Humidity - Fountain of Youth or Just Another Bad Hair Day?

I'm sitting in a waiting area in a hospital in Miami, trying to read a book. But really I'm listening to one side of a cell phone conversation. A young man, probably in his late twenties, is telling a friend all about his recent trip West with his parents. They'd been in Las Vegas and to the Grand Canyon.

"Dude, if you ever get the chance to go to Vegas, do it. Dude, it's amazing."

He talks about the glassbottomed skywalk that goes out over a tiny part of the Grand Canyon.

"Dude, I was freaking walking on glass right above the Grand Canyon."

And he also mentioned the dry air.

"And Dude, there's no humidity in the air."

I've been thinking a lot about humidity since I've been here in Florida. I've been feeling a lot of humidity since I've been here in Florida. I grew up in a humid climate and I've been having flashbacks to my childhood: towels that never dry completely between showers or trips to the beach, sheets that are slightly damp when you slip between them at night. I don't think I really knew what dry was until I moved to the desert.

But I'll say one thing for humidity - it's great for my skin. Within two hours of getting off the plane, the alligator skin on my shins was gone. Gone! Here in Florida, I always feel like I've been recently dipped in a really good brand of lotion. I'm convinced that I look five years younger here than I do at home. No wonder Ponce de Leon searched for the Fountain of Youth in Florida.

But my hair looks terrible. Ugh. And it takes me longer to dry it here because of the humidity. I straighten the curly part with a gigantic round brush and then add volume to the straight part using the same gigantic round brush. And within five minutes of finally completing this task, the straightened parts are going curly and the voluminized parts are flat against my scalp. In Utah, after completing this process, my hair can still look pretty good four or five days later! I know, that's gross. But try camping in the mountains with no hot water and no place to plug in a hair dryer.

"Dude," the young man tells his friend (and he sounds like Bill Murray in "What About Bob?" when Anna invites him to go sailing on her friend George's boat and he says "It makes my lips numb to think about it."), "My lips feel like they're, like, burned up."

Yeah, I think, but I bet your hair looked great.

Lost In Miami - Not!

During the past year, my parents moved from New England to Florida, where my father promptly suffered a massive heart attack and landed in a hospital in Miami for by-pass surgery. Knowing that our mother is not exactly (big understatement) directionally gifted (she's never gotten anywhere on the first try), and would never be able to get back and forth between home and the hospital by herself without a lot of worry, my sister flew from Virginia to be with our parents.

My sister has never been lost in her life. She has a built-in compass. She's also one of those uber-practical people which probably helps a lot. It wouldn't be practical, for example, to be thinking about that family visiting their elderly mother in the hospital room closest to the sitting area on the eighth floor, and wondering how the daughter-in-law ever managed to get into those pants, let alone zip them up, when you were driving in an unfamiliar city. What would she have on tomorrow? And which one of them got stuck with the baked potato chips for lunch? My sister would only be thinking of turning the right way as she exited the parking garage and getting onto the on-ramp without wasting any time. My mother was in good hands. Marcia stayed for a week, and then our brother took over for a few days.

He's a guy. Even if he did get lost, well, you know... (He'd never admit it.) And Mom would never know the difference. She'd be busy thinking about several other things, especially since someone else was driving.

Next it was my turn.

"Be careful and watch her if she drives anywhere," Marcia warned me. "Sometimes she goes the wrong way."

I waited, thinking she was going to add something like "and ends up driving into the canal that runs through the neighborhood."

But she didn't.

"Oh!" I finally responded. "You're kidding! Goes the wrong way?"

So I found myself in Florida for my shift. I would need to drive my mother to Miami to visit my dad every day. It's a four hour round trip. My siblings had confidence in me. At least they pretended they did. I was prepared to banish all superfluous thoughts from my brain and encourage my mom to do the same in case I needed her help navigating. We could only afford to think of one thing at a time, and unfortunately it had to be the road ahead of us.

Or so I thought.

My parents have a G.P.S. in their car. I've never used one. I live in Utah - a huge, living coordinate plane. Everything is laid out on a grid. Every address is an ordered pair. The mountains serve as a compass rose, and you can see for miles and miles in every direction. Even I can get anywhere I need to go.

So we set the G.P.S. for the hospital and off we go.

My mother starts saying things like "She'll tell us to take the Federal Highway to Cove Road." At first I think she's talking about my sister, but soon it becomes clear that she isn't.

"Marcia went another way, but She'll want us to get on I-95 further down." I realize who She is and that She merits capitalization. My mother is refering to the G.P.S.

"It's not a she," I tell her. "It's an it."

"Well, I know, but it's a woman's voice," she insists.

"Mom," I say. "It's a computer."

But the closer we get to Miami, the more I slip up.

"She said to keep right in point seven miles," I tell my mother as she hangs up her cell phone from talking to my dad. By now I'm picturing Her as a glorious ship's head out in front of the car. I'm thinking about my driving with the left side of my brain, but indulging the right side as well. I'm imagining Her with long red hair flowing out behind Her, strong, confident facial features, seashells with cleavage... What does she do when she's off duty? Family? Probably a daughter named Marcia.

My mom and I love Her. She allows us to think about as many things as we want all the way to the hospital.

Unfortunately we leave Her in the glove compartment when we go inside. We would have liked to have taken Her to lunch. My mother and Marcia had been to an Au Bon Pain near the hospital one day the previous week, but naturally Mom can't remember how to get there. She calls Marcia for directions as we stand outside the hospital entrance. Marcia gives them to her from memory. Naturally.

"Okay, thanks!" Mom tells her and hangs up the phone. Without missing a beat she turns to a tall, capable-looking nurse with beautiful brown skin, a friendly smile and blue scrubs who has just exited the hospital.

"Excuse me," my mother says. (She loves to talk to total strangers.) "Do you know where Au Bon Pain is?"

This friendly, capable woman starts to give us directions, then insists "Just follow me. I'll take you there!"

When we get back into the car to go home that evening, I find I have a new mental image of Her: tall, capable-looking, blue scrubs, beautiful brown skin and a friendly smile.

We ask Her to take us home.

She does.

The Art of Gift Giving... And Receiving

Ever notice how we tend to give people things that we like as gifts? We think something is great, and we’re just sure that the recipient of our gift will be equally excited about it? I know I’ve been guilty of this. And so has my husband. He loves containers with lids. It was one of the first things I realized about him after we were married. One year for Christmas, I got a set of Rubbermaid containers for the kitchen. I made sure that never happened again. Every year, while we’re out shopping for the kids, I pick up a set of them for him.

“Pretend you didn’t see those!” I tell him. “They’re your Christmas present.” And every year he loves them. We have so many plastic containers floating around inside our kitchen cabinets. It’s really hard to keep them organized. Lids everywhere. Every so often I take a bunch and put them in the basement or donate them to Deseret Industries.

