Fall at The Lot

I spent two nights at the cabin this week, which hasn't happened in a long while. Friday, I was with my family. Every year I think it can't possibly be more beautiful than the last.
But the sky turns an indescribable shade of blue on a Saturday morning. And the aspen trees mingle with the evergreens above the sagebrush, the combination of which takes your breath away.

It's especially fun when we get to be with this little one.
I gave her a taste of my s'more and it was over.

She went on several small hikes with Papa in her jammies on Saturday morning.

Last Tuesday, Karli called me in the late afternoon. We've been trying all summer and fall to get up to The Lot. It was a spur of the moment decision neither of us could pass up. We hustled to finish work, met for dinner in the city, and then drove up to the cabin. We started a fire and were roasting s'mores by ten.
We accidentally stayed up until 3:30 in the morning chatting (part of that time I was working, which helps me justify it.) We wanted to see the sunrise, something well worth getting up for--even with only three hours of sleep. We drove to the top of the canyon before heading home.
The snow on top of the Uintahs faded into the pale grey of the morning sky. The sagebrush was covered in frost. Everything was quiet. (Until we got out at the reservoir and started playing around with the camera.)

Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa. We love The Lot.

grace from a bottle

It's the first day of fall. Not officially, but it's the first day I don't grab an extra layer just in case, I actually plan to wear one. Along 19th, leaves pool in the gutter. They are the brave ones. The early birds, the ones not afraid to let go. Floating down like feathers, they land on top of one another forming a brilliant puddle of orange. They'll stay that way until the rain comes and they begin their long dissent downstream into their watery grave, a pond in the center of the city.

I draw a bath after what feels like the Longest Day. I grab a bottle from under the sink with the word Grace in big black letters and pour pink liquid out of it and into the hot water which stings my feet the first few seconds. I bring a book of essays into my boat of bubbles. I read about grace amidships my pool of grace. I read about love. And God. About brothers. I read that stories live forever, stories are how we shuffle quickest toward the Mercy greater than the ocean and denser than the stars in the sky. That telling a story is like reciting a prayer, thanking God for his good grace, but not the kind that comes from a bottle.

The drain slurps the water out like a thirsty child. Bubbles, thousands in throng, cling to white porcelain until they pop and vanish, like fog along the foothills in the autumn morning.

begin again

This morning when I went out to get the paper, it smelled like fall. I hugged the yellow plastic bag to my chest like a hot water bottle. Filled with tiny type, it kept me warm on the short jaunt from front lawn to back door. It was the pleasant kind of cold. The put-on-your-favorite-sweatshirt cold. So I did. I came inside, put on my blue hoodie from Annie B, and ate oatmeal standing up while I read the newspaper.

Last night we needed a comforter out on the lawn. The conversation centered around the usual, but there was fresh anticipation and a feeling that this very well may be it. Only fall can bring such anticipation, such optimism. The crickets chirps are getting farther and farther apart. (Tonight there's one that's scratching his legs to his own syncopation, like he missed his entrance, or maybe he just doesn't care. He's fine being a bit off-beat.) The air outside is finally cooler than the air inside. At night I watch the roman shades breathe in and out, in and out. With each breath out, the man in the moon says hello.

There are three fresh peaches on the counter, at least there were before lunch. Their plum-colored fuzzy bellies covered with thumbprints to prove they pass the fresh test. One of them still has a couple of leaves on it. Together they look like a Cezanne still-life. Early autumn peaches always make me think of Val and Brigham City. She'd bring a box full the size of softballs from home to the Santa B. We'd make homemade peach ice cream and divy it up in the quad.

By early morning today my hoodie was off. Though fleeting, I loved the familiar feeling of the fuzzy inside and the drawstrings dangling on either side of my neck. They tempt me when I'm bored. Leaves have started to whirl up in the space between the garage and the backdoor.

The very best part: It's just the beginning.

ink + paper

It's really fun to have talented friends. Especially when they bring you surprises, just because it's a Wednesday. And not just any surprise, but ones like these that you put up and stare at everyday.

9|11

President Thomas S. Monson's thoughts on 9|11, taken from this article.

