The Best Event Of 2008

My dad's wedding

My brother Ezekiel.

My sister Tara.

Me.

These are my three favorite pictures from 2008. The picture of my sister is only a tiny little lie, the one of her that is my all time favorite is one she would not love and so I've picked one here that I think she'll be happier about. We all met up in Scotland this year to see our dad get married to our wicked step mother.* Each of us came full of our own deeply complicated feelings and memories and crutches and it was awesome!

I loved bickering lightly with them on the Isle of Arron. And in Ayre. And then in Glasgow.

Seriously- I love these two so much it hurts. I'm sure they can tell by the way I am so relaxed and easy going all the time around them. I'm sure they are both wishing I was around to boss them all the time. Yeah.

I see in them so much gorgeousness, capability, creativity, individuality, and forgiveness.

It was an honor, an education, and a relief to spend so much concentrated time with Tara and Zeke. I'd like to think that as the eldest I imbued us all with a calm demeanor and great wisdom.

Unfortunately I think it more likely that I made them happy to get home in the end.

Lovely lovely time. I'm so happy I got to see my dad get married.

*Yeah, so wicked with her soft Scottish brogue that I'm practically in love with her myself.

Trouble Spots

Today is Philip's 40th birthday. I keep asking him if he's going to sell our kid to get a red sports car and a nubile blond girlfriend with giant fake boobs. While I am obviously joking, I'm not really because these are the classic things men acquire in their mid-life awakening. What separates men like that from mine?

So then I was walking through the hazelnut orchard feeling kind of depressed because I recently saw some pictures of old friends who are only slightly less close to forty than I am and look about twenty. Then I was feeling my face, like I do sometimes suddenly when I realize I'm a person in a body that's currently in motion and it surprises me every time. I feel the way I'm wearing my face, which I normally don't and there it is: me frowning. I've been doing it my whole life. The only difference between my look of deep serious concentration between now and when I was a kid is that I no longer allow my tongue to hang out like a cartoon kid.

Max asks me all the time "How come you're so mad mama?" and I come out of whatever hole my thoughts have been accumulating in and with surprise say "But I'm not mad at all Max! Why would you think I'm mad?" And he points out that it was my mad expression that gave me away. I tell him how I don't realize I'm frowning and I try not to but it's just the face I wear when I'm not thinking about what face I should be wearing. He informs me that I should change that face. So true.

So this face above is one of my serious faces that I constantly wear. The other one I got pictures of but they made me look much worse than I really look and if I really look that way I hardly want to acknowledge it so this one will do. Then I had fun in photoshop using tools I have no inkling how to use well and pointed out why I'm not supposed to be wearing this face.

I'm not actually concerned with the wrinkles much. What DOES concern me quite a lot is the sudden development of a couple of dark mustache hairs. I have never in my life had a dark mustache hair in spite of being liberally covered in dark-ish hair everywhere else. What's up with that? Thank god they aren't stiff and wiry like my chin hairs which could seriously put someone in critical condition if I didn't stay on top of plucking them!

Philip says he's not worried about being forty years old. This is why I married him. I'm not really worried about turning forty either. I turn thirty nine in a little less than a month and that doesn't phase me any more than turning thirty did which was not at all.

I have a resolution for the new year that I don't think I'm going to tell anyone about.

I do hate my hair again. Having bad hair is much worse than having wrinkles. You can quote me on that if you want.

Well, I better go do some cooking and preparing for the kid to get home. We're going to go celebrate at Hotel Oregon. Where there will hopefully be no carolers. It's hard to get up when I have a sweet cat purring in my lap.

I'm feeling frustrated with my photography efforts. All of a sudden I can't seem to take any sharply focused pictures. I really want to be a better photographer. Taking good pictures is so satisfying that once you've taken one or two it makes all the mediocre ones intolerable.

Oh well.

I'll be posting again today so I better stop playing around here. Hope you're all having a great Thursday.


Happy Birthday Philip!!!!

Back To School

Not his school face.

Today is the first day of school. Max starts at a new school this year because of our move. So not only does he get a new teacher, he also gets: all new kids he doesn't know, all new environment to get used to, and new rules. I was wondering the other day why most adults seem to assume that kids are excited to go back to school? They're always asking kids "So, are you EXCITED to go back to school?!"

Why not? What's so great about summer vacation; staying up late, playing with friends, your parents getting tired of having you home 24/7 and consequently letting you play as many video games as you want, sunshine, sleep-overs, sleep-ins, and trips to see old friends across state lines? Wouldn't everyone rather be going to school...doing homework, following rules, and sniffing that industrial school floor scent?

I did not love school. I loved having new clothes in the fall and new school supplies. The only part of school I really loved was sharpening pencils and putting them point down on fresh notebook paper to write. That first moment when you don't know what will come out of your pencil, when all the world is waiting to be recorded, it is a carefree and lovely moment pregnant with potential.

I didn't hate school though either. Not until high school. So I don't expect my boy to love school. I don't think it's a sign that he's a bad kid that he would rather be home playing Legos. Though I can see why any teacher would prefer kids who are happy to be in the classroom.

I don't get weepy about my kid going off to school. You know what made me feel bad though? His pants are almost three inches too short for him. I've been having such a hard time getting clothes, socks, and shoes for him that he will wear. He's not a prima-donna but he's extremely sensitive to textures so jeans are out. He won't wear denim. He wears sweat pants and sports pants (the kind that are made out of water resistant cotton) and he doesn't wear thick socks. The socks he usually wears got too small for him so I got him the next size up which were just a little too big for him so they lump a little in his shoes. So he's wearing no socks in his shoes. The only shoes he finds comfortable are the slip on Van's type of shoe.

So this morning he was wearing a sweatshirt that was about two sizes too big for him, pants that were 3" too short, and no socks. There's nothing like clothes on a kid that obviously don't fit them that makes me infinitely sad. Misfit. These things matter to other kids. As an adult, especially as a parent, we may look at it differently (rationally), but to other kids such an ensemble will signal: misfit.

Which is already how he feels. Which is what our family is. And now I've sent my wonderful bairne to school wearing clear signals.

So why send him at all? Why not keep him home as quite a few of my friends do? Because I am not a math teacher. I am not a science teacher. I could become one, of course. But I don't want to. It's enough just to help Max with his homework. Being responsible for his whole school education is not why I had a kid. Parents automatically are teachers of a lot of things and I'm satisfied to teach my kid what I know well and let others teach him the rest.

I send him because he needs the stimulation school offers him that I can't. I send him because unlike many of my peers (and my father in law) I believe in public education and even the teachers I haven't liked (like Max's teacher last year) have been good teachers who care about what they're doing and as a consequence Max is actually good at math and all summer long he's been reading both with his dad at bed time and by himself. He's learned to read at school but he gets his vocabulary from us.

I don't believe there's a better choice for us but that doesn't mean that it isn't hard sometimes.

Fall must really be here.