A few months ago Kent gave me a watch for my birthday. He loves watches. He buys himself watches all the time. Well, not all the time. I should be fair, so let’s say “fairly often.” I’m not sure how many he has. Probably not as many as it seems like to me. But he does have quite a collection.

“Do you want your present now or tonight?” he asked me on the morning of my birthday. I could tell he was excited. I was a little nervous. My daughter says I’m a terrible gift-getter.

“You never like what Dad gives you,” she accuses me every Christmas. “You always end up returning it.”

Really, that’s only happened once or twice.

 Three times at the most.

“How about now?” I said. He disappeared upstairs, and then returned with a beautifully wrapped gift.

“Happy birthday,” he told me and handed it to me. I took the gift nervously, avoiding his eyes as I thanked him. Looks a little too big for jewelry, I thought with relief. Sometimes he buys me jewelry. Not because he likes jewelry. I think it’s because jewelry is easy. I know I’m not an easy person to buy for. Okay, I admit it: I am a terrible gift-getter. As you are about to see. There’s not a lot I want. I’d rather he saved the money. And I really don’t wear jewelry. I wear earrings, but that’s it. I haven’t even worn my wedding ring in over sixteen years. And I only wore it sporadically before that. I think I have a little bit of claustrophobia or some related phobia; if my fingers swell up the least bit and I can’t slide the ring off easily, I get panicky. I like to tell people I don’t wear my wedding ring because it makes me feel trapped. Kent doesn’t appreciate this. I think it’s funny.

I slowly pulled the paper off, revealing a beautiful, shiny black lacquered box. With a lid.

I gasped, and then

“A box with a lid!”

“Open it,” he insisted after rolling his eyes. He’s a good sport about his obsession.

I opened the lid and I’m sure my face fell. It was a watch. I knew he sensed my disappointment.

“A watch,” I said lamely.

“Yeah, I remembered hearing you talk recently about wearing a watch,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic after my poor reaction.

Yes, I thought. I think what I had said was something like “Nobody wears watches anymore. They’re becoming obsolete because everyone just looks at their cell phones.” I didn’t say this aloud.

“It’s beautiful,” I exclaimed, and it really was, but I knew I was too late.

“It’s a really nice watch,” he told me. “And I got a good deal on it,” he assured me, knowing I worry about cost.

I felt terrible about my reaction for the rest of the day.

I have very small wrists so I had to get the watch sized. I took it to Precision Time in the mall. I secretly hoped they wouldn’t be able to take out enough links to make it small enough for me. (That had happened once years ago, before I decided that wearing a watch made me feel trapped, too.) Then we could return the watch and it wouldn’t be my fault, right?

“Oh, we can definitely make it small enough,” the girl assured me. “By the way, this is a very nice watch.”

Oh? I thought. It was beautiful. Just what I would pick out if I were ever inclined to wear a watch.

“You don’t think he spent a lot of money on it, do you?” I asked the girl as she worked with her tiny tools.

“He probably spent quite a bit,” she told me.

Suddenly, I had this strange feeling come over me. I wanted to wear the watch. I didn’t want to return it. I hoped it wouldn’t make me feel trapped.

I must be turning into a real girl, I thought. One who likes expensive presents.

So what kind of a person does this make me? I wondered guiltily.

I don’t think it was because I found out it was a really nice watch that I suddenly wanted it. I think I realized that I liked it because Kent did. He had picked it out and bought it for me. It was beautiful. He loves watches. I could share his enthusiasm for watches enough to love this one and wear it for him. And guess what? I’ve loved my watch. I wear it almost every day. I don’t have to dig my cell phone out of my purse every time I need to know what time it is. And I feel so grown up wearing it. It’s not too tight, but not loose enough to slip all the way around to the wrong side of my wrist. And besides, it has a really quick release mechanism if I start to feel, well, you know.

I’m actually looking forward to Mothers’ Day.

No pressure, Kent.

It's Spring!

I saw a forsythia bush in bloom today. I thought I'd post this essay I wrote several years ago. My family is starting to get nervous. Anytime now I might try to pack them into the car for a drive.

“What a glorious day!” I exclaim for the fourth time in less than an hour. Springtime is here. Blue sky, sunshine, warm days. Although it’s usually impossible for me to decide on a favorite anything (book, movie, dessert), I can easily say that spring is my favorite season. And I say it a lot.

“Just feel that sunshine,” I order anyone who happens to be outside with me. “Isn’t it fabulous?” My eyes are closed, my face tilted upward, my arms outstretched. It’s almost a religious posture.

The grass is getting greener every day. Crocuses and daffodils are blooming. I have purple and pink hyacinths by my front door. At least once a day I get down on my hands and knees, awkwardly lean out over the flower bed and drink in some of their smell.

And any moment now the forsythia is going to burst open. I love forsythia. (My kids are rolling their eyes.) I love those long, willowy fingers of golden yellow, pointing towards heaven and their Creator. It makes me cringe when people curb its wild growth, trimming it into a neat, boxy-looking hedge. The little bits of yellow that manage to survive this massacre just don’t show up like they were meant to. Over the years I have schooled my family on this subject. It’s been pretty easy with the kids. If you’re brought up from birth with a certain idea, it has a good chance of sticking. I’m pretty sure none of my kids will ever dare to take a hedge trimmer to a forsythia bush. They think it’s a commandment. I worry a little about my husband though. He’s a trimmer by nature. He gets it from his parents. They’ve maintained a beautifully shaped hedge alongside their front walk for decades.

I’ve learned to watch for the forsythia. It used to catch me off guard every year, seeming to erupt all at once overnight. But now I watch for it. And it’s about to happen.

I’ve been known to take members of my family on what I call mystery walks or mystery rides in the car in order to show them something I want them to see. The first time I did this the kids were so excited. Of course, they’d convinced themselves and each other that it was Chuck E. Cheese’s that I wanted them to see. Their little bottoms bounced on the seat as we turned in the opposite direction from Chuck E. Cheese’s.

“She’s just trying to trick us!” they exclaimed to each other. “We’re really going to Chuck E. Cheese’s!”

You can imagine their reaction when we arrived at my destination: the building site of a new large and beautiful house of worship (L.D.S. temple) our church was building. I had honestly thought it would be really fun for them to see the progress that was being made. They all bawled. And I got mad. Needless to say it was a big disappointment. To all of us. But some good did come of it. Now, when it comes to Mom’s mystery rides, their expectation level is really low. So low, in fact, that once in a while they actually enjoy it a little more than they thought they would. Naturally they’d never admit this.