"There was, as many have noted, a remarkable surge of faith following the tragedy. People across the United States rediscovered the need for God and turned to Him for solace and understanding. Comfortable times were shattered. We felt the great unsteadiness of life and reached for the great steadiness of our Father in Heaven. And, as ever, we found it. Americans of all faiths came together in a remarkable way.

Sadly, it seems that much of that renewal of faith has waned in the years that have followed. Healing has come with time, but so has indifference. We forget how vulnerable and sorrowful we felt. Our sorrow moved us to remember the deep purposes of our lives. The darkness of our despair brought us a moment of enlightenment. But we are forgetful. When the depth of grief has passed, its lessons often pass from our minds and hearts as well.

Our Father’s commitment to us, His children, is unwavering. Indeed He softens the winters of our lives, but He also brightens our summers. Whether it is the best of times or the worst, He is with us. He has promised us that this will never change.

But we are less faithful than He is. By nature we are vain, frail, and foolish. We sometimes neglect God. Sometimes we fail to keep the commandments that He gives us to make us happy. Sometimes we fail to commune with Him in prayer. Sometimes we forget to succor the poor and the downtrodden who are also His children. And our forgetfulness is very much to our detriment.

If there is a spiritual lesson to be learned from our experience of that fateful day, it may be that we owe to God the same faithfulness that He gives to us. We should strive for steadiness, and for a commitment to God that does not ebb and flow with the years or the crises of our lives. It should not require tragedy for us to remember Him, and we should not be compelled to humility before giving Him our faith and trust. We too should be with Him in every season."

image by Fynnegan Sloyan

Lord, what fools these mortals be

We are tiny. Mortals next to majesty. Rocks reach as high as God. They are temples, made sacred by the holy waters of history: tears that left scars on the surface.

Green pushes up, strong against rock, defying desert, clinging to a craggy stone front, like a child to its mother.

Sand and sage. Red clay. Blue sky. Stillness.

Every panorama a painting.

pomme

She loved a boy once, but that was a long time ago. She loved his blueberry pancakes and the way he forgot to dot his "I's". That he'd bring her an apple and leave it on her desk in the studio. No note, just an apple, but she knew it was him.

He is gone now, but she thinks about him every so often. Like when summer turns to autumn and when the first snow falls. Or when she eats really great bruschetta.

Baby N

Until my sister tells me to do otherwise, I will shamelessly post pictures of my niece on this blog like she is my own child. She's kind of my favorite.

(All of these images are owned by the photographer and are therefore copyrighted.)

red like poppies

His hair was gray and he had a stubborn cowlick he’d given up on. The freckles on his forehead had turned to age spots and between the wrinkles around his eyes were untold stories. On his left hand, held tightly in place by his swollen arthritic knuckles was a gold ring which hadn’t come off since the day it had been placed there by the woman he loved. When he was bored or bothered, he’d rotate the ring with his thumb, the dry skin on his finger slowly flaking off with each twist. He was used to the tapping sound his ring made when he grasped the counter at a café to scoot his chair in and the way it felt soggy with shampoo in the mornings when he washed his hair. He liked the clanging noise when left hand reached for left hand.

He was born in the Year of the Dog, which meant he was fiercely loyal and a bit eccentric. His closet wasn’t full of anything fancy, just necessities, but it was obsessively neat. The items in it only budged when he took them out to wear. Tweed jackets hugged one another front to back like in a retail store. His impressive collection of bow ties hung in patterns: paisleys and small prints, plaids and regimental stripes slowly giving way to solids. He preferred Oxfords to loafers or wingtips. He liked his laces tied tight and replaced them seasonally. He polished his shoes as soon as he slipped them off so they’d be ready for the next wear. He owned one pair of athletic shoes and one pair of loafers with tassels. He only bought them to please her.

When he went out there was a bulge in his jacket pocket where his wallet nested between him and the outside world. He kept a photo of her in his breast pocket near his heart, which was slowly failing.