A Tribute To Home Cooking

I don't know what other secrets our friend Sharon has up her sleeve but she is quietly the best sour cherry pie baker in the world. It was sweet enough but not too sweet so that the flavor of the cherries- as intense as fake cherry candy flavor- could be bright and loud. The crust was flaky and tender and had no dairy in it so I don't want to know what she used for fat, but whatever it was made the perfect crust. It was the best pie I have ever eaten. It also happened to be the prettiest.

This pesto gnocchi made by our friend Mark is the only gnocchi I have ever enjoyed. It was a great revelation to me- the dumplings (made from potatoes and flour, usually) were tender and melted in our mouths. The pesto was creamy and rich without being too rich. (One must bear in mind that there is no such thing as "too rich" in my food vocabulary.)

I splurged on cheeses for our pot luck at my friend Chelsea's house. Seriously splurged. I fell for the colors and also for the tiny pert older French woman who was making me try every cheese she had that wasn't goat or sheep and it was amusing to watch her struggle with the fact that I could be such a difficult human being by not liking ALL her cheeses. She did make me taste a nasty olive. Chelsea liked it but I didn't. It was an olive that had little or not salt or vinegar in the curing so it was sweet. I don't eat olives for the sweet. Ick. However, do observe the gorgeousness of this cheese board and note that we ate some of them spread with a small amount of grape musk jam, a pleasant first for both of us.

These blueberry muffins are the best in the entire world. I'm not kidding. Nigella couldn't make them better. Neither could Julia Child. NO ONE MAKES BETTER BLUEBERRY MUFFINS THAN CHELSEA. I will get the recipe for them but we must all be warned that even with the recipe they will not be as good because Chelsea is magic and so is her food. If you eat one of these you will be spoiled for life because afterwards the gluey dense oily things you can buy in bakeries and cafes that call themselves "blueberry muffins" are really just fat blimps that stick in your throat and clog your spirit.

I think it's curious how we have only friends with food obsessions. I don't believe we have a single friend who are indifferent about what goes on their plates. Nearly all of them are excellent cooks or at the very least have one dish they make better than anyone else. We had better food at our friends' tables than we had out. Even when we went to D'Angelos in Mill Valley.

One meal I didn't get a picture of (and wish I had) was the pasta dish made by our friends Sid and Dennis. They made a pasta with sage from their garden that was superb. I am reminded of this because the pasta we had at D'Angelos (a winter squash ravioli with sage and butter sauce) pales in comparison to the pasta Sid and Dennis served which wasn't at all fancy or pretentious and was so good I can still taste it in my mouth now. It achieved, with half the ingredients, a purity and richness of flavor that was (I believe) the intention of the chefs at D'Angelos who ought to be taking lessons from my friends.

If I could open a restaurant (not a dream of mine, by the way) that served only food made from my friends' recipes it would be the best restaurant in the world. It pleases me that so many of the people I love take such great care and have such a passion for making food that goes beyond ordinary expectations. It is a constant inspiration to me in my own kitchen.

Shelling Peas
is the new karaoke

Cooking for a lot of people is exhilarating when you don't have to do it every day. If I had been a farm wife in the thirties with thirteen (or two?) children I would have constantly had a "headache" and made the family eat cold oatmeal for dinner with bacon lard. My husband would have beat me all the time because I would have been useless. The only time in my life that I have been a great housekeeper was when I was a childless housewife: when it was, in fact, my only job.

Cooking for a large group of people I like/love is like giving them a piece of myself. This is why I love Thanksgiving. No gifts but nourishment and time spent together preparing what keeps us hale and hearty, or in bad years-just plain alive. I like a lack of set traditions so that everyone can make it up as they go along. I like things to be informal.

Not informal in a Martha Stewart fake informal way that is really just what formal looks like when it's wearing jeans. I mean truly informal. The kind of gathering where everyone is comfortable lounging around with their shoes on or off, however they please. Where they can help themselves to whatever is in the fridge. The kind where you feel comfortable rooting around in cupboards for glasses. The kind of gathering that doesn't concern itself with doing dishes until the next morning.

So I made my friends wash potatoes* and lettuce and shell peas. The meal was about 95% locally grown and produced. Plus it tasted great.

Here are some highlights of the gathering:

• Lisa B's daughter Maddy's obsession with catching and releasing as many frogs as possible and the sideways discovery that Lisa isn't all that crazy for amphibians being up close and personal. Even baby ones the size of dimes.

• Riana's daughter Amaya using dog and frog water for festive beverages. The following speculation concerning how likely it was that Amaya was hoping to eat an actual frog was pretty great too: it was decided that frogs the size of dimes would only be good fried like "popcorn" style appetizers and Riana's French husband Benji did point out that while French people do eat frogs, they only eat the legs.

• Max stopping a bloody nose with an apple. It wasn't as effective as he hoped and resulted in a disgusting piece of fruit and blood all over his face. He was amused with the experiment and I went flying through the house to locate tissues. He's been getting more of them lately which I think is because of the heat.

• Pat from here in McMinnville (who is very old friends with Riana's mom, also named Pat) making mojitos and filling the kitchen with the scent of mint. It was quite a process and makes it a beverage to sip, I think, not gulp. Pat was lovely in her pretty summery skirt and shiny smile.

• Max blurring by with actual real cherries in his hands that he was actually EATING.** Yes, fresh local cherries. Did I dream that? Does that negate the awful blue Gatorade he was drinking earlier from the corner store? My kid ate cherries and I didn't have anything to do with it. It was a beautiful sight.

• Enjoying Benji's imitation of hormonal teens. He's a teacher and we were discussing the French school system and I was asking how hard the age group is that he teaches (from 11 years old to, I think, 15?) and he was demonstrating the fun attitudes and postures of the different ages. You'd never guess from pictures of him how funny he is.

• Finding out that French kids can be picky eaters too. It was also enjoyable finding out that a lot of French people don't even like cheese at all, or will only eat a couple of kinds of cheese. I always suspected these things but keep hearing people claim that picky eating is only an American phenomenon. Which I didn't believe.

How weird and modern is it that you can meet someone online and feel like you've known them a million years without having ever met them in person and then when you do meet them feel like they're family? As messed up as the world is right now, that's a pretty great experience. Thank you Riana (and family!) for taking the time to come and have dinner with us. Until next time we'll gather around pictures in Flickr and share each others' adventures through our blogs!



*My first potato harvest of the year!

**And then spitting the pits out at the girls. Boys!

Chicken Run

I miss our hens. I miss hearing them squawk, shuffle, coo, cluck, argue, and preen. A collection of noises that I find soothing, therapeutic, and charming. It's too quiet here. It's time to shake up the neighborhood and introduce them to their new existence living next door to the McMinnville hillbillies.

Oh, totally random (before I forget again): I keep meaning to say that the owner of the Burnside B&B (Liz) was fabulous and I adore her and she cemented her charm when she asked me who Martha Stewart was. How cool is that? Yes, some people don't even know who she is.