Often the object of my mystery ride is to view an exceptionally grand specimen of something growing somewhere. Like a forsythia bush. One midsummer day I told my daughter to get in the car.

“I want to show you something,” I told her.

“Mom, it’s a forsythia bush, isn’t it?’ she said accusingly. “I know it’s a forsythia bush.”

“How ridiculous,” I told her. “Forsythia isn’t even in bloom this time of year.” She visibly relaxed.

“Well, I know it’s going to be something dumb,” she assured me.

“I have never taken you to see anything dumb,” I defended myself.

We pulled up in front of a yard that looked quite ordinary, except for the absolutely giant free-standing rose bush in the middle of the front lawn. It was as tall as the garage and was covered with dinner plate-sized pink roses. Okay, maybe salad plate. She rolled her eyes at me and sighed, but I could tell she was impressed.

I’ve been keeping a close eye on all of my favorite forsythia bushes around town and today is the day. Spring has officially arrived. And this year, I even have a forsythia bush of my own. We planted it in the backyard last summer.

A few weeks ago I was talking on the phone about forsythia with my sister who lives in Virginia.

“You can cut branches and bring them in the house and force them to bloom early, you know,” she informed me.

“Oh yeah? Well, not if your bush only has six wisps!”

Maybe over the years my forsythia will spread into hundreds of untamed fingers of yellow blossoms. If I can just restrain my husband. Last summer I mentioned to my mother-in-law that Kent had planted a forsythia for me. Her response: “Well, just make sure he keeps it trimmed.”

Just Get Rid Of It!

A few nights ago I attended a class on home organization. It was taught by a good friend of mine named Susan. She’s easily the most organized person I know. Not only are her closets organized, but they’re attractive to look at. If I were her, I’d probably be tempted to leave the doors open all the time: Someone’s coming up the walk! Quick, open the closets! Someone open up the laundry room door!

I’m not exactly an ultra-organized person, but I am a person with relatively few belongings to organize. I like it that way. And it makes me come across as fairly organized. The other night, Susan was encouraging us to get rid of fifty per cent of our stuff. If I got rid of fifty per cent, I’d be in trouble. However, I did come away inspired to make the belongings I do have look nicer in their closets, drawers, and cupboards. Thank you, Susan!

I wrote the following essay about nine years ago.

I’ve often said that given two hours, my husband and I could empty the entire contents of our home onto the back lawn. Kent rolls his eyes whenever I make this claim, but really, I can’t see it taking us all that long. I’m not a saver. We simply don’t have a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff would drive me crazy. Kent does seem to have been born with the saver gene, but I’ve done my best over the years to curb the tendency. He brought a few choice items into the marriage sixteen years ago that are still with us. There are the wool socks his family brought home from Finland in the 1960’s. There are the plastic yogurt containers from Germany (don’t even bother asking), and there is his vast collection of gym shoes. We called them sneakers where I come from. He had more pairs of gym shoes – mostly basketball shoes in those days – than even an N.B.A. player could reasonably feel good about. These days it’s running shoes. Why can’t he get rid of them when he’s worn them out? I don’t know. It’s beyond me. You ask him.

I remember a character in an Anne Tyler novel I once read. She called herself a Clutter Counselor. For a fee, she would come into your home and, with an eye not fogged by sentimentality, get rid of all your junk from attic to basement. I could do that, I’ve often thought. My teenage daughter recently told me, by way of a compliment she insists, that I’m the least sentimental person she knows. She happens to be a saver. She learned at a young age to periodically rummage through the waste baskets, looking for treasures I might have accidentally discarded.

I’m not all that bad, though. Even I know there are some things that must be saved, such as birth certificates and other important documents, family photos, a few samlpes of the kids’ school work, the wedding album… Until recently, this stuff has been stored in the master bedroom, under the bed. Houses these days seem to be designed and built with so little storage capacity that even someone like me finds it inadequate. And just knowing this stuff was all crammed under our bed made me crazy. Periodically (not as often as I should have), I’d haul it all out from under there, dust it off, run the vacuum under the bed, then regretfully push it all back.

Last winter Kent built shelves into a large closet in our upstairs hall that had formerly housed a washer and dryer. Finally I had a place for all that stuff that was under our bed. I got it all organized neatly on the new closet shelves.

“I can’t tell you how good it feels to have nothing under this bed!” I’d exclaim to Kent on a nightly basis. “Look under there!” I’d insist. “Nothing!” Every day for the first few weeks I’d get down on my hands and knees and peer under there. Daylight on the other side! For a while, I even vacuumed under there regularly because it was so easy to do. “Have you looked under the bed today?” I’d ask Kent. “Go ahead,” I’d encourage him, “there’s nothing there.” After a while he started to glance at me with a strange look on his face every time I said this. I guessed I was overdoing it.

I finally got my chance to declutter someone else’s house a couple of summers ago. We were visiting my parents and the kids discovered the eaves across the front of the house. I hadn’t been in there for years. No one had, by the look of things. They’d only shoved more and more stuff in without taking any out. Once I got started, there was no stopping me. By the end of about three days, I’d gone through everything. After making a pile for my sister, one for my brother, and one for my parents (there was nothing I was even tempted to hold onto), we hauled at least ten garbage bags to the dump. It felt so good. To this day, they haven’t missed a thing. And I didn’t even charge them.

Today I think I may have discovered the reason why my husband started giving me those strange looks every time I mentioned the void under our bed. As I passed through the bedroom this morning, I thought I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the toe of a running shoe peeking out at me from under the bed. I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to investigate. Besides, maybe it’s better if I just don’t know.

Neapolitan Easter Eggs Are Here!

Last year at about this time, my daughter gave me a wonderful treat. She had come over late at night to retrieve something from our house. We had all gone to bed already. She picked up whatever it was she was after and left in exchange a few seasonal egg-shaped candies wrapped in pink and brown and tan foil in a little dish on the kitchen counter. I found them first thing in the morning. What a nice surprise! The wrapper said “Neapolitan” on it in a cutesy font. I unwrapped one. It was made up of three layers: milk chocolate, white chocolate, pink chocolate. I took a bite. Mmmm. You really got that Neapolitan flavor. I popped the rest in my mouth. Before I knew it, I had eaten the rest of them, and all before breakfast. I called Carolyn, thanked her, and asked her where she had gotten them. Someone had given them to her at work. She’d try to find out where they came from. Probably some specialty shop, I’d said to her. They’re probably pretty pricey. They were all I could think of for the next two days or so. I really wanted more. When Carolyn saw the person at work who’d given them to her, she mentioned how much I’d liked them and that I was hoping to be able to buy some to satisfy my craving. Were they a local product? Sure, the person told her. They were from Wal-Mart. Carolyn called me up and we laughed about it. You know that really cheapy-chocolate seasonal candy made by a company called Palmer’s? Well, that’s what it is. I bought up bags of Palmer’s Neapolitan Eggs every time I went to Wal-Mart all the way through the Easter season. I carried them in my purse and gave them to everyone I knew so that they could try them, too. They were a big hit at the high school baseball games.
It’s Easter time again. I was so excited when Wal-Mart put out their Easter candy. I searched the shelves. I searched them again. No Neapolitan Eggs. But they do have them at Macey’s grocery store. I’ve started buying up bags. I hope I can get enough to last at least through baseball season.