He missed her most in the mornings when the sun bathed his east-facing apartment, beams of yellow light illuminating the breakfast table. He’d slice a pear in half and reach it across to where she wasn’t. He missed her in the space between the change of seasons when the air smelled different and anticipation swept up onto the doorstep. He missed her when his eyesight started to fail him and he could no longer read the words on the page or separate the colors outside his window. Without her the lines of his life were beginning to blur.

He lived a solitary life now, the only thing crossing the threshold of his apartment since the day she left was a draft that crept in when he opened the door to go out. His house was a wall-to-wall cabinet of curiosities. A mini-Louvre. A pile museum, and he was the curator. He tacked up art cards from the Musee D’Orsay, clippings from the newspaper, leaves from trees that lined the streets of Paris. Next to a pebble he’d removed from one of his Oxfords was an acorn he found one day while scuffing his feet along the park outside the Orangerie. He clipped coupons, kept phone bills and tucked receipts from restaurants into a drawer. Anything to prove he was trying to move on.

He couldn’t remember what parts of her he fell in love with first. Her dark hair. The way she looked dancing to Charles Trenet. How she signed love letters Yours. Her cherry red lips. He could watch those lips form words all day. They were red like the poppies that dotted the French countryside where he spent the summer as a boy. He’d bet a game of Boules her lips were the same color as those poppies. He’d give anything to see her knee deep in those poppies, lips cherry red, hands motioning for him to come join her.

work: in-progress

I'm not very good about taking pictures for work. I'm trying to be better.
I have loved working with both the client and the architect on this project.

One of the things I love about this house is the view from the front entry. Every time I walk in, I am so pleased by the symmetry in both directions.

There are lots of interesting architectural details: columns, built-ins, box beams, little nooks and crannies and lots of custom cabinetry that has yet to be installed. We have a ways to go, but it's nice to see progress.

more here.

Summer so far

The Capitol at sunset, D.C. June 2011

It's impossible to catch up on the past few months. Here are a few high points: Baby N is walking. The house is moving along. We stayed in the Uinta's, rode horses, and played in the mud. (It took three runs through a professional car wash to get all the red mud off. Well worth it, I say.) There's a new swing in the backyard. We had our first sister's trip and heard my dad sing with the Choir in Wolftrap. I've spent lazy days and nights swinging on a hammock in the woods and seen some really great art as of late. My dad and I have an on-going Top Chef s'more roasting contest. As of a week ago, he's winning.

I've tried to take my camera with me as much as possible -- on vacation, to work, for weekend getaways, last-minute trips up the canyon when the mountains call to me down in the valley. Pictures can't capture how perfect the sunsets have been, how glorious the mountain air feels against my face after five days back east, or how green the meadow has been up at The Lot because of record snowfall and spring rain. Here are a few favorites shots of summer so far.

Bon to Bob

Tonight I was using the computer at my parent's. I put iTunes on shuffle while I sent a few emails. It went from Bon Iver to Bob Dylan's "Must be Santa" and all of a sudden I missed my brother like crazy.

Nocturne in E Flat Major

He asked me to pick my very favorite. There were hundreds, only a few I'd ever seen, and never in person. On round two, I settled on a fairly predictable landscape. He chose a less traditional piece, unusual for the artist. Let's go back and visit yours before we leave, he said.

At dinner he asked me about writing and architecture. On the way home, we listened to Chopin's Nocturnes. They are my favorite.

Nothing touches the soul but leaves its impress, and thus, little by little, we are fashioned into the image of all we have seen and heard, known and meditated; and if we learn to live with all that is fairest and purest and best, the love of it all will in the end become our very life.

- Grenville Kleiser

the one with the bridge

Great things happen at the Market Street Grill. The one with the bridge across the creek. Like the time we saw someone famous in the lobby. We joked about going up and introducing ourselves, but he was out the revolving door before we mustered up enough courage to do anything about it. We trotted across the bridge (you have to trot, or run; it's so much better that way) and found the semi-famous person right by our car. He had locked himself out and needed to borrow a phone. He used ours and then struck up a friendly conversation which lasted until his manager brought him keys. He opened his trunk, filled with cds and gave us one to say thank you.

