double bubble, baby

Recently I was going through my sister's file of photographs and I found one of the two of us with mom and dad and Aunt B at the ice cream parlor. The one that grandpa designed with the twirling double ice cream cone on the outside. The picture was taken after a dance recital. We're wearing matching blue and white striped leotards with blue skirts. We both have ice cream smeared across our faces and pink ballet shoes on our feet.

Before the time when all I would order was mint chocolate chip, I would get bubble gum ice cream, the kind that had pieces of bubble gum mixed in. My sister liked it, too. I liked to save all the bubble gum on a napkin and count it at the end. My sister would try and do the same, but usually aborted mission halfway through, preferring the double-bubble method: eating bubble gum ice cream while chewing a big wad of bubble gum. That's how she's always been--all bubble gum. She takes life in one big gulp. She dives in head-first with a cheek full of pink bubble gum. She jumps off the highest platform at the pool. Skis the double black diamonds. Rides the fastest roller coaster in the park.

Now my sister's got this beautiful baby girl. When she arrived in the world, she was a bit blue because she wasn't quite ready to breathe. I watched my sister's face, pink with exhaustion, grow concerned while the nurses tended to her new little one. We held our breath as we waited for Naomi to take her first taste of air from this side of life. Today she's all bows and dainty hands and high pitched squeals when she smiles. Her cheeks get rosy after she's eaten, one of my Dad's favorite things about her (as if he can choose.) The other night at dinner I watched my sister put a spoonful of ice cream to Baby Naomi's lips. She's not quite sure how she takes her ice cream yet. But double-bubble or one piece at a time, she's got one smart mama to show her the ropes.

we gather together

The house is quiet -- the extra beds empty, the dishes washed, the platters put away, the candles burned down -- family on the road back home.

My nose gets a fourth and fifth helping of a pear apricot torte every time I open the fridge. The lone remaining pumpkin pie is being eaten inside out. We slowly scrape away at it on the counter, one bite at a time, all sharing the same fork.

Conversations evaporate above the dining table; the feeling of Thanksgiving now only an echo. Thursday afternoon and evening, when 32 of us gathered here for feasting*, I couldn't help but go around the table, adding each person to my list of blessings.

*And Turkey BINGO with prizes and guitar by Rog and philosophy lessons and baby holding and piano playing and picture taking.

Yellow Paper, Secret Notes and Magic Candles

Last night, at a triple birthday party (which ended up being double the triple) I got the only cupcake with a trick candle. I managed three wishes before someone snuffed my magic flame.

This morning we drove downtown early early. We could see all the way to Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake. The clouds were painted shades of sherbet: rosy pinks, vibrant oranges and light violets against a sea-blue sky.

This afternoon I was sent on an early birthday scavenger hunt which lead me to Special Collections at the U of U Library. I had an hour with a rare book all to myself.* Full of hand-painted color wheels and hand-set letterpress about thoughts and theories on color, I was in heaven. I took copious notes on yellow paper provided by the library and tried not to get pencil lead on the pages. I flipped them forward, then backward and I read the introduction three times. I liked this part:

The study of color is integral to that part of art so often ignored: the art of the artists' materials.

Tonight I came home to two dozen roses the color of a sunset in a vase with eucalyptus leaves, (one of my favorite smells) and a book I know I'll refer to again and again. We read aloud the part at the beginning written by E.B. White, deemed by one worthy of doing such deeming, "the greatest essayist America ever hatched." His words made us laugh. Plus, the 10 o'clock news announced a blizzard of epic proportions blowing this way. I heart snow oh so much. (In celebration of Saturday's storm, we downed our first ho cho of the season.) All of this...

...and my birthday isn't even until tomorrow.

*Thank you to the scavenger hunt schemer. Thank you for my secret note. And the drawing of the big dipper.

hearts have colors, don't we all know?

We stood shoulder to shoulder with strangers and waited for an encore. People pulled out iPhones and cameras to capture a rare arrangement on film. I reached for my back pocket to follow suit, but returned my arm to its folded position across my chest. In this world of everything at our fingertips, there is something beautiful about impermanence. Something almost transcendental in fleeting moments. Knowing that the few hundred of us in that spot were the only people who would witness the way she decided to edit on-the-spot, lengthening some notes here and there was, in the moment, magnificent. She added an extra verse we'd never heard before and raised certain notes up an octave. I wanted it all to sink in. I'd leave the YouTube posting to those who felt it necessary. We clapped and whistled and then it was over. The crowd scattered, shoulders leaving shoulders, breaking out into the cold night.