Back to the hens...we can't just bring the hen house over and let them roam the yard because the dog will kill them. So a run has to be built first. Although I have yet to see evidence of skunks or raccoons in our own yard, we know they are plentiful in the McMinnville neighborhoods and aside from dogs they are the most serious predator of chickens. Fortifications must be built that cannot be breached by digging or unlatching or climbing in via tree branches. For this reason, building a chicken run is a little bit like building a tiny Fort Knox. Burying chicken wire down in the dirt several inches is a good tactic. Covering the roof of the run is also smart, the other threat is chicken hawks. Yep, hawks that steal and eat chickens.

Because we live in a suburban area, there are set back rules for keeping chickens that we must adhere to. This is predominantly why we are building our chicken run right up against our lovely porch. Normally we would probably find a different spot for them.

All of our animals were intrigued by Philip's mysterious undertaking. They camped out around him, got in his way, perched themselves importantly on the tools, and generally tried to be as unhelpful as possible which is cake to cats and dogs.

Even our neighbor's puppy got in on the act. Chick dug a hole for her under the fence and I didn't discover it until I saw Chick run by twice in one direction...after my double take I noticed that the extra Chick was actually a Rottweiler puppy. This forced caused me to finally meet our neighbors over the back fence. We've agreed to let our dogs be friends since none of us can honestly figure out how to stop a determined black lab from digging her way to China if that's what she wants. Riley is very sweet, super soft, and more spazzy than Angelina on a farm.

Life is good here. We've discovered that we are much too poor to have our house up on the market but much too poor to pay for two mortgages so our friends Anna and Mitch are going to rent it because they really like the house and are supremely tired of living in a rental house with raw sewage leaking into their basement. Yeah, I don't blame them. We are all super happy with this outcome, though it's been a slightly bumpy ride working this all out. (Sorry for all the ups and downs Anna!!) (They've been very kind and patient with me.)

We are also too poor for me to lounge around here all day eating bon bons (locally made, obviously) so I'm looking for a job. I was really depressed about the prospect until I saw that our local library is hiring. Don't get your undies in a bunch over it, I'm sure there's a lot of competition for the position, but I got a glimpse of how working again might actually be exciting. I was beginning to imagine the drudgery it must be to pump ever more expensive gasoline into giant trucks all day when I saw this little light. It may be a long shot, but this is a job that I am ideally suited for, that I have secretly dreamed of even doing even after graduating from FIDM with my associates degree in fashion design.

Libraries are magical places. There were times in my childhood when I spent more hours talking with the librarians than I did my own parents. There are few places that hold as much promise of attainable knowledge and no other place in which you can broaden your experience of the world without leaving town. They smell of books; they represent the ultimate in organization of information; the human imagination is represented in thousands of ways and celebrated nowhere else so thoroughly than in public libraries...all for free.

Reality is a funny thing and who can say what it will look like tomorrow, but today is Sunday and we are all going to go for a bicycle ride together and I am going to dream yet another impossible dream.

It's All Blue Sky In Ayrshire

There are a few things I didn't bring with me: sunscreen, a hat, sandals, or tank tops for the excellent reason that the sun isn't supposed to shine in Scotland. Everyone says it. Everyone complains about it. Just like in Oregon. Since I've never been to Scotland when it wasn't winter I had to go with the common belief that it is always cold and overcast. I've forgotten that people routinely exaggerate about "poor" weather and that what might be cold to one person might actually kill another one with heat exhaustion.

It has been nothing but blue skies and warm weather until just today. I don't completely mind except for the constant discomfort I've been feeling from the warmth* and being in cars where people don't want the windows down.

This grassy verge is a lovely spot on the Culzean Castle grounds that looks out over the sea and is, in fact, a great spot to sit and kill other people with cannon fire. I know this because it was hilled up and lined with cannons a few hundred years ago and the cannons are still there. But forget about war for just a minute. Forget about history and people and be alone in your mind, just for a few minutes. The sky is clear blue for miles, the air up here is whipping your hair up and cooling your head, and the grass is speckled with the sweetest English daisies. If you sit here and forget all the fussing and clamoring of your family, your friends, your many many loved ones, I think all your troubles will slip away here.

You look out over the sea and in the distance you can see the shadow of the mainland. But who cares about the mainland when you are in the sweetest spot on the Isle of Aaron? Time can go to hell because there is almost music here. The daisies smile up at you like children who have yet to discover that life is not going to provide them with endless summer ice-cream cones. You can imagine that it's always early summer here. Before it gets unbearably hot. When there's still a freshening breeze. While we are still all thinking that the months are going to last forever.

I have had very little time to myself on this trip. I knew that would be the case since it's really not a trip that's about me. I accompanied a very large group of family and friends to Culzean Castle. I walked with them through the actual castle but as soon as I broke free of the antiquities within I went off by myself. I walked through an orangery filled with the intoxicating perfume of citrus blossoms. I walked fast across vast lawns and slowly along stone walls covered in tiny ferns and other unidentified pretty creepers. I ate a mediocre lunch at the cafe by myself and bought two Bronte books in the used bookstore on the grounds.

Eventually I made it to the one thing I was most keen on seeing. I realize now that I ought to have gone there first. The walled garden. It's beautiful. I wanted to lie down in the shade on the grass and count apple blossoms. I wanted to crawl through the borders to inspect the roses not yet in bloom and sniff at the peonies that were. I didn't get to spend as much time there as I would have liked. I love walled gardens. I want to build a wall around mine. I have a fence but fences rot and rotting fences don't feel as permanent as stone or brick walls.

I snore. I'm not happy about it. My sister couldn't sleep. Neither could I for worrying about her not being able to sleep. So I got myself a room next door at the Daviot where my brother had a room. This ceiling detail is at the Burnside Guest House. The Daviot had some of these wonderful plasters but not as many. Can I put some in my own house?

This is the staircase next door at the Daviot. Very pretty, isn't it? It became the treacherous stairs I later almost killed myself on. I swear I wasn't drunk. I slipped and I can't say it's done wonders for my back. I have some bruised bits as well.

What do you think of the carpet? I happen to be plaid happy. I put industrial plaid carpeting in our finished attic in the Beaver Street house. It always makes me happy to see it because you have to really have a sense of play to have something so bold. I loath the usual beige pile carpet so popular everywhere. I have to tell you that in the old houses here there is a lot of colorful carpet. The first place I've seen much beige is in the hotel we're in now.

Not super happy with self at the moment, however, I love this self portrait because details are washed out by the damn sunshine that has a special affinity for me and follows me where ever I go like a sad little Chihuahua that can't leave alone the one person in the room that doesn't like Chihuahua. Go away bright rays! Although, if it can erase all my flaws like this, maybe I should find a way to enjoy it more.

Rust is everywhere here because they use stone and metal for fences a lot more than they use wood. You must keep metal painted in a wet climate or it will rust. So much here is touched by age and decay and somehow when you use such sturdy materials it weathers more beautifully.