And then there was the time that I ate crab legs. The last time I had crab was in San Fransisco and everyone got so sick we spent the night in the hotel puking our guts out. But, it's amazing what you'll do when a very handsome man tells you you're going love it (especially when he's buying you your most favorite steak in the whole wide world, plus dessert.)

And then there was last night. We sat right by the windows facing the bridge. We watched people walk back and forth the whole night. Friends. Families. Husbands who made the bridge wobble so their wives had to hold on tight to their arms or else they'd lose their balance. Mid-meal, we laughed so hard about a really great story that I smacked the table, which made the plates and the silverware rattle and everyone stared, which just made us laugh harder.

When we got outside, the sky looked like rainbow sherbet and the clouds were fluffy like angel food cake. We decided we had to drive west towards the sunset until we got to the Great Salt Lake, or until it got dark, which ever came first. We took pictures with my phone, because that's all we had.

rub-a-dubba

My parents say each grandchild will be as anticipated and loved and adored as this one. I'm not sure that's possible. Just look at that face!

back from a stay at the sea

with this out our window
{and the sound of the fountain at night as we fell asleep}

a visit to the flower fields

and sunsets like this:
The sea is just a wetter version of the sky.
|Regina Spektor|

take a sad song and make it better

*Warning: The following post may make tears flow like spring rain (or snow, in Utah).

In a series of unfortunate and unpreventable events (dead branch, splitting wood, weak rope) the backyard swing was removed -- for safety reasons -- and we are sad. Dad has promised to replace it with something equally as nostalgic. Soon. Until then, we have pictures and warm memories. (We may or may not be contemplating a memorial service.)

Picture of R & O, c.1995

Only in Utah

A few weeks ago, my Dad sent us a forward titled, Only in Utah. It was a fairly lame list compiled by Jeff Foxworthy; a bunch of You-Know-You're-in-Utah-When scenarios about speed limits, hitting deer, how everyone in Utah leaves their houses unlocked, etc. I read it and deleted it. (Mostly because I hate forwards.)

It snowed this morning. When I heard music from the ice cream truck in the afternoon, I thought to myself, Only in Utah.

Bad News

Monday is the day we get emails from my brother. We sit around all morning with our computers or phones waiting waiting waiting. I usually write Sunday night, summing up my week, telling him about the goings on back here at home, and sometimes I have to be the bearer of bad news. Like this week. This is what I said:

One of your IKEA bamboo stalks has gone the way of all the earth. Dad had to put it to rest. Forever. Just one. Weird, right? The other one is fine, just lonely. I hope you were sitting down for that.

Also...

Mom's car got smashed this week. Twice. The first time, she was backing out of a parking spot at the temple and she hit not one, but two yellow posts. To make matters worse, she was backing out to let someone in, so they witnessed the car crunching debacle in its entirety. The very next day in the Dan's parking lot (it was snowing--remember how I said it's still winter here? In April?) another car hit her. The back bumper was falling off. The tire scraped the rim when you turned the corner. It's getting fixed as I type. The silver linings: All those dents that happened in the Olympus Parking lot? Gone-zo! Lining Two: All of this, and not once has she hit the Howell's car, which is more than a lot of us can say. What a blessing.
There were happy tidbits included as well, like how we surprised Papa at his office for his birthday. We took him a sandwich from Grove Market (which was more of a mountain than a meal) and ate apple pie in the Clark B. Fetzer Memorial Dining Room (á propos, no?) while Baby Naomi sat on Brian's lap. Afterward she did her fishy face (which I am rather proud of, seeing as I worked on it with her for weeks) and she clapped hooray for Papa's Birthday. So amidst the bad, there is lots of good.

long words

Saturday I spent time preparing for a lesson I gave today. I pulled out boxes from under my bed and old journals off the shelves with doodles in the margins and notes tucked inside. I spent a good hour reading. Much of what I read were records of college days when life was fairly routine and academic: français, color theory boards. An observational drawing class taught by a German professor I could barely understand, save his finger movements above my drawing pad indicating more shading here, more detail there. American History in the most historic building on campus, which seems only fitting.