Isaac Newton Knows How to Party

We forgot to close the door to the study room tonight, so the whole library got to hear a brief and passionate discourse on equilibrium until the man in a green shirt with green bleach blotches and tortoise rimmed bifocals came to shut it because for heaven's sake "There are people trying to write papers out here!"

Nothing, however, was said to the mother of three who held screaming twins, one under each arm ready to fire like bazookas, while the other held fast to her pant legs as she tried to make her way through the aisles to find "Dora the Explorer" on DVD. Nor the pair of tweens laughing loudly over an issue of Teen Vogue in the corner by the water fountain. Or the dude slowly going deaf because his laptop was giving an unsolicited (he thought seemingly silent) concert of the kind of music with the language my father doesn't even know exists. Or the woman outside petitioning every exiter about the latest scandal Walmart is inflicting on our innocent souls and how can we even sleep at night?!

So, pardon us if we seem to have gotten a little caught up in fictitious David and Goliath sling shot simulations and Newton's law of inertia. Heaven forbid we talk above a whisper when you're trying to write a paper out there, because we're learning about constant velocity in here thank you very much, and maybe just for once we might be 0.000001 nanomilligrams excited about it.

Oh, Beautiful for Spacious Skies

We like to think the people we love are made of steel. That they are stronger than anything that can take them from us. Strong like the tool used to carve letters into granite, “In Loving Memory.” Strong like the brass trumpet that plays slowly the twenty-four notes in Taps when a soldier is laid to rest. Strong like the heartbeat in our chest we cover with our hand during the twenty-one gun salute.

He was equal parts steel and grace. Steel like the Brooklyn Bridge in the city he grew up in, which is why when I visit part of me feels like I’m going home. Steel like a naval ship or the strings on his guitar. Graceful like the swan dives he used to do at the public pool. Graceful like his rower’s stroke down the Hudson. Or the way he used to read poetry during morning devotional at family reunions.

I feel him in the majesty of purple mountains and when we sing, “Oh beautiful for spacious skies.” When I sit across the table from my uncle who visits from Boston. Time has etched the lines on his face to look just like Grandpa’s. Or in moments like last Tuesday when I put my card in the machine to vote.

Maybe I’ve been waiting for strength. Or for the mound of dirt to go down. For grass to grow over the spot like a scar where they opened up the earth and put him in. With little daylight left, I drove up the hill. It took me a few minutes to find the marker. Brushing away a few dead leaves, I felt the letters with my hand. I bent down and stuck a small American flag in the soggy autumn ground.

Chocolate Marshmallow Cookies

I made these cookies for a shower on Saturday.
Anything chocolate and marshmallow--sign me up.

Makes about 2 dozen

• 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 3/4 cup cocoa powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup sugar
• 1 large egg
• 1/2 cup milk
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 12 large marshmallows, cut in half horizontally

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt; set aside.
2. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg, milk, and vanilla, and beat until well combined. Add reserved flour mixture; mix on low speed until combined.
3. Using a tablespoon or 1 3/4-inch ice cream scoop, drop dough onto ungreased baking sheets, about 2 inches apart. Bake until cookies begin to spread and become firm, 10 to 12 minutes.
4. Remove baking sheets from oven, and place a marshmallow, cut-side down, in the center of each cookie, pressing down slightly. Return to oven, and continue baking until marshmallows begins to melt, 2 to 2 1/2 minutes. Transfer cookies to a wire rack to cool completely before frosting.
5. Spread about 1 tablespoon of frosting over each marshmallow, starting in the center and continuing outward until marshmallow is covered.

Recipe from here.

ゆで団子

Between painted bamboo murals, we met for Japanese. We started with soup, perfect for the first snow of the year. Cupped hands, we sipped in unison taking longer slurps when just seaweed was left. Rice paper lanterns lit up our little cubicle inside the restaurant. Over the main course we spoke about travel. He said, if you really pay attention, Europe changes you. I said, I'm a bit rusty with chopsticks.

Halfway through sukiyaki and gyoza, a small Asian man shuffled down the aisle with his cane and peeked his head around the screen. We spoke briefly of architecture, of Tadao Ando. I told him I liked the rice paper lanterns and he told me the bamboo screens were original to the 40 year old restaurant he and his family come every Tuesday for lunch. He left us to finish our meal in the bamboo grove.

Compliments of the gentleman who just left, the waiter said when he brought the check. He wanted you to try his favorite sushi. Sushi for dessert, courtesy of the architect who eats in a building of his own design each Tuesday around noon. We scraped bright green wasabi off the bamboo platter as light diffused from the lanterns down onto the table. We could hear the chef in the kitchen chopping cabbage.

from the edge of the end

It was dusk. They walked along the river. The sun slipped between the columns of a building and spilled in stripes down the front steps. A group of children tumbled out and down the stairs, towards a school bus. He whispered something in her ear, something that made her laugh.

