give it a go

I know, I know. People have been posting these for a long while now. So what if I'm late on the scene. If you're like me (and even if you're not) give it a go. It's fun (and addicting, if you're obsessed with fonts, color and composition). See here.

HAPPY FALL

Happy Fall!

love,
M

little rascals

When Linds and I would go to the grocery store, we'd say (from childhood days spent watching Sesame Street) "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter." (Or however it goes.) Em taught me to open a carton of eggs and run my fingers along both rows to check for cracks. Mom showed me how to situate the eggs in a bag, nesting them safely away from things such as containers of milk. Maren taught me to like organic milk. Dad taught me how to put the clutch all the way in while simultaneously hitting the breaks. And, in third grade, under the tutelage of Mrs. Banks, I read the book "Rascal." (That was the same class that N. showed the entire class how to lock Mrs. Banks in the closet, but that's worthy of a blog post all its own, and entirely unrelated.)

The other night, I was headed home from the grocery store quite late. I had been careful to place my carton of eggs on the other side of the back seat, far from my half-gallon of organic milk. (It is also essential to the plot to mention that among the grocery items in the back seat were a small pot, nestled inside a larger pot, both of which were situated within a glass pyrex pan.) I pressed my foot to the clutch and reversed out of the parking spot.

Just as I turned down the main street, I spotted three sets of eyes which glowed in the beams of my headlights. Gray and black stripes streaked across the dark of the night, three midnight bandits up to no good. I put the clutch in at the same exact time my foot hit the breaks, but it was too late. No, this story doesn't end with a taxodermist, although Al could teach me all I need to know about that. Right as I slammed on the breaks, barely missing those little Rascals by the skin on their noses, I said aloud, "Eggs!" And then, the crash: a loaf of bread, a container of milk, a stick of butter, a carton of eggs and one large crash. It was like New Year's Eve in September -- pots clanging pans, eggs hitting pots. I didn't dare look. My Driver's Ed teacher taught me to keep my eyes on the road. I continued home.

When I drove into the driveway, I feared the worst. I lifted one pot lid at a time, revealing what I thought would be one yolky, possibly glassy mess. Not exactly the midnight casserole I had in mind. However, as I pulled the plastic bag with the eggs inside from the rubble, I opened the carton and ran my fingers across each row of eggs. Not a single crack. Apparently 12 very wise mother hens had taught their eggs the importance of helmets. We all walked away without a single scratch. Now, if only those racoons would teach their children to look both ways before crossing the street...

89 years ago today

To this sweetheart of Sigma Chi, mother of 11, grandmother of 45, great-grandmother of 34 (and counting - help! I've lost track), world's best apple crisp, roast beef and mashed potato, oatmeal cookie (to name but a few) maker, Snelgrove's sneaker, Frango mint savor-er, seamstress, quilter, weaver, teacher, pilot, world traveler, missionary, wife, daughter, sister and friend...HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA! I adore you.

announcement

And how do we feel about this?

blue and orange

I slid off my shoes, bright red toes complimentary to the green grass which felt cool and cushy on my feet. The September breeze blew through my hair, wafting the smell of shampoo across my nose. Mom scaled the ladder to reach the ones at the top. I started low, remembering what Grandma said: If they don't come off with one twist, they aren't ready. I stuck my hand under the dark green leaves and felt for fuzz. Grabbing hold, I tugged. I placed the first one in the bag and went back to the same spot. By the time Grandma joined us, both of our bags were brimming.

I like to find the ones that are almost round; the ones with dark plum-colored underbellies I can press my thumb into, proving them ready to eat and branding them mine.

The three of us picked for a while more, Grandma divulging her canning and freezing secrets as she twisted, one peach at a time.

Her blue bowl was sitting on the small table in the kitchen along the wall. It's the table that was at our house along our wall while she and Grandpa were in Sweden. The blue pitcher always sits beside it. The bowl was full of peaches, the orange complimentary to the blue.

Stepping on the stool, I reach for my blue bowl next to the blue pitcher on the top shelf. I fill it with peaches, placing the roundest one on top, plum-colored belly up.

Saturday 411

After finishing things up at the store today, I met S & M at the market for lunch. We ate on the patio and discussed the finer things in life, as we always do. Before heading home, M decided to grab a few groceries. We wandered the aisles, talking each other into certain purchases, deeming them absolutely necessary for survival. We came home with the following:
- 3 pints of ice cream (jamocha, bailey's chip, and chocolate marshmallow to be exact)
- 1 loaf of bread
- 1 container of cookie dough
- 1 giant rice crispy treat
- 1 package of chocolate marshmallow bears.

Guess what we had for dinner tonight at our house...

raining at sunset

Yesterday morning we woke late, made Robin's chocolate doughnut cookies (after a breakfast of yogurt and granola, so the cookies were totally legit) and headed off to church.

Post church, we enjoyed a leisurely walk up City Creek Canyon, just the three of us. Sunshine warmed our backs and leaves rustled in the trees above our heads. Cyclists and runners came whirling past, but we were content to let life go by one step at a time. Pointing out favorite houses along 2nd Avenue, we took the long way home.

At the sound of raindrops, K and I met in the hallway and dashed out onto the patio to watch the storm roll in. As I watched the gray sky drift by, Dickinson's poem came to mind: The Clouds their Backs together laid; The North begun to push. Mist settled its airy head down for the evening on the foothills as the big clouds rolled on by like dark waves. They had a mission all their own. My eyes glanced up past the H rock. The highest peaks on Grandma's Mountain had been dusted with snow like powdered sugar on morning waffles. K and I stood silent for awhile listening to the raindrops carry on a conversation, prattling back and forth to themselves as they pounded the pavement and the roof of the patio.

Before long there were puddles begging to be jumped in. I slid my feet into my galoshes one foot at a time, grabbed an umbrella and we headed out the front door. We stepped as light as mist; our moods the same as, we danced down the street towards the gutters. Our steps turned heavy and bounding when we reached the puddles. We leaped and bounced and splashed, water reaching the tops of our legs, like Gene Kelly in "Singing in the Rain." (I wished my Dad was there to splash with us. He does the best Gene Kelly, hands down, and there's an audience to testify).

We reached the C's house wet, but happy. M fed us steak, warm potatoes, fresh mozzarella with basil and tomatoes and chocolate cake for dessert. We came back to 2186 full, full, full. Fall is literally on our doorstep. I've got wet pants to prove it and I couldn't be happier. Bring it on.