I don't know what this plant is but it was creeping up the garden walls at Culzean Castle and I love it. It looks similar to heather and yet prettier, plus it creeps up the wall and so doesn't take up valuable space as a clump.

I would like to be a black bird. This guy was hanging close to the cafe at Culzean Castle hoping for crumbs. On the other side of the battlements here is a big cliff and below it the sea.

The soldier's view. This is for Max because I so much wished he was there with me to see what a soldier with cannons would have seen. This piece of metal has blown holes in ships. Probably in flesh as well.

The wedding was yesterday. We are now in Glasgow in an apartment with two bedrooms a living room, bathroom, and kitchenette. We have left charming decor and entered the city life of business-man from the 80's taste**. everything is black and white (leather couches and dining room chairs) black curtains and white walls. It's pretty nice but is missing all the charm of the bed and breakfasts.

I'm tired. Very tired. I'm tired of talking to people I don't know. I need down time and alone time. I'm wishing I could extend my vacation by a couple more days so I can fully decompress from people. The wedding was lovely but it was long and it exhausted my reserves completely. My brother and sister are tired as well. None of us have had much sleep. None of us have been free to just do as we please. That's what the next two days are about.

I miss my Philip and wish he was here with me to just walk and take it all in. I wish he was here so we could talk about everything and I could enjoy his perspective. It's less work talking with him and being with him than with anyone else I know. I miss my Max too. I wish he had been with me when I found the giant bug on the iron fence opening into the walled garden. I took a picture, but if he had been there we could have entered into a lively discussion about his possible dangerousness. It was HUGE. I wish Max was with me to see the wall covered in weapons at Culzean Castle: an entire room covered in pistols and swords and rifles arranged artfully. It was amazing. I wasn't allowed to take pictures. I love you guys!

Most of you are awake now. My evening is in progress. Soon we'll head out to find food. All of us are planning to turn in on the early side.



*Perhaps it's hot flashes? An early menopause?

**This hotel is located in the business district, right downtown, across the street from the central train station so it caters to the business people.

Even when life is pretty damn good there are bound to be those days when you find out that the Royal family is not the only one capable of producing hemophiliacs and the events that bring about this new knowledge are precipitated by your dog trying to kill a six year old boy who comes flying through the yard like a warm rocket. This could happen to anyone.

Right?

It occurs to me that little boys with hemophilia should not enter into strangers' yards that may or may not contain a large black salivating guard dog. While I have no fear of Chick biting anyone we introduce her to, I can't say the same of people randomly racing through the yard unexpectedly. To say I was scared is to put a pretty casual veneer on the whole event. I made apologies to the mom who lives in (or was visiting?) one of the assisted living houses next door. This is when her father disclosed the hemophilia and his own dog* biting saga which led him to court and left him asking lots of questions which he freely shared with me.

Yesterday was just one of those days that starts off feeling pretty good. Pretty hopeful. But then the hours slowly fall away to reveal one unpleasant situation after another. A little reality sandwich is sometimes a little too much. I was feeling the panic out there in the world, the rising food prices, campaign madness, crashing economy, housing crisis', lost jobs, world darkness...all the good apocalyptic stuff I was brought up on. It's always nice to see that everyone still believes the end is nigh.

Christians have been talking about the Apocalypse for two thousand years. What I would really like to know is if the earth's deer think about the end of the world. Do they worry about it? Or is their Apocalypse every day the hunters crawl through the woods with guns?

There are so many phone calls to be made, little pesky chores to be accomplished, and steps to take to be ready for my trip. The worst realization is that it is just about May and I leave in ten days. When will I find time to sew? I really want to make some things. It isn't that I feel I have to (though the fact that I desperately need a few new items of clothing is a true fact) but I have been really looking forward to doing it. It's been a long time since I had the genuine urge to make some things for myself. I would like a chance to dig into my fabric piles.

Although yesterday was filled with stressful events and realizations, there was good in it too.

I got a lot of boxes unpacked. My bedroom is nearly all unpacked which is a relief. I was realizing that maybe it's more important to finish getting moved in than to make clothes. The ghetto look is slowly disappearing from my porch and I was actually doing and folding laundry yesterday. I vacuumed too, all of which helped to give me that same feeling I used to get when I cleaned my house: as though I was simultaneously cleaning my aura as well. I slept well because of it.

In spite of the fact that I had to fight a large husband, a 58 pound dog, and two kittens for space and covers. By six am the melange included a seven year old sleepy boy.


*His dog bit a kid.

The Breakfast of Champions

Max recently asked me if he could get Lucky Charms cereal. I think Lucky Charms cereal belongs to a class of food in which you will also recognize sparkling greyish-white mirror lines of meth, cocaine, and crack. The real breakfast of champions!

I should know. I have a fairly checkered past. I can prove it by having dated a very short dread-locked Australian man who alarmed me dreadfully when stripped down to his briefs at which point I wondered what the hell I saw in him in the first place and the only answer I could conjure up was that he had looked quite fascinating in the strobe lights at the Underground Club. This was the only boyfriend I ever "cheated" on. I say "cheated" because we never actually decided we were going out for real. I confess that I was shocked when he expressed unhappiness at having found out I went out with another guy.

Considering that I didn't put out for him I figured he'd be just as happy being set free. Even though he was never really going out with me. Men are a fucking mystery. I am still frightened by the memory of him in his skivvies.

Just for the record, and because I'd like to get this off my chest for posterity's sake- I had a total of fourteen boyfriends before I married Philip. I have only slept with four men. So you can see that I frustrated a lot of young men's fancies and drove a lot of balls to that quaint state of blueness so easily fixed by heartier gals than myself. I didn't tease men to be an ice queen nor did I think I was some precious china doll waiting for some perfect moment.

You know I wasn't waiting for God's approval either.

The ugly truth is that sex seemed like a serious invasion of my personal space and there are few things in life I have come to value quite as seriously as my personal space. It was one of the very first things I remember finding value in.

What interests me more than my early sex life is my history of drugs. Compared to people like Bill Clinton who never inhaled, I am like an old rock star. Compared to my immediate family I am like a pure unpoisoned angel of abstinence. What's deeply ironic is that while most of my immediate family were unabashed potheads, they seemed to have worried that I might have become a speed-freak. We discuss these things fairly freely amongst ourselves and there is no shame in having had, at any point, a relationship with narcotics, always supposing it isn't running us ragged or inspiring us to live a life of crime. I was surprised, never the less, to find that the general view at one time was that I was over the edge for speed.

It's true that I had more than my share of the stuff. Yet I have to say that most of the time I did it was either to help me pull all nighters in which I drafted patterns for school into the wee hours or because my friends had it. There was never a point at which I longed for it or sought it out because my blood ached. The only two narcotics I have ever had a weakness for are cigarettes and beer.

It is my belief that Lucky Charms cereal is a gateway drug.

First it's Lucky Charms with those brightly colored stiff weird "marshmallows" and the next thing you know you're dusting it with crack powder.