Down by the water, the trees cast long shadows along the concrete. They stepped about the tips of the treetops, across the silhouetted branches. Her hand left his arm every so often to curl her hair around her ear or to fuss with the buttons on her coat.

They walked up the steps. It was empty. Except for one man.

Oh Happy Day

happy birthday to my sister
{who has always looked
better in a baseball hat than I have}

Dear Bibberlicious,
Happy birthday. I love you more than Ken's Kash penny candy, or that lemon chicken we used to make when we played restaurant at Aunt B's. More than the turtle we found in Grandpa's garden. I love you more than you love Wheat Thins and melted cheese, your Billy Joel River of Dreams CD (back in the day) or Shop N' Go fro yo. I love you more than samples from the deli at Crystal Palace, burnt mallows at The Lot, and the pile of grass behind the garage at the red brick house we liked to sit on. More than peanut butter square day at Bonneville. More than playing Round Robin ping pong on Grandpa's table with Jessie and Carly, or bean bags at Grandma and Grandpa Haglund's. I love you more than making things out of cardboard boxes at 1936 or more than you loved digging to China with Romney and Brian. I love you more than the round table in our playroom and more than the sparkly butterfly tile bathroom. I love you more than you loved wearing khaki shorts and two t-shirts, or more than I loved GAP jeans with the patch on the back pocket and my Wendy Spencer bows. I love you more than water weenie-ing on Yuba Lake. I love you more than Mad About You re-runs. More than setting Rich in front of the fireplace or telling him he was born without...you know. I love you more than driving really fast over train tracks in the Rose Shop van. More than pastries in Paris or cello and violin with Kate and Kristin or finally reaching the end of Pachabel's Cannon, the quartet version. I love you more than Sundays with the brothers from the N.V. spent watching Unkle Pensoir bounce up the stairs on that weird toy. I love you more than ALL the salt box houses on Cape Cod.

Thank you for being my friend and confidant. Thank you for telling me it's OK I'm not good at physics and for offering to beat up dudes free of charge. Thank you for marrying D and for bringing Baby Naomi to our family. Seeing you as a mother makes me the most happy. Thank you for letting me keep that brown sweatshirt that you probably don't know I still have.

I luff you. I lurve you. I loaf you. I loughph(x)e you.
Marfie

on being thankful

I couldn't get over this yesterday--the way the shades fade
into one another like colors on a color wheel.
{Photo of 1920*}

-To N for coming to town for wedding festivities and for helping me hoist chairs into the car in skirts and heels. Please move here already.
-To EAFT for the video. Thank you a million times a million. (Plus infinity.)
-To the men we watched jousting at the park yesterday. We want you to be the subjects of a sociological study.
...And, to the man with the red arrows. You are our favorite forever.
-To PP who came ever so subtly dressed as Dracula to church last Sunday.
-To the Beehives. And all the YW.
-To Mr. L for the text messages.
-To George Washington Carver for inventing the peanut, and subsequently other things peanut-related. Like peanut butter.
-To the honey bees for making honey to go with peanut butter.
-To mom for making comfy quilts to snuggle up with.
-To Andrew for chatting with me about architecture school over tomato soup.
-To Elder Chard for kind emails from SeaTown.
-To autumn for being so jaw-droppingly gorgeous this weekend.

*Dear 1920,
I knocked on the door to ask permission, but no one came, so I started snapping.

words

I keep a book of words I don't know, words that are new to me. I write them down and try to use them in sentences like we had to do in elementary school.

I've been thinking a lot about words. Words we read. Words we write. The words we choose to speak to one another. The words, for one reason or another, we decide to keep to ourselves.

Reading words makes me want to write words. To combine words into sentences, and sentences into stories. Last week I got to listen to a famous essayist. He calls himself a story addict. He said he tells stories to crack open windows and doors inside him. Not only to let things out, but to let things in. Like laughter. Or tears.

Sometimes when those we love are far away, the written word is the only thing that connects us.

Sometimes the only way we can say things is by not saying them at all, but rather by writing them out, one word at a time.

There are times of silence when all is still and a million words swarm around in my head like a storm. I cannot find a beginning or an end to all the words words. So instead I say nothing. The moment or the feeling is too big and there are no words. Only the absence of them.

There are sacred words like the words of Christ and the words of the living prophets. Words like those that make up what we believe and know to be true can be written inside us -- not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God. Not in tables of stone, but in fleshy tables of our hearts. (2 Cor. 3:3).

Monkey Monday

This little monkey came to visit last night. Happy November. Hip! Hip!