Then there were the things between academics: Sunday dinners on the ping pong table in the basement by the fireplace we weren't allowed to use; nights we talked at the kitchen table until 3 in the morning, after which we miraculously made it to 8 am class; cupboards full of sugar cereal and six loaves of bread (we were somewhat territorial, but brownies were fair game); calls on the apartment phone, the cord stretched out into the laundry room for long calls and attempted privacy. Taking turns being rolled in the laundry cart down the hall between the storage cages, crashing haphazardly by the computers at the other end.

I read about the time we drove to Vegas on a whim. The time we "borrowed" a bright green E from a shake shop in Heber. The time we were locked in our own apartment by the boys in the next building -- a morning none of us made it to 8 am class. The weekend we played multi-level Spoons and nearly died running flights of stairs when someone got four of the same card.

I came across weekly emails sent by Grandma and Grandpa to the college-age cousins, full of love and support, encouragement to keep at it and a reminder that they prayed for each of us individually every day. I shared one such email in my lesson. The point of all of this being, I'm glad I kept record of it. Even the bad days. In one of my journals I found the following quote:

We don't choose our stories. Our stories choose us, and if we don't write them, if we ignore them, we are somehow diminished.

Write it out. Jot it down. Doodle in the margins. You'll be glad you did.

Why I will never own a Kindle ...

...and why I would live in a cardboard box--without furniture--as long as it was filled with books and great art.

"There is something almost sacred about a great library because it represents the preservation of the wisdom, the learning, and the pondering of men and women of all the ages, accumulated under one roof. I love books. There is something wonderful about a book. We can pick it up. We can heft it. We can read it. We can set it down. We can think of what we have read. It does something for us. We can share great minds, great actions, and great undertakings in the pages of a book.

"Emerson was once asked which, of all the books he had read, had most affected his life. His response was that he could no more remember the books he had read than he could remember the meals he had eaten, but they had made him. All of us are the products of the elements to which we are exposed.

"Parents know that their children will read. They will read books and magazines and newspapers. Cultivate within them a taste for the best. While they are very young, read to them the great stories that have become immortal because of the virtues they teach. Let there be a corner somewhere in the house, be it ever so small, where they will see at least a few books of the kind on which great minds have been nourished." Gordon B. Hinckley

the brownies just weren't as Rich

Yesterday I made my brother's famous brownies for company. Those familiar with his famous brownies agreed they just weren't the same. I followed the recipe exactly. I wonder what his secret is.

Speaking of my bro, we posted a video for him here, but I think everyone should see it. Count it as your daily dose of cuteness. Who doesn't need more of that?*

*Three seconds in is my very most favorite part. I mean, if I absolutely had to choose.
{I've hit rewind about a hundred times today.}

test pots and paint brushes

I spent Friday with the architect of a house we're working on. We spend lots of Fridays together, which is really delightful, actually. (Mostly because she's delightful and I admire her work very much.) This past Friday we were determined to nail down paint colors for each room in the house so we can get going on fabric and furniture. The colors are so soft and lovely--like they were pulled them from the spot where the earth and sky mingle. I spent Saturday begging paint stores to match swatches from a British paint company.* I was fairly successful. I'll spend today painting little canvases colors like Skylight, Calamine, Skimming Stone, and Vert de Terre. Kinda makes me want to sing a little Pocahontas. I'm not gonna lie.

*They sell the pain in the U.S., just not in Utah.

God Likes Broken Things

At church someone said, God likes broken things, And, Have we ever thought about that?

Heavy clouds gather in a dark sky after days of drought. They break over the dusty soil and drop rain. Broken grain makes wheat to feed hungry bellies. A mother's water breaks so a child can enter the world.

I spent the afternoon thinking of broken hearts and contrite spirits. How we're most teachable when we're broken. How God wants to carry our heavy-laden heart. How we have to offer it up to him (no matter how heavy or broken) fleshy and raw in order for him to put it back together.

I thought about Japan and how the earth shook and then broke. How the water rose high and fell down into the cracks. I thought about floods and famine. About children without parents. Parents without children. I thought that at the exact moment there was a huge flood on earth, there was also a huge flood in heaven. About how life continues on after this if we believe with all our broken hearts.