Max and his friend seemed to have had a disagreement about the damage capability of a nuclear missile. So Max wanted to know if you could blow up a car with one. So I explained that you could blow up a whole city with one and kill lots of people beyond the city as well through the heat and the acid rain and the awful fallout. It reminded me what terrible beings we humans can be. My boy is a warrior and he wants to know about these things. I am more like a monk or a Buddhist. It makes me wonder how a woman can give birth to a weapon wielding warrior? Surely that must be the eighth wonder of the world? It's weird enough that my body knows how to make a perfect penis in my womb without asking me to think about it at all. We can give birth to our opposites and, I suppose, our enemies. What torture it must be to stand across the line from her own son in war or political division.

Just like the torture it must be to see a daughter sold off to a country to quell rebellion.

He's going to remember that I wouldn't buy him Lucky Charms. I should know. My mom wouldn't buy them for me either. She might have agreed to buy me hemp cereal but there was no way she was going to pollute my body with kid-crack.

It is very late at night. I both love and hate this hour. I love it because so few people are awake. It's quiet out there in my hemisphere. When every one's awake I can hear them all. All the time. Loud like a thousand minor birds. I don't want to go to bed because it's the only time of day that no one needs anything from me. Husband sleeps. Child sleeps. I sit and ramble to self in the dark quiet hours. I have hated this time also because I have woken up so often at this time and been the only one awake in my unfading nightmare. I still have them. But they are exponentially worse when you have had very little sleep in many weeks. I hate being awake at this time when woken from a nightmare.

I am stealing some one's wireless connection. The only place in the house where we can steal the connection is at the top of the stairs. So that is where I am sitting. Most of you are asleep right now. Or awake, probably doing things I don't need to know about. Except Riana and Jo. They are probably waking up now. For them this is a time of crisp eastern light.

I like that our days cross at strange hours.

I would like lullabies to be sung to me at all times. Would you like fairy lights to be lit and a lilting song to be sung to you in your mother tongue with love, ripe with wishes and that peculiar warmth that only your mother's eyes and arms can impart?

Philip asked me if my recent nightmares have included any of the usual lions or leopards. My nightmares have nearly always featured really dubious bathroom situations or circling lions of which I am quite fearful. Or tests I haven't studied for. Or serial killers. A lot of serial killers. And hunts for me.

The nightmares have been different. But I can't tell what that means.

Right at this minute I am feeling all of your spirits out there. I am blowing kisses into your dreams. I am blowing peaceful thoughts across your brow.

Without My Eyes

More outdoor kitty pictures

Checking out the world from under the BBQ

Max is small, Pippa is smallest.

Yesterday turned out to be a stellar day. Other than my back hurting. Max played with the kids across the street, OUTSIDE. Chick got to romp around with their gorgeous pit bull named Pepper. And I got to hang out with their parents who are our only immediate neighbors that we have anything in common with. In fact, we really like them and have been wanting to have them over and then get all weirdly shy. So stupid of us! They are one of the other few nonreligious families in town.

That was really great. Then we went to Dundee with my friend Nicole to pick more nettles, hunt down poisonous plants as well as edible wild vegetation (such as the Indian Plum leaves which taste like cucumber- WHICH MAX TASTED AND LIKED!!!!!) and it turned out to be one of the most wonderful woodsy experiences. Of course Max had his spy and warrior equipment like his enormous bright plastic nerf gun. And of course he didn't want to come in the first place. But he ended up being our path leader and it was one of those great unexpected moments in life with kid that has the low potential to turn out well, but does, just to spite my expectations. I would go on such walks with Max all the time if I could budge him more often from his comfortable well worn spot in front of the play station.

For a lot of parents it boils down to insistence and power-housing their kids to do what they want them to do. Or they just have great easy going kids who go along with any plans on offer and if you have such a kid- keep your mouth glued shut please. I choose not to live with constant royal battles because Max is a master at giving them without my precipitating my own all the time.

Part of what made it fun for him was that we took some samples of the interesting plants we were finding. Nothing major, so no conservationists need be alarmed, just a wild strawberry leaf, the leaf of a baneberry plant, and some balm of Gilead (the resinous buds discarded by the Poplar trees in the park that smell wonderful).

Philip processed the nettles I brought home so none of them would go to waste this time. After the walk in the woods I really had to rest and heat my back. So I watched North And South (again) while sorting through tax papers and then looking through my rose encyclopedia. I can't wait to be surrounded by roses of my choice. I got the roses from my Pickering order and since I can't plant them yet in their real spots I need to get them into some sandy soil just to keep them healthy until I can get them into more permanent places. They're bare roots. I'm so excited about all the roses I have now. I've always wanted to get some moss roses and I ordered two of them.

I'd love to have taken pictures of our nature walk and of my nettles. But with a broken camera I am a blind writer. That's another thing I absolutely adore about blogs- we can all show each other what we're up to all the time which is like having a real visit with each other.

I love literature which has relied on words instead of pictures to show and tell for as long as humans have been writing. I have a deep respect for story telling without pictures. But that doesn't mean that I think blogs are an inferior trashy cousin to fine literature. I have read some amazing writing on blogs with pictures. The writing becomes more personal and poignant at times with the aid of pictures. The journey is different but not lesser. I have read some posts on blogs that could stand up to the test of time in a book, that could rival the finest authors out there, and have reverberated in my head and heart with the same potency as J.D. Salinger's work.

I must solve this camera issue soon.

On the homestead front, I want to say that now is a great time to be checking on your perennial herbs, if you have any, to see what kind of growth they're putting on. Especially if you live in a fairly mild climate. Early spring is when the sap of nature starts to flow. In the milder winter areas your herbs should be starting to put on new growth which means that it will be time to trim them and dry what you trim. I have just trimmed my marjoram which survived the winter (it doesn't always, here) and put on some fresh growth. I also trimmed my thyme and chives. Though I must say I don't think the flavor of chives is preserved well by drying, so I won't do that again.

You can usually get two solid harvests from your perennial herbs: spring and fall. You always want to trim them before they flower. I can usually keep myself in home grown dried thyme, oregano, and marjoram by harvesting twice a year. I use a lot of these herbs. More than any other (besides salt and pepper). If your plants don't yet have enough new growth for a harvest, just be sure to keep your eye on them over the course of the next three weeks.

Today is all about tax preparation. I am totally stressed out about it because I didn't take a final inventory before closing the store. ACK. Luckily I diligently recorded our sales in a book so I won't have to go through five thousand individual receipts to figure out what the store made while it was open. At least I did something right there.

I am having fun figuring out what souvenirs I might bring back from Scotland which is my favorite place in the world besides Oregon. I try to be careful about how much shopping I do when abroad. I often end up buying really useful things like sweaters and cookbooks or wool socks. Things I can really use when I come home too. I was thinking this time I might go to some thrift stores in Glasgow and find a few pieces of china. You probably know that I lost a good percentage of my great grandmother's china in our attic fire. We salvaged what we could. I decided it was a perfect opportunity to create a mismatched set. I love china and I love the enormous varieties of it that you can find out in the world. I thought it would make a great souvenir item that would also be useful.