(Now go sit down.) Part of the "Every Weird Thing..." series

Mormons (L.D.S.) usually grow up to be fairly confident public speakers. This is probably because in our church, we don’t have a paid clergy. The bishop (what most other Christian churches call the minister or priest) is called to serve on a volunteer basis, usually for about five years. During this time, he keeps his day job. In our main worship service (Sacrament Meeting) on Sundays, members of the congregation participate by giving assigned talks on gospel topics. So instead of hearing a sermon from the same person each week, we take turns teaching each other.

In Primary (Sunday school for children), our kids have opportunities to give talks from a very young age. Before they’re old enough to read or memorize, a parent will stand beside them and whisper the words they’ve rehearsed. A child spends much of the two minutes he’s up there breathing heavily into the microphone while the parent repeatedly prompts. Even as they get a little older, a parent will usually help the child write his or her talk. I used to help my kids. (Sometimes I didn’t know about the assignment until we were sitting in Sacrament meeting. Or I knew, but had forgotten. I’d round up a piece of paper and pen and scrawl out a talk for whichever child it was.) I’d write it out for them right down to the closing of “In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” And then I always put, in parentheses, the words “Now go sit down.” I thought this was funny. And they thought it was funny, when they practiced giving the talk, to say aloud “Now go sit down” after they said Amen.

Our boys are encouraged to serve two-year missions for the church when they turn nineteen. It’s customary for them to give a talk in Sacrament meeting before they leave and again after they return home. We recently had one son return from serving a mission in Brazil and another one leave to begin his mission to Germany within a week of each other. They were asked to speak in church on the same Sunday. They both did an excellent job. Their dad and I were very proud. Later in the day, I found the younger son’s typed-out talk lying on the kitchen counter. I looked it over and noticed on the last page, after he had actually typed out “In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen,” he had added the parenthetical phrase: Now go sit down. I laughed and laughed. He said “I always write that when I give talks, Mom.” It has been many years since he’s needed my help. I told the older son about this. He immediately went and found the scribbled notes he’d used to give his talk and showed them to me. At the end, he’d scribbled, in parentheses, “Now go sit down.”

It was my second proud moment of the day. I hope they keep up the tradition when they’re writing out talks for their own children someday.

"Really Cool Fanny Pack"

A few months ago, my husband, our daughter and I went out to eat at Costa Vida. As we stood in line to place our orders, I remembered that I had a coupon in my purse. I dug out my Ziplock baggie of coupons and began to rifle through it right there in the line. They were both horrified. Carolyn was probably twice-horrified: once that I would consider using a coupon and then because I kept my coupons in a baggie in my purse. Kent’s always in favor of a discount, but the baggie thing was a bit too much for him.

Yet for years, he has repeatedly tried to get each member of our family to wear a fanny pack. Someone will be packing for a camp-out or preparing for a hike and he’ll invariably produce a fanny pack (usually a free promo item from a software company which makes it even worse) and suggest to whomever it is, “Why don’t you wear this really cool fanny pack?” The kids and I try to point out to him that “really cool fanny pack” is an oxymoron.

The other day I was in the weight room at the gym. I saw a woman, probably in her late fifties, with her car keys safety pinned to her t-shirt. With an over-sized safety pin. It wasn’t up on her chest like you would wear a name tag. That would be really bad. It was very subtly attached down low and over to one side. Well, it was as subtle as you could be and still have your keys pinned to your shirt. At first I actually thought, “Wow! What a great idea!” Sometimes I go to the gym without a jacket, and my workout clothes don’t have pockets. I have to figure out what to do with my keys. A big safety pin would solve the problem. Then I remembered the incident in Costa Vida. I imagined what my family members would think of my pinning my car keys to my t-shirt with a giant safety pin. My kids would surely disown me. Kent would probably suggest I wear a really cool fanny pack while working out instead.

I think openly doing these nerdy things is a sign of confidence. A confidence that comes with age. Maybe in another decade or so I'll have lost all reservations. My mother-in-law carries her camera around in a paper gift bag. (I always think she's bringing me a present.) I hope to be just like her someday.

Dream Car

I’ve never been a car person. I don’t know about makes and models. I go by color. And I really don’t pay much attention to that. The Petersons, next door, drive a white car. I think.

I know what I drive. It’s an Isuzu Trooper. It’s silver. I don’t know what year it is, but it’s getting up there. It’s starting to make a lot of sounds. Squeaks and rattles. Yesterday it whistled. Just for a moment, but it was clearly a whistle. I’m getting a little nervous.

As long as I have something reliable to drive that doesn’t look so bad that it attracts all kinds of attention, I’m good.

My husband, Kent, drives a little pick-up truck. It’s a greenish-gray color. I think it might also be made by Isuzu. Maybe Toyota. I noticed recently that it’s starting to look pretty shabby. Not much paint left on the hood. But it runs well and gets him where he needs to go.

We had a series of unreliable cars during the first few years of our marriage, cars that attracted all kinds of attention, but at least we weren’t in debt. When we were engaged, I borrowed Kent’s white Volkswagen Rabbit one day. It was old and I think it had bald tires. One of my neighbors was a little concerned and asked “Are you sure he loves you?”

We once owned an old V.W. bus (not my idea) that we attempted to drive across the country. We broke down in St. Elmo, Illinois. I can’t believe I just wrote that because I try really hard to block the memory. Bad experience. I’m scarred from it.

We had a car that had a whole list of things wrong with it. For a long time, it wouldn’t go in reverse, so we couldn’t park anywhere where we’d have to back up. The only door that opened from the outside was the driver’s door (and it was a four-door). It used to get a mystery puddle of water on the floor of the backseat. Never figured that one out. And for a while, whenever we turned a corner, the horn blared. This was a bit humiliating. As we’d drive through the neighborhood, people in their yards thought we were greeting them, and would wave to us with strange looks on their faces.

But we had almost arrived at that point. Our next car was brand new. I was so excited: a reliable car! Wrong. It must have been one of those that came off the assembly line on a Friday. Or is it a Monday? Whichever day tends to produce lemons. Sometimes it just wouldn’t start. It wouldn’t even try to turn over. Not a sound. We took it in to the dealership for repairs.