Spring in Seattle

My brother sent this photo he took at Pike Place today. I love the daffodils blooming on the rooftop. It's definitely spring in Seattle.

that one time we watched jeopardy

One time when my sister came to visit me at college, I got a whole column of Double Jeopardy questions right. The subject was "The Heart." I was in the other room folding laundry. Superior vena cava! or foramen ovale! I'd shout. My sister was impressed. But not as impressed as she was Friday afternoon. While I bounced my niece on my knee, I blurted out the answer to a physics question waaayyy before the buzzer. She asked me where the heck that was in my brain. Dunno, I said. You should be able to test out of your class now, or something, she said. I don't know about that, but I sure think that it should count for something.

The Land of the Rising Sun

In a house in a city where the ground stands still, we gathered in the room off the kitchen to watch the news. It was well after the sun and the moon had switched places. We could see our reflections in the window.

Dad pulled out his map of Japan. Over Cheerios and an assortment of Japanese rice crackers we talked people and places and how he still hadn't heard from his friends. The round light over our heads was warm and cast a yellow beam down on the Land of the Rising Sun where everything is dark and unknown. There is no power. No heat. No round lights over heads. Every so often the earth beneath them starts to shake again.

In a house in a city where the ground stands still we said silent prayers; then one aloud, and then we hoped.

These will make you want to pack your bags

Although the Barcelona vid (seen here) is more relevant to future travel plans, I'm partial to the Paris one below. Regardless, these are all great. Loving London as well; so cheeky.

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

{quote by Charles Dickens}

My dad's oldest sister has an autographed picture of Mr. Rogers. It's framed. Hanging in her bedroom. Where most people have wedding pictures, or photographs of their mothers or children or grandchildren is a picture of the man who prefers sweaters that zip--as opposed to button--a picture of the silver-haired man that asks everyone to be his neighbor. If you knew her, this would make perfect sense.

We found this out Sunday night when two of my cousins (from opposite sides of the family) showed up fortuitously on my parent's front porch. This morsel of information offered up at the dining table over dessert provided several minutes worth of chortling, from both sides of the family.

Also, at church on Sunday, we discussed houses. Well, Home, more like. As in, what makes one. How the things you bring into it, the things you surround yourself with, create that matchless, marvelous feeling of home. There's no better feeling, no feeling more important, really. It's something I think about all the time.

What would Grandma and Grandpa's house be without Grandpa's desk, or Grandma's loom off the kitchen. What would it be like without the sound of the big white freezer in the family room, humming the low basso tune while keeping Snelgrove's ice cream cold deep down in its belly.

My parents have an Amish quilt above the sofa in the family room. It's been in all three houses we've lived in. Color palettes for furnishings have been determined by it. Upstairs in Mom and Dad's closet is Dad's basket. The one with spare change for the bus, safety pins and those plastic things that keep your socks together in the laundry. It's all there for the taking (or so we've told ourselves over the years in a lemonade stand crisis, when the ice cream man's music plays faintly three streets over, or when a button goes missing at the last minute.) There's the picture of the red bucket in the hall and the big bulletin board of family photos. These things make home Home.

Perhaps I'll never know the secret ingredients to create that feeling, but for my aunt that picture of Mr. Rogers, for whatever reason, makes her feel at home. Often it's not the things in our house that make it a home, but the people inside. Their voices. Laughter. The familiar scales played on the piano late at night when you're trying to watch television. The scuff of someone's feet on the wood floors early in the morning. And the knock at the door, the familiar finger rhythm of a neighbor.

A few years ago, I made a list of the homes I admire (which basically parallels the list of people I admire.) The assignment didn't stop there. I was to describe what under those roofs and between those four walls made me feel that ineffable feeling, that sense of place, that sense of self, that sense of being. It included such things as: rooms full of books, walls full of art, birthday traditions, house rules, religious practices. It was as varied as the households on it and included houses under which I felt that ineffable feeling of home.