Other things I was thinking about- whiskey for Philip, a glass or two for Max (he likes having his very own things), maybe a cookbook. Although a cook book would be very funny since Scotland is all about fish and meat and isn't exactly the vegetarian capital of the world. Their idea of a vegetarian soup sometimes includes chicken. !?. It must be noted, though, that the secret of eating well in Scotland (if you're me) is to eat a hell of a lot of potatoes and pub soups. Provided you specify that you don't eat fish or birds, often there really is a superb meatless soup on offer and some of the finest I've had were in pubs. I've actually had better soups in Scotland and in Paris than anywhere else I've been.

I don't actually think Americans are the best soup makers in the world.

Well, I am, but that's just another one of those things I try not to talk about too often so as not to make the rest of you feel self conscious.

Just to take my pride down a notch...I have to say that I am feeling very uncomfortable with my body right now. I mean, I have been for the last couple of years, but I'm going to my dad's wedding there with my sister and (hopefully) my brother, and it will be all these non-fat people and my brother and dad haven't seen me in two years and don't know what an enormous tub of a person I have become. I'm already embarrassed enough thinking about what my sister must think of me in my present state, but at least she won't be shocked. I know they all love me anyway. I do. I really do know that. And I've been working on losing weight (I've lost nine pounds so far) but there's no way I'll be able to lose a significant amount by May so I have to go in mostly the shape I'm in.

If I'm diligent I can probably lose another ten pounds. But even so...jesus! I don't know how to look nice as I am. You know what's even worse than caring what my family thinks of my size? Worrying about what Scotland will think of my size. Yes, the country. The land. The air. The first time I set foot on Scottish soil I knew I had come home. The air, the mountains, the slate, and the soil all embraced me. It was love. Not just me loving it, but I felt loved in return. Now I worry that it will reject me.

Yeah. A whole country.

You thought it was just houses I was nutty about.

Anyway. I will do what I can but it's really only five weeks away. How will I impress my family and my spiritual homeland if I come as I am? Will a snazzy haircut and make-up do the trick? What style of clothes should I wear? What style of clothes will be most flattering on a body like mine? There is the whole garden lady linen look with big earrings and great hats to make up for loose flowing linen clothes. Las Manos style, for those of you who have spent time in Marin or Sonoma. Earthy lady clothes. But would dressing like that make me look like an old lady?

Or should I wear all black with form fitting styles that pretend I don't have a large stomach roll?
I won't have time to sew things for myself so I am also at the mercy of large lady fashions I can find around here. VERY LIMITING.

It's a nasty dilemma. I wouldn't even air that here because I've been trying not to mention my body issues here as much. I created a special place for talk about that journey with some friends. But it's really really worrying me. Maybe even more than taxes are. I want to be stylish and pretty for my dad's wedding and for hanging out with my stylish wonderful siblings.

The day I got my passport picture taken a young (large like me) goth girl blurted out that I was very pretty. It totally took me by surprise. I have to say it really was nice to hear from a total stranger.

I am not looking for compliments from you, by the way. I want solutions. What to do? ACK!

Well, it's time to go through nasty paperwork. It's time to drink more coffee and attend to the request from Max that I spend some time drawing with him. Something he almost never wants to do with me. (Can't miss such a golden opportunity!) I hope you all have a good and peaceful Tuesday. I hope you all have already put your tax crap behind you.

Siblings

It was after this picture was taken that I realized how wrong it is to tuck t-shirts into pants of any kind. At least for us short waisted pear shaped people it is. This is one of my favorite pictures of me, my sister Tara, and my brother Zeke. Incidentally, I have just remembered a friend objecting to white tights. Hmm. I will stand firm on the tights issue. I wouldn't wear them now for fear of looking like an enormous cloud drift, but back then when I had a waist and thinner legs? I still think they look fine. This same (very dear) friend of mine also objected to my white sunglasses.

Cam- what's up with your objections to white accessories?

Part of why I love this picture is that in our adult lives we have all lived so distantly from each other and this picture reminds me of how much a part of who I am is also a part of who they are. I feel confident in saying that we all have very strong personalities and when we walk into a room the air moves around us and people notice. Partly people notice us because I used to tuck my t-shirts in but mostly it's because we (as a group) look a lot like each other and my brother is a babe magnet in spite of his extremely blunt personality and my sister has big blue orbs for eyes with long lashes and an intriguing habit of being all at once super-mellow-girl and impossibly uptight which creates a great deal of fascination for me and everyone else around her.

I like being reminded that we all belong in each other's lives because I have often looked at them as being somehow separated from me by a glass barrier. I look at them and have a thousand opinions (many of them wrong, I'm sure!) about who they are but I have often felt invisible to them. Not because they ignore me, because they don't. Well, Zeke does generally, but he ignores everyone so it hardly signifies. Who do they think I am? I know they love me but I don't know how they see me.

And, of course, they're probably wrong anyway.

(Just amusing myself there.)

I feel a great deal of love for my siblings. Both of them have matured so much and come so far and lately I've been feeling more pride for them than ever before.

Zeke is an incredible artist and has been working really hard to pull his growing body of work into a show and his work almost makes me cry it's so poignant and so perfect a way for him to express the world he sees and to put beauty side by side with the very brutal nature of life in run down urban settings. Zeke is a tough character with a chivalrous side that has been known to land him in jail for a night. He's straightforward, totally honest, argumentative, handsome, stubborn, weirdly conservative, restless, a loyal friend, a much loved uncle, and in spite of his gruff nature, is a caring and kind person.

I don't even know how to begin a description of Tara. I first realized what an incredible person she was when she made me a little book in school when she was a young teen. This book was so sweet and made me realize how much I had overlooked her and spent too much time resenting her as a kid. I experience a great deal of guilt over our early years but I've reconciled that guilt in my heart. I changed her diapers, I helped feed her, I baby-sat her. But I didn't really see her until she was a teen and she went to live with our dad and I lived with our mom after they divorced. She's an excellent letter writer, scholar, and is beginning a career as a therapist in a social work environment which I think she'll be excellent at doing. She's working on her second master and there's so much I want to say about her all at once that my head becomes a jumble.

Tara is easily as contrary a person as I am. (Though I don't know if she fully realizes this yet?). She is honest, sweet, warm, impatient with people's annoying foibles, she's sometimes blunt, she is gorgeous, smart, a loyal friend and sister, her nephew wants to live with her instead of me*, she's funny, she's brave, she's an extremely hard worker, she's indecisive, she's a worrier, she is dutiful when it's important, she's independent, she's completely liberal, she has a bottomless conscience, she's earthy, she's sharp, she is stubborn, argumentative (see a familial trend there?), she can't resist a cat's charm, she's restless, she hates a lot of the same films I do, she's going to marry Luke Wilson some day, she is a lot of fun to hang out with, and she's going to keep getting better and better.

Both of them have been known to drive me crazy at times.