“There’s nothing wrong with this car. It started right up,” the guy told us.

“No,” I told him. “You don’t understand. It only does it when I’m across town with two small children and need to get home. Or when I come out of the grocery store with frozen foods and my husband is working in the city and can’t rescue me. Or when I’m late for a meeting.”

The guy just looked at me.

“Well, it started right up. Apparently there’s nothing wrong with it. I can’t help you.”

We fought with them over this for months. Finally someone figured out that it had a short of some kind and they fixed it. We never had another problem with it.

And since then, I’ve always had a reliable car to drive. For which I’ve been very grateful. I remember one day driving my son, Jeff, and a bunch of his friends somewhere. They were about nine or ten years old at the time. They were talking about their dream cars: Mustang convertibles, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Jaguars.

Parker Almeida asked me “Hey *Sister Gassman, what’s your dream car?”

“This is it!” I told him with enthusiasm, referring to my red mini van. It was a Plymouth Voyager.

It got so quiet in the back of that van that you could have heard a Hot Wheels drop in a roomful of Cub Scouts.

I loved that car. It didn’t break down on me and the tires weren’t bald. It worked in reverse. I had complete control over the horn. Everybody was driving one just like it. It had two built-in car seats. We drove it for a long time. I never noticed when other people started getting rid of theirs. One Sunday in the church parking lot, a neighbor waved me down and motioned to me to roll down my window. She approached the vehicle.

“Melinda,” she said to me in a businesslike way, “Kent needs to buy you a new car.”

She’s a real car person.

From that day on, I began to be a bit self-conscious about my red mini van. I mentioned to Kent that it might be time to think about getting a new car. He agreed. It was a sad day when we sold it. That’s when we got the Trooper. And now it’s getting kind of old. I’m afraid my neighbor is going to flag me down soon and tell me that it’s that time again. But I do consider myself very lucky. Not many people get to drive their dream car. I wonder what my next one will be.

*These were neighborhood kids who belong to our church. We use Brother and Sister like Mr. and Mrs. I’m thinking about starting a new blog called “Every Weird Thing You Wanted To Know About Mormons But Were Afraid To Ask Because Then The Missionaries Might Show Up At Your Door.”

Low Rider

Last week my son Jeff and I were in Walmart. Have you ever seen any of those People of Walmart slide shows posted on the Internet? Jef and I saw the live version. There was a young man in the men's department, bent over looking for the right size t-shirt on a low shelf. He should have been looking on a higher shelf, where they keep the large shirts, not down low where they keep the small shirts. Usually larger shirts mean longer shirts. This kid definitely needed a longer shirt. We could see half of his underwear. I nudged Jeff and gave a nod toward the show. Jeff immediately started walking faster to get away from me. I think he was afraid I was going to tell the kid to pull his pants up. Actually, I've seen worse. Fortunately, it seems like the trend to expose as much as you can get away with has waned over the past year or so. Evidently there are a few hold-outs to the fashion. This kid better be careful. He might find himself part of  the People of Walmart collection.
I wrote the following about two years ago after I had a close encounter of the very disturbing kind in the K-Mart parking lot.

“Guess what I saw today in the parking lot of K-Mart?” I asked my husband and our three teenage boys as we hung out in our family room last evening. “Or maybe I should say 'Guess what I almost saw?'”


“What?” one of them responded warily, while the rest just wore that look that says “Oh, no. Here she goes again.” They've learned to recognize a moralizing tale before I even get started.

“I was on my way out of K-Mart. I saw a young adult male, I'd say between eighteen and twenty years old, and what looked like his mother and a couple of younger siblings walking toward me in the parking lot. This young man had on a t-shirt that came down to about his bellybutton, and a pair of jeans belted around the tops of his thighs!”

They all stared at me.

“Really!” I insisted. “There was nothing between his navel and the tops of his legs but a pair of cotton knit boxer briefs! I could see the entire fly of his underwear! I could pretty much see his underwear in its entirety. I was so shocked, and so sure that I must be seeing it wrong, that after we passed each other, I turned around to get a view from 'behind'. I could see his complete backside, clad only in a piece of jersey knit.”

“Now, that is wrong,” my husband rejoined.

“You're sick, Mom,” one of the boys commented, then each one wandered off or busied himself with something. They'd obviously heard enough.

I'm still in shock. I mentioned it to some neighbors of mine, a teenage girl and her mother. They thought it was pretty bad, but they didn't seem as shocked as I had been. Obviously, they'd seen it all before.

“Yeah,” said the girl, “you wouldn't believe what you see at the high school.”

I've been seeing the top part of boys underwear above baggy pants for a long time. I've been seeing a lot of top halves of underwear above very low riding pants for a while now. But to wear a pair of pants belted around your thighs? Does that even technically qualify as wearing pants? And you should have seen how this kid moved. Using an odd gait that it must have taken a lot of practice to master, he managed to move himself along in basically a forward direction. And all this effort for what? To keep the pants in place so they wouldn't fall down and expose his legs?

What brand of modesty is this? If these young men really want to cripple themselves walking around with pants belted around their legs, that's their business, but they should have the decency to spare the rest of us, and wear shirts long enough to cover their bottoms.

And it's definitely time to rethink all those “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” signs.

I read an article by Jay Evensen in the Deseret Morning News a couple of weeks ago headlined Reining in a Sexualized Generation. He wrote about the Louisiana town of Delcambre, where the town council is considering prohibiting the showing of one's underwear in public. I remember reading this and being a bit skeptical. Hmm, I'd thought. As much as I agree that underwear should be worn underneath clothing, sometimes a strap here or a band there is accidentally exposed. I'd hate to see decent people get the book thrown at them on a technicality. But after the spectacle I witnessed in the K-Mart parking lot, I'd like to throw in my support. Maybe even move there.

It's a shame that city officials anywhere even have to think about issues like these. It's all about pushing boundaries, isn't it? If enough mothers, fathers, girlfriends, employers, shop keepers, restaurant owners, etc. would set their own immovable boundaries, maybe we could nip this thing in the butt---sorry, I mean in the bud.

Happy Birthday To Me - and Extreme Chocolate Cookies

You know how birthdays are really not a big deal once you’re grown up? Try spending your big day with a classroom full of third graders who all think you’re great; I just had the best birthday I can remember since I was a child!

I’ve been substitute teaching these children while their teacher has been out on maternity leave. They are really sweet kids. We’ve gotten to know each other quite well over these weeks. And they were so excited to celebrate my birthday! All day long handmade cards were delivered to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. One little girl even made me a bracelet by straightening out a jumbo paper clip and bending it into a curve. She fashioned a paper charm for it that said Happy Birthday. We talked about my birthday all day long. I think the subject came up every few minutes. By the end of the school day, I was starting to think that my birthday really is a big deal, just like it was when I was in third grade.