A few weeks ago, in my Grandma's home near the mountains, I balanced my sister's baby on my forearm. We made our way down the hallway with the bookshelves full of trinkets from their world travels: cowbells from Switzerland, figurines from Germany, crystal from Italy. Excitedly, we opened the cupboards at the end of the hall, which are stubborn like age-d joints that haven't been used in a long while. Neatly in place were the alphabet puzzles, farm animals and the big red toy barn. We stood cows on their four legs, propped up trees perpendicular to the ground and fussed with the letters of the alphabet. Opening that cupboard was like opening the doors to a second childhood.

All of us are the products of the elements to which we are exposed.

I love this idea. Which things in my life I've been exposed to that have become a part of me? I am grateful to parents and extended family and friends for exposing me to all the beauty life has to offer. To my parents for creating home and to so many others whose houses are not just four walls, but homes away from home.

Tortellini Sausage Soup

My mom made this soup last weekend when we had friends over to watch the basketball game. Some of you have asked for the recipe.

We originally got the recipe from our neighbor (the source of all things delicious) whose niece started this blog, where you can find many other delicious things. Perhaps you've already heard of it. These girls are kind of famous...

Tortellini Sausage Soup

3 links Italian sausage
4 cloves pressed garlic
1 onion, diced
½ c. water
2 cans chicken broth
½ c. apple cider (don't leave this out! I did once and it wasn't the same...)
1 16-oz. can diced tomatoes
1 8 oz. can tomato sauce
1 c. sliced carrots
1 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. dried oregano
2 medium zucchini, grated (great way to use your food processor if you have one)
8-10 oz. package cheese tortellini (check the freezer section of your grocery store; if you can find it there, it will almost always be way cheaper than fresh tortellini. Also, Barilla makes a great dry cheese tortellini)
2 Tbsp. dried parsley (yes, that's two tablespoons)

If you're using link sausage, remove the casings and crumble into a large soup pot. To remove the casings, you can use a sharp knife to cut a slit down one side of the sausage and then peel back the casing.

Begin cooking sausage over medium heat, stirring frequently. If your sausage is pretty fatty, you'll want to drain it when it's about halfway cooked. Meanwhile, chop onions and garlic
and add to the sausage. Continue cooking until onions are translucent and your sausage is cooked. Your house will smell heavenly.

Add tomatoes, tomato sauce, juice, water, chicken broth, carrots, oregano, and basil. Cover and simmer for 1/2 hour. Add parsley and zucchini and simmer for another 15 minutes or so. Add the tortellini and cook until tender, and then serve with bread and freshly-grated Parmesan.

leftrightleftrightleft

I saw this on another blog and loved it. Anyone who knows me knows I have a thing for luxury automobiles (because I know I'll never own one.) Anyone who knows me also knows I'm not so good at math and science. (It took me an hour to do one physics problem today...with my tutor, who happens to be genius.) I love this campaign.

Left brain: I am the left brain. I am a scientist. A mathematician. I love the familiar. I categorize. I am accurate. Linear. Analytical. Strategic. I am practical. Always in control. A master of words and language. Realistic. I calculate equations and play with numbers. I am order. I am logic. I know exactly who I am.

Right brain: I am the right brain. I am creativity. A free spirit. I am passion. Yearning. Sensuality. I am the sound of roaring laughter. I am taste. The feeling of sand beneath bare feat. I am movement. Vivid colors. I am the urge to paint on an empty canvas. I am boundless imagination. Art. Poetry. I sense. I feel. I am everything I wanted to be.

Advertising Agency: Shalmor Avnon Amichay/Y&R Interactive Tel Aviv, Israel
Executive Creative Director: Tzur Golan
Creative Director: Yariv Twig
Art Directors: Gil Aviyam, Dror Nachumi
Illustrators: Gil Aviyam, Lena Guberman
Copywriters: Sharon Refael, Oren Meir
Published: February 2011 ‏

total toast

I lied my way through my physics tutoring session today, nodding about notations, giving muffled mmm hmms when he asked, So you understand how we got that answer, right? It took an hour to do one problem--a cruel reality regarding the subject that I'll never get used to, even with a genius for a tutor. The thing about having a genius for a tutor: he can also tell when I'm lying, but he doesn't just come out and say it. He'll smile and say, OK. You tell me how we got that answer. Which usually means I'm toast. Like today, I was total toast.