If they weren't already my siblings I would wish they were. I don't think a person needs to have siblings to have a great sense of family, I think if you don't have them you find them amongst your friends. I know that I have friends I consider my sisters in spirit.

But if you have siblings, it's wonderful when they're the kind of people you'd choose to be friends with if you hadn't already spent your childhood bickering endlessly with them about who gets the last peanut butter ball or who gets to sit facing forward in the family van or who is just plain wrong.

*That's because he doesn't know how strict she'll be!!!

Drink More Liquor
(you're gonna need it for this post)

This post is dedicated to: Pam, M.S.S., D.G., Lucille, Laurie, Shar, Sid, Cindy, Sue, Nicole, Vespabelle, and Riana- provided the condoms don't break!



The first thing I want to say today, because it is ceaselessly floating around in my head, is:

Jock Itch Is A Bitch.

(But I'm not going to tell you how I know this.) I can't get that sentence out of my head. Maybe now that I've said it out loud (sometimes the pen is much louder than the voice) it will fade into obscurity.

There are a number of things itching at my brain right now. One of them is an intensely personal issue I have that makes me feel like a five year old. I don't like feeling like a five year old, in case you hadn't realized that from all the times I've mentioned how much I hated being a kid. And it isn't jock itch that's making me feel like a five year old, in case you were jumping to conclusions. No no, it's much more of a hot subject than that and one that comes up here just as frequently as beer and food does.

No, I better not talk about it.

How about instead I tell you how I'm tired of being a -

No, it can't be avoided. The unsurprising fact of the matter is that I am a very contrary person. I don't particularly find this a comfortable way to exist but even with medication the edgy lines that ceaselessly rub against each other in a war for space inside my brain spark constantly, igniting little fires that I must put out, or at least contain. One of them is that whenever I find out that a friend is going to have another baby, or try to have another baby, I feel joy for them that they are achieving their family dream.

But I also feel like a five year old whose parents have just announced that they are having triplets and I am going to be elected to take care of them. I feel slightly betrayed.

This childish feeling is one I am extremely uncomfortable having. I try to erase such feelings from my head. It is so selfish and unfair to want everyone in the world to only have one child, as I have chosen to do. It isn't just friends, either. Every time I see a pregnant woman the same thoughts come into my head. "Why is everyone always having babies?!" and "Why is one never enough for anyone?!"

The thing is, it isn't about these other people really. I truly am happy for my friends to fulfill their own family needs. I realize that for most people having kids in the plural is as primal a fulfillment as hunting and killing their own dinner. (Except that very few people do that anymore.)

What it's really about is feeling lonely in my chosen path of the one child family and the defensiveness I have felt in my decision because I can tell you a million times that I made the decision intellectually and for the planet and I know every time that I am lying. The truth is that having another child would ruin mine and my family's life because I find it almost impossible to be a good mom to one child and I don't have the slightest desire to bring more chaos into our lives. I don't have one tiny pang of desire to have another child. In fact, I would rather die than have more kids. I'm not being melodramatic.

And that's how you know I'm crazy.

Even most mothers in the one kid club have more benign reasons for having only one child than I do.


So I feel alone. I feel vulnerable and stupid. Watching other women blissfully rub their growing bellies and pushing new people out of their hoo-has feels like some kind of weird happy family wonderland from which I was excluded. Being pregnant was awful for me and not because I had anything go wrong. I just didn't like it. Labor and childbirth were not beautiful, it was torturous and don't bother thinking that I would have had a different experience if I'd had a peaceful home birth. Nothing on this planet could have made it seem beautiful to push a melon sized human head out of my lady bits.

Why did life not let me experience these things as "beautiful" events? Why was I not allowed to feel joy in the disgusting and painful process of creating another human being to suffer on this earth with me? Why wasn't I issued a pair of rose colored glasses? Don't I deserve to get all soft and fuzzy about the details of labor?

The part that's so funny is that I actually enjoy hanging out with babies. I enjoy seeing them grow up. I have loved getting to be a part of my friend D's baby's life. I get a lot of joy seeing him light up with the discovery that my nose will not come off of my face. She's going to eventually try for more children. (She has mentioned a desire to have five!) Another friend of mine who has one child will be trying for another soon. And when that baby comes I will feel the same excitement for her and I will enjoy watching that baby grow up and learn about the world.

This duality is one that I loathe. Why does part of me wish everyone would just be satisfied with one child? Why does part of me always feel kind of hurt and lonely when I find out that someone who already has one child is going to have another? I'm going to end up loving their babies and being so happy for their happiness, so why do I always have to feel betrayed first? Is there no way to bypass this tricky brain tangle?

Being crazy sucks.

I have possibly made a couple of new friends* from my Master Gardening class. The two women I've met that I really enjoy talking with happen to be mothers of one like me. When I found out I instantly thought (but don't think I shared with them) "We're all in the one-kid club!" and I felt ridiculously happy. I felt instantly more comfortable and safe.

Yes, SAFE.

I can't help but wonder if some of the problem is that I don't want things to change. I make friendships and I don't want them changing. They change with more kids. The more kids you have the less time you have for friends, or when hanging out with friends the more your brain is multi-tasking on caring for your kids. It also becomes exponentially more difficult to make plans, to go places, to do things. I don't know how to be friends with someone who has five children. What would we have left in common? What could we possibly do together that wouldn't be child-centered?

I tend to adjust to change quite well once it's under way but I generally approach it with deep trepidation.

Now that I have finally alienated absolutely everyone I know- I am going to really nail the lid of my coffin on tight with something else that's on my mind:

If any parent of a truly picky eater has actually tried the method of forcing their kid to eat what they want their kid to eat based on the theory that "Kids will never starve themselves", please speak up now. Tell me how long your kid held out before eating what you wanted them to. Tell me how often you've done this and if it transformed your child into a non-picky eater?

I am absolutely tired of people saying that a child will never choose to starve. Because, so far, not a single parent who's trumpeted this line out for my benefit is the mother of a picky eater and has not apparently had to employ this strategy of force to their own children.

My child would absolutely starve himself if he could in such a battle but he would actually bleed to death first since he would be so upset at the battle over food that he would force open his capillaries and gush until he passed out. I don't know, but I suspect, that every parent who has glibly suggested I just make him eat regular food, would not be able to deal with my kid in such a situation.

My grandmother tried to force me to eat a pork chop once. I was (as you all know by now) raised as a vegetarian by my mother. I can tell you that we sat at the dinner table for hours and I would not eat that pork chop. Had she tried to get me to eat meat the next morning? After going to bed with no dinner? I would have held out. I would have rather starved than subject myself to the vomit-fest that trying to swallow meat would have provoked.

So if anyone has had a child like me or Max and managed to win the war of food through forcing the issue meal after meal, I want you to tell me all about it. Because I resent my dead grandmother to this day for trying to make me eat food that made me gag. I don't relish such a relationship with my one and only lambini. How did you do it and not have your child hate you for life? How did you apply this fabulous method of feeding your child? How many hours, days, weeks did it take?