I took treats to share with the class. They loved them and they all want the recipe.

Extreme Chocolate Cookies

2 cups brown sugar

2 cups white sugar (granulated)

1 lb. real margarine or butter (I use Western Family brand Real Margarine)

5 extra large eggs

2 tsp. almond flavoring (1 tsp. if using real almond extract)

1 tsp. vanilla extract

Cream together above ingredients.

3 (12 oz.) packages milk chocolate chips

Mix chocolate chips into above mixture.

1 cup cocoa powder

6 ½ cups flour

2 tsp. baking soda

2 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. cinnamon

Combine dry ingredients. Add to creamed mixture, mixing well. Don’t burn out your mixer; you might have to finish mixing by hand. Scoop dough using an ice cream scoop. (I use one with a two inch diameter.) Pack well. Flatten dough slightly with hands. Put some granulated sugar in a bowl. Press formed cookie dough into granulated sugar to coat. Place on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 or 8 minutes. (Oven temperatures vary; do not over bake. If cookies crack, you're baking them too long. If you use a small scoop, bake for about 5 ½ to 6 minutes, but watch for cracking!) Remove cookie sheet to cooling rack.

This recipe makes 4 ½ to 5 dozen big cookies. Sometimes I form the cookies, freeze some of them on a cookie sheet without baking, then dump them into a Ziplock bag and freeze them for later. You can also bake them all and then freeze some. Or, just eat them all!

Avocado Milkshake - A Brazillian Specialty

How about a recipe from Brazil? In some parts of the country, they drink avocado shakes. It sounds a little weird, but as soon as you taste it, you'll forget you ever thought so.This is one of the most refreshing drinks I've ever had.

1 large avocado
1 1/2 cups milk
2 T sugar
juice of two small limes

Put all ingredients in blender and blend well.

The Foreign Language House

Do you remember the movie Breaking Away from back in the seventies? The main character was obsessed with the Italian cycling team and drove his father crazy speaking Italian around the house? We have a similar situation in our home. My husband, Kent, served an L.D.S. mission in Germany from 1980 to 1982. As is the case with most L.D.S. missionaries, he developed a love for the people he served and for their language. He’s still speaking it. Which is great - how many of us can speak a second language? He probably speaks it better now than when he lived in Germany all those years ago. But sometimes, usually when it’s early in the morning and we’re all getting ready for work and school, it can be a little… Well, Kent’s a real morning person, and the rest of us really aren’t. He’s quite chipper around the house in the morning, and chipper in a foreign language somehow comes across as extra chipper. And when he speaks German, he tends to shout it out:

“Guten Morgen, Meine Frau! Gut geschlafen?”
“Ach! Meine Kinder! Habt ihr gut geschlafen?”
“Was soll ich zum Frühstück essen?”

Fortunately, I speak some German and the kids have studied it at school. When they reached junior high they thought “Why not? We’ll probably have a head start.”

We also, of all odd things, have memorized quite a few hymns from the German version of the L.D.S. hymn book and we sing them during Family Night regularly (if you can call what we do singing). At church one recent Sunday, someone made a comment about occasionally singing a hymn in a foreign language. My son Jeff turned to me and whispered, “Sounds like us.” I whispered back, “No, we occasionally sing a hymn in English.” But only if the kids and I insist.

Two years ago, our oldest son, Kurt, received a call to serve a mission in Brazil. He was really excited. And so was his dad. Kent went right out and bought the Pimsler Language Course for Portuguese.

The next morning we got up for school and work.

“Bom dia! Como vai?”
“Você fala Portuguêse?”

And it was on to Portuguese. Kent was riding his bike to work most days. Ten miles there and ten miles back listening to Pimsler CDs through his ipod.

“Adeus, minha esposa!” he’d holler at me on his way out the door in the morning.

And “O restaurante fica na esquina!” he’d holler at me when he walked back in at the end of the day.

We’ve all picked up a few phrases over the past couple of years. And Kent can’t wait to try out his Portuguese on Kurt when he gets home in a few weeks. But in the meantime, Jeff has received his mission call. He’s going to (drum roll) Germany! He is very excited. And so is his Dad.

The morning after we got the big news, we all got up for work and school. Naturally Kent was the first one up and I could hear him in the shower, belting out the German National Anthem:

“Deutschland, Deutschland über alles
Über alles in der Welt!”

When Kurt found out where Jeff was going, he wrote the following in an e-mail:

Dude, Germany! That’s awesome! Dad must be off his hinges with joy. I bet he’s already trying to teach you German. He tried to teach me Portuguese and he didn’t even speak it.

Yes, it’s been back to German around here for the most part. Imagine how interesting it could get in a few years when we find out where Joel will serve?

German Cooking

Kent got me a special present for Christmas – a German cookbook. Oh great, many of you women may be thinking, a cookbook, just what every woman wants for Christmas. But the real gift is that, after twenty-five years of marriage, Kent is taking up cooking. I really don’t know if that was his intent when he bought me the cookbook, but that’s how I chose to interpret the gift. He’s gone along with it. So far he’s made potato pancakes and deep fried cauliflower. The potato pancakes were pretty good, but the cauliflower was fabulous. I know. Deep frying cauliflower kind of takes away from the whole idea of its being good for us. But I really don’t think it’s in the nature of cauliflower to absorb a whole lot of oil. It really didn’t seem too bad. Besides, I’ve heard that in the Netherlands they deep fry Milky Way bars. Makes this recipe seem okay.

Gebackener Blumenkohl

(Deep Fried Cauliflower)

from Culinaria Germany

1 head cauliflower

salt

3 eggs

white pepper

¼ tsp grated nutmeg

4 tbsp flour

½ cup white breadcrumbs

oil for deep frying

Rinse the cauliflower, trim, then divide into florets. Cook the florets in boiling, salted water for about ten minutes, until just tender. Strain the florets, refresh in cold water, and drain well. Beat the eggs with a little salt, white pepper, and the nutmeg. Toss the florets first in flour, then dip them in beaten eggs, and toss them in the breadcrumbs. Fry batches of cauliflower in hot oil and drain on paper towels.

