cozy.
4) Ice Skating. The players of NilsenLife have just re-discovered this little diversion recently, and all three kids have taken to it like, well... like ducks to a frozen pond. Cecilie doesn't think she needs lessons, because I'm about as fast as it gets!, she told us at dinner last night.
 |
| A little out of focus, but how sweet is that girl? She insists on choosing skating outfits that are 'elegant for twirling.' |
5) I'll get my money's worth out of this tricky snow gear I scored. What, you thought I was kidding about getting Mama geared up for snow? Well I was NOT.
 |
| Sometimes, when shopping clearance sales, it pays to be the biggest kid on the block. Go me! |
6) Reading. Somehow everyone is much happier about cuddling up on the sofa to read a new story or listen to an old favorite when the weather outside is frightful. Summer reads for us are lighter, quicker, more on-the-fly.
7) Of course we can still count Valentines Day on our list of things to look forward to. We've had a busy few days with stickers, scrap paper, glue sticks and glitter here at the Yellow House. Don't be offended if you don't get yours in the mail - the kids lose interest before it ever gets to addressing envelopes. They are 'process people', apparently.
8) Last but not least we have the Dad of the Nilsen's birthday. The kids and I love to plan a new theme every year, and as Cecilie gets older the themes only get more and more elaborate. This year, my main man has requested a Beach Party. Even the most stoic of Norwegians needs a little sand, sun and margarita in his February.
*******
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