I define picky eating as the number of items a kid will eat being ten or less.

Parents of kids who eat everything are often so smug about it. As though it's through their great parenting that their kids eat well. I say it's luck and it's the kid. (Well, in cases where good wholesome food has always been on offer. It could be a parent's fault that their kids are picky if they don't eat well themselves.)

Anyway. The next person who says a "kid won't ever starve themselves" may try working their magic on my kid for one week. Let's see their excellent good sense and strong parenting skills transform my child. We'll switch. Let me experience what it's like to feed a kid who eats like a normal kid.

Any takers?

Well, it's been nice knowing you all. So long. I understand that you can't be friends with me anymore. I'm going to miss you.

*Of course, if either of them are reading this, they may be rethinking being friends with me!

Sudden Family Road Trip

We rarely go on outings as a family. Mostly this is my fault. I do not travel well with children. I used to love to travel or take drives with Philip but since having a kid I find it's a nightmare to anticipate all the things we'll need for Max and Max is not a child who takes it lightly when you've forgotten his essential toy that you didn't even know he had or left behind his favorite snack.

So I avoid going to far afield with my kid and husband. I find it's less stressful to be close to home. But yesterday I got a sudden urge to go run amok on the beach. I don't like beaches where dogs have to be on leashes. Pacific City is perfect because there's a giant vertical dune that the kid and the dog love to scramble up and down and Chick can run free of restraint. So everyone gets lots of fresh air and exercise. When we're done there's a restaurant with award winning beer and fantastic fries.

Our car hasn't been working for two weeks so it was uncertain whether we would be able to do this sudden family road trip. In my opinion, Sundays are not generally lucky days, so I wasn't holding my breath for a happy outcome.

Apparently you need to give cars oil if you want them to start and run.

Here are some highlights of our road trip to the beach:

• Stopping at the side of the road so that Max could carve his initial in the snow with hot pee. I still find it incredible that I made this strange man-creature in my womb, a creature that feels compelled to make armpit farts and enjoys peeing as though it was a sport.

• Seeing a car suspended in a tree somewhere near Grand Ronde. I can't imagine how the hell anyone was able to hoist it up there but it's quite amusing. Except for the patriotic way it's painted. Cars in trees: Oregonians are so wacky!

• Watching the dog and the kid run like wild things as soon as they hit the cold wet sand. A boy and a dog have a lot of energy to expend and expel, they sometimes look jet fueled. There's a joy of spirit that exudes from them when they are allowed to express themselves without restraints. I can barely make it up the dunes one time but these two can run up it like it was paved in tarmac and not slippery sliding sand.

• Discovering a dead seal. They're big. And pretty skanky when they've been dead for a while and pecked at by seagulls. I kept walking right past it because I could see in the briefest glance that the image of a dead seal wasn't the last one I wanted in my head before dinner. Life with a boy means that you will get all the gross details of life and death whether you want them or not. What could be more fascinating than a decaying water mammal that the seagulls have toyed with? Max had to poke it and then talk about it for the rest of the night. "Remember when we saw the dead seal and I poked it and it jiggled? I wish I had touched it!" Ugh.

• Agreeing as a family, over french fries, that none of us wanted to live at the ocean because of the tsunami potential and because it's always windy and when it's bright it's unrelentingly bright (the kind of weather that makes me exceedingly angry). We decided that the beach is a great place to visit but we're happy living inland in our small town that's not so small it's without amenities but not so big that it's noisy and hideously packed with people. We decided, as a family, that we're very happy with where we live.

Coming soon: I received in the mail the most amazing gift I've ever been given...I have yet to take good pictures of it but when I do I will post it! Just to whet your curiosity I will tell you that the person who sent it is none other than Pam from Pam Kitty Morning, so you know it was something amazing!

Christmas Morning
Let There Be Peace

What I love about having a small family is that our Christmas isn't a giant frenzy of crazy parties, tense family gatherings, or frenetic activity. Here at the Williamson Ranch we have been up for two and a half hours enjoying each other's company pretty quietly. Max can be exceptionally grateful when opening presents and surprisingly ready to be pleased with everything. (Surprising because he is so particular about everything he wants...much like the rest of his family). He has been spontaneously snugly and has given me way more kisses than are standard. He is being such a joy!

I love that one of the only family Christmas traditions my family has ever had (and has let fall to the wayside, sadly) has been to go to the movies on Christmas day. What's wonderful about it is that the theaters keep on showing movies even though they are only showing them for our family and whatever other Jewish family is in town. Although I am not Jewish, our dad is and before our family split in two, we often celebrated Hanukkah instead of Christmas, or we would celebrate a calmer version of both. But Christmas day held no big parties or feasts for us. So we'd go off to the movies and have the theaters to ourselves. We could be as loud as we wanted.

Which we never were, of course, because we are a quiet introverted kind of people.

I would like us to go see a movie today. Max really wants to see "Fred Claus". Obviously this wouldn't be my favorite choice since I think Vince Vaughn is completely unfunny and also a sleaze ball. (There's also the fact that I loathe Christmas movies.) However, I'd be willing to see it. (A true indication of the love I feel for my child.) The only problem is that my mom is coming with her little dog Claire who likes to pee all over our things and I am wary of leaving her here while we go see a movie.

We had a meal planned for tonight which involved a hippie style lentil loaf with a mushroom gravy and Brussels sprout cauliflower gratin. However, I am much more in the mood for spaghetti. I have been craving spaghetti sauce for over a week now. I have been cautious about using my canned tomatoes since they must last me until at least July. I think Christmas is a good occasion to break out the tomato sauce I canned. I know it isn't a very traditional Christmas meal, but then, we don't eat ham or geese or ducks or chickens or turkeys or cows, so when you take all that away- there's plum pudding left for traditional fare, right?

Which we aren't going to make because we've been eating (locally made) candy all morning and I think if we made a dessert we might actually burst into flames from eating so much sugar.

Philip got me a book about preserving foods without freezing or canning them. It's all about the traditional methods of preserving food in crocks with salt, or with oil, lactic fermentation, or sugar. I'm interested to try some old methods- but I'm wishing I could score a few really big ceramic pickling crocks. (They are really expensive both used and new).

Well, it's time to go take a shower and, I don't know, dream about food projects? This month I plan to learn to make feta cheese and possibly cream cheese as well. I might spend some time looking through my food reference books which is one of my favorite activities.

I hope all of you are having a wonderful quiet day with the people you love! If you're here in town, why not stop by our house and have some libations?

The other thing I am thinking about right now is Peace. People are always saying "Peace On Earth" at Christmas time. Wouldn't it be amazing if everyone really meant it this year? Wouldn't it be incredible if this year brings an end to killing? So that's what I will meditate on between beers.

Peace on earth and good will towards mankind.

Literally, this year.

Update: I don't know if we'll get our wish for peace on earth, but one Christmas wish has just come true: IT'S SNOWING!!!!!!