A "Stupid Moment"

I was at the gym working out on a treadmill. There is a TV in front of every three or so pieces of equipment. On the screen in front of me was a talk show. The host was a middle-aged woman with red hair. I suppose she’s famous, but I don’t know who she is. She was interviewing Dolly Parton. I know who Dolly Parton is, but I wasn’t really interested in watching this. What I really wanted to watch was the Food Network. I had seen it at the gym a few days before and went home and made Thai peanut sauce and grilled chicken skewers from memory for dinner. It was delicious. Besides, the volume on this TV was really low and I could hardly hear what either Dolly or the Red Head were saying. The closed caption was on, but it was delayed. So I was hearing little bits of the red headed woman and Dolly (but mostly hearing the football game on a TV somewhere down the row which had its volume turned up really loud), and then reading what they said about thirty seconds later. Really annoying. I looked up at the controls on the television set and noticed that the buttons to change the channel were gone. Empty holes in their place. But there were volume buttons. If I had to watch the Dolly interview, at least I could turn the volume up enough to compete with the football game. The TV wasn’t too far in front of me, and just a little higher than the level I was on. I tried reaching right up there while treading on the mill and nearly wiped out. Not a great idea. I paused my workout, awkwardly leaned up between my machine and the one next to it, and managed to reach the up volume button. I pressed it a few times and resumed my workout. It still wasn’t loud enough. I paused my treadmill again and awkwardly reached up there again. Better. I could hear them pretty well now, but I was still compelled to read the delayed captions. And by now, the Dolly interview was pretty much over. The Red Head announced that next up was Valerie Bertinelli. I know who Valerie Bertinelli is. But I really wasn’t interested in watching this. What I really wanted to watch was the Food Network. I had to go home and make dinner and I wanted some fresh ideas. Instead, I was forced to watch the Red Head quiz Valerie about her recent weight loss and bikini photo shoot. By now, I knew more about Dolly, Valerie and the Red Head (except her name) than I ever wanted to know. And then came the “stupid moment.” It was now forty-eight minutes into my workout. Right there, no more than six inches from my left hand, in the cup holder of my treadmill, was the remote. But by now there was someone on the treadmill next to mine and she really looked interested in Valerie’s weight loss. I finished up my workout, transferred the remote to the woman’s cup holder, and left. Bean burritos for dinner.

Ruth's Salsa

My sister-in-law, Ruth, brought salsa to a recent family gathering. It was delicious, as is everything Ruth makes. She told me she had made it using bottled tomatoes from her garden. She chopped fresh peppers, onions, cilantro, and whatever else, added it to the jar, and shook. Voila. I don’t grow enough tomatoes to bottle any. We eat them all. But I tried Ruth’s idea using a large can of diced tomatoes I bought at the grocery store. I chopped up two different kinds of hot peppers, orange and yellow bell peppers, green onions and cilantro and put it all in a good-sized Pyrex bowl. I added the canned tomatoes, some fresh lime juice, and salt and pepper. I made sure to put the lid on nice and tight. Shake, shake, shake. Salsa. It was delicious. You get some of  that fresh salsa taste even though the tomatoes are canned. Since it’s virtually impossible to get good tomatoes in the winter, this seems like the way to go. We had it on breakfast burritos for New Year’s Day, and then ate the rest with tortilla chips during the afternoon football games. Yum. Thanks, Ruth!

Nativity by Brian Kershisnik

This is a little embarrassing to admit, but when I first walked around a corner in the B.Y.U. Museum of Art and found myself face to face with a myriad of the heavenly host, a mother nursing a minutes-old baby, and a rather grief-stricken-looking father, I didn't realize I was looking at a nativity painting. At least I didn't realize I was looking at a painting of the nativity. There was no identifying plaque on the wall next to the painting. I did, however, immediately recognize it as something very familiar and right away I felt a connection with this work. A legion of angels dressed in the familiar clothing of L.D.S. temple patrons was passing by to get a glimpse of what I saw as the newest of their earthly kin. I saw these angels as ancestors and possibly descendants of the small new family depicted at the bottom of the canvas. To me, it showed the close connection between the birthing experience and heaven. When I went up to the front desk to inquire and was told that the roughly seven foot by seventeen foot oil and acrylic expressionistic painting was Nativity by Brian Kershisnik, I felt a little foolish that I hadn't recognized the Holy Family right away. I returned to the painting and immediately noticed the stable-like setting, complete with a mother dog and her recent litter. Of course I had seen it before, but it simply hadn't clicked. And the traditional blue of Mary's dress. And the attitude of singing praises of those angels who were preparing to fly off one side of the canvas and out into the night. And the tears streaming down many of their faces. Okay, so now the painting meant even more.

I spent quite a bit of time in front of Nativity during two separate visits to the museum. It was interesting to me to see the reactions of people as they rounded a corner and came in contact with this enormous picture. Old people, young people, tiny children literally stopped in their tracks and paid considerable attention to this painting. Because it's so large? That probably has something to do with it. But I think it has more to do with Kershisnik's appealing style; he uses color, line, and texture in a way that makes me feel comfortable and somehow included in his work.

The painting's dominant line is the river of angels flowing basically in a horizontal current across the canvas, containing soft interior curves along the way. Another significant line is found where the “river” diverts up and over the stable's earthly occupants, leaving them enclosed (in the negative space) in a soft, rounded, cozy setting. Some other important lines are that of the fence cutting Joseph off from Mary, and the vertical forms of the stable occupants suggesting that, unlike the visitors passing through, they are staying put---earthbound for the time being. Even these lines have a soft, rounded quality, and it is Kershisnik's use of curving lines that creates the overall warmth that is so inviting.

The color scheme of Nativity is appealingly simple, using mainly contrasting browns and blues. The differing values of brown Kershisnik uses in the basic stable setting, Joseph's attire, the subjects' hair color, and the mother dog and her puppies remind us again that, unlike the heavenly host passing over, this place and these beings are of the earth. Mary, however, gets to wear blue. Blue has been Mary's signature color throughout the history of Christian art. Kershisnik uses the deep blue of the heavens (shown mainly in the top left corner of the canvas) and Mary's blue (in the lower right) to physically give balance to the painting. It also designates Mary as the chosen vessel of the Lord and lifts her to a more divine status; she belongs to the heavens as well as the earth. A lighter value of blue is reflected in the dress of one of the midwives to further balance and give interest to the work. Kershisnik repeats the brown values in the hair color of many of the angels. Not only does this serve to aesthetically balance the lower right stable setting with the rest of the painting, but it also reminds me of the angels' connection with the earth; perhaps it hasn't been long since some of them dwelt on earth as mortals. The balancing act is completed by the use of brilliant white in the robes of the angels. High-key is tempered by the low-key blues and browns, giving an overall sense of balance and unity to heaven and earth.

Texture plays a big part in what makes this picture so enjoyable to look at. Of course the medium itself lends texture to the canvas, especially in the stable; the artist builds up with oil paint a suggestion of straw on the dirt floor. But the more noticeable display is the implied textures in the wonderful array of fabrics that clothe the host of angels. Many common textile patterns are represented and we (especially L.D.S. temple patrons) feel a certain familiarity and sense of identity as we pick up on them. I had to smile when I saw a woman point out a specific angel and heard her say to her daughters, “Notice how the red-headed angel chose this swirly pattern for her dress.” Another texture is seen in the glossy, mosaic-like pattern that makes up the sky. It adds visual appeal and also reminds me of the mosaics of the Byzantine and Christian styles, and seems like an appropriate way to paint the heavens.