I Remember the First Time I Drove Through Indiana**

My favorite day this week could have been the day we followed the GPS and exited right off the freeway which took us to Gary, Indiana, a place I've only heard about in a song. It isn't much of a town, but it brings to mind the song, which is from a movie that makes me think of a city in Iowa, which reminds me of my family (specifically my grandparents) and I'm most certain they're two of the greatest people that ever lived. I snapped a photo of this sign that says, "The People of Gary Welcome You" at the stoplight, but as you can see, it didn't turn out so well. Sorry, Mom.

It could have been the night we ate at Lulu's Dim Sum and Then Sum. The name alone is reason for happiness. Their Pad Thai, same story.

Or the night I sat in a crowded house and listened to some dudes sing Led Zeppelin while I ate Cadburry Mini Eggs (three at a time) next to a boy in scarf the same shade as his eyes. When I upturned my cup (which I thought was empty) and spilled on the wood floors, I looked around to see if anyone noticed. He smiled a smile worth one million dollars.* Then he helped me locate the napkins.

My favorite day this week could have been the day we discovered an extra package of Thin Mints.

Or the day I arrived home to find a map of New York City in a yellow envelope with a secret message.

But my favorite day this week was the day I sat in the basement in the early evening and listened to a small piece of writing about anchovies. Yes, anchovies. The piece on anchovies was followed by a small recitation of "The Song of Cool Things" which led to a discussion on writing and then love, which is how I feel about the person who brought up the anchovies, which started the whole discussion in the first place.

Indiana was pretty cool though. I mean, just look at that picture.
Talk about happenin'.

*Also worth one million dollars: knowing my friend was plotting a reason to walk across the room and talk to the same dude with the million dollar smile.

**Lyrics to another really great song about Indiana by a band from Colorado.

The Windy City

In a redbrick cottage in a house just outside Chicago in a room with yellow walls, I fell asleep between a blanket with big red flowers on the four poster bed with the pineapple finials. In the morning there was grapefruit and peanut butter toast and a walk to the train station, passed bare oak trees, stark against the winter sky.

In the city there's the river, dark and winding, rolling under bridges and between buildings tall enough to mingle with the clouds. And always the sound of the train rushing by, clickity clack, clickity clack.

On an unusually warm day, I took in a 365 degree aerial view of the Second City, 36 stories up, thanks to a great connection at an award-winning architecture firm. I asked questions about buildings. He answered with dates, fast facts and names of famous films. We could see north towards the suburbs and out across the Lake.

Saturday, we drove to Michigan, stopping for an early lunch. At night, we went into town for dinner. While we waited for our table to be called, we strolled the streets and stopped in shops to keep from freezing. Sunday there was a blizzard. All six of us sat snug inside while the wind howled and the snow fell in record speed. For dinner, there was salmon and mashed potatoes and bite-sized chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

We woke early Monday. It took at least a half an hour to unearth the car from all the white. The roads were slick and snow-covered. Cars inched cautiously towards their destinations. Trees and power lines lay flat like soldiers in final surrender to Winter's War.

Back in the City, frigid white waves rose up from the lake 10 feet high. They hurled towards the shore, relentlessly crashing then pulling out again. I bundled up and went for a run in the neighborhood by the University, getting lost in the symmetry of the old houses: porticoes and broken pediment facades, secret alley ways, brick paths to courtyards lined with box woods and planters tangled in frozen ivy.

After a short walk into town, I ate soup at a local bakery and watched shoppers file in and out, stomping snowy boots upon entry. For dinner we went to a small trattoria and shared gnocchi while Dean Martin sang sweetly from the speakers and white lights illuminated the frescoed walls.

In the room with the yellow walls, I packed my bags, stacking fabric samples and sorting catalogs to be shipped home the following morning. I got a ride to the train station where I dragged my bags from the platform one at a time. We met for lunch in the lobby and I caught the train for the airport. I watched the cityscape turn from stacked skyscrapers and clusters of apartments to sprawling suburbs before the train dipped underground and up into Terminal 2. We lifted off into blue sky.