In addition to his use of line, color and texture to draw us into his work, Kershisnik masterfully depicts emotion through the faces of his subjects as well as through symbolism. While Mary and the midwives emote a sense of peace and an admiration for the newborn Christ, and the angels display various emotions on their faces, it is Joseph who stands out individually. The conflicting combination of relief and grief and despair clearly comes through. I can see what Joseph is feeling. He is physically separated from Mary by a section of fence. The placement of the fence symbolizes what I think all men must feel when their wives give birth; in spite of being present, Joseph cannot fully be a part of it. He has seen the pain and the endangerment to life and, as a man (the protector), he naturally feels like he should have been able to do something to help. He is also feeling the magnitude of being responsible for this special child, the Son of God. I think it was Joseph that originally threw me off about the content of this work; we don't usually see Joseph depicted the way we see him here. With one hand on his grief-stricken face, he reaches through the fence to attempt to comfort Mary. She places a hand on top of his and is actually the one doing the comforting. It is amazing to me that an artist can convey these emotions so clearly and so strongly. I can also read meanings on the faces of many of the angels, one of whom seems to be noticing me as the viewer and giving me a look that says “I hope you realize how important this is.”

Brian Kershisnik's Nativity expresses his vision of and his feelings about the birth of the Savior with real emotion. His amazing use of the elements of art results in a unique warmth, a welcoming spirit, and openly invites anyone who sees it to actually be a part of it. I, as the viewer, have had a phenomenal experience with this painting. I have felt an overwhelming sense of somehow belonging to this picture and feel like I now have a whole new and more meaningful perspective of the birth of the Savior.

Christmas Lights

We have one very selfish Christmas tradition that I just love. We put Christmas lights in our backyard. We have big windows across the back of our family room. That's where we spend most of our time. It's really nice to be able to look out and see strings of colored lights adorning our kids' fort and the pine tree right next to the house. In the front yard, we just do the simple New England thing - wreaths and candles in the windows. I think it's beautiful. The kids think it's boring. Kent is working on building a new shed in the backyard. Next year I'm going to decorate that as well. Maybe turn it into a gingerbread house. Some people collect those miniature Christmas villages and set them up around the tree. I'm thinking of creating a life-sized Christmas village in our backyard. Okay, maybe two-thirds scale. Some of those reindeer made of white lights that move their heads up and down like they're grazing, a big snowman that waves to us as we watch him through the window, a pond with skaters... Someday we'll have grandkids. Wouldn't they just love it? I think I'd better hit the post-Christmas sales.

Christmas Day in the Morning

So you get up early on Christmas morning, charge into the family room and rip open the presents. Then what? It’s all over. Our kids figured out when they were still quite young that it’s better to stretch out Christmas morning as long as you can. They developed a Christmas morning ritual. They force themselves to sleep in as late as the oldest two decide. This about killed our youngest son for several years. Then we all get up and go downstairs. The kids open their stockings while Mom videos and Dad takes pictures. They look under the tree to see more wrapped gifts than were there before they went to bed the night before. He came! But nobody can touch. Believe it or not, we all go and shower and get ready for the day. Then we gather for Christmas breakfast. When the breakfast mess is at least cleared away from the table, it’s finally time to open the presents. But we don’t just rip into them. We alternate each year, starting with either the youngest or the oldest (somehow the kids keep track of which year it is), and open the gifts one at a time. In this way, we manage to stretch things out until at least ten-thirty or eleven. It seems to make it all much more exciting.

This has been our family’s favorite Christmas breakfast for the past few years. It’s also great for the Fourth of July.

1 loaf French bread
3 eggs, beaten
1 ¼ cups milk
3 T sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup blueberries (frozen blueberries are fine)
½ cup flour
1/3 cup brown sugar
1 ½ tsp cinnamon
¼ cup butter
1 package frozen strawberries in syrup

Cut or tear the bread into small cubes. Arrange cubes in a buttered 9 x 13 baking dish. Combine eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla. Mix well and then pour over the bread. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. In the morning, sprinkle blueberries over the bread mixture. Combine the flour, brown sugar and cinnamon. Cut in butter with a pastry blender until crumbly. Sprinkle crumb topping over the blueberries. Bake at 350 for forty to fifty minutes. While it’s baking, thaw and heat the strawberries. To serve, cut in squares (big squares) and top with strawberries. We’re actually going to use raspberries this year, as one family member has discovered he’s allergic to strawberries. Maple syrup is also good.

Merry Christmas!

One Neti Pot For Sale - Cheap

I bought a sinus irrigation system a few days ago. I have some sinus issues so naturally I’ve been self-diagnosing on the Web. I read about these sinus rinse products that are available. So began my quest for pristine sinus passages.

I bought this device called a neti pot – a cross between a little personal-sized teapot and a genie’s magic lamp. Neti is an Indian word for nasal. Apparently, people in India have been irrigating their nasal passages for centuries as part of practicing Yoga. I tried Yoga once. It was painful. My neti pot instruction manual assured me that irrigating my sinuses would be a soothing and enjoyable practice.

The neti pot comes with little packets containing just the right amounts of sodium chloride and sodium bicarbonate. When mixed with eight ounces of filtered water, they produce the perfect saline solution, guaranteed not to cause stinging or burning sensations in the nasal passages. Well, that's a relief.

So the idea is to pour the saline solution out of the neti pot through the spout into one of your nostrils. The solution goes up and over and comes out the other nostril, flushing away all your sinus problems. The booklet gives helpful hints on the whole process: use lukewarm rather than hot, boiling, or cold water, perform the procedure over a sink, since a whole cup of water is about to pour out of your nose, and my favorite tip, and I quote “Do not hold your breath and, if possible, make the sound ‘KHA…KHA…’” I loved this part. For the rest of the day, as each family member came through the front door, I ran to get my little neti pot booklet. After a quick explanation of nasal irrigation, I’d show him this part.

“Mom, you’re a freak,” they each said, but they couldn’t suppress the grin.

“KHA…KHA…”

That evening, I was ready for my first treatment. I gently warmed some filtered water in the microwave, making sure there were no hot spots, and poured it into the neti pot. I added the contents of one packet and, with my thumb over the spout, shook to dissolve. I then carried the pot and the instruction booklet into the bathroom. I gave the pot a little rub for good luck and imagined a sinus genie rising up out of the spout and granting me three sinus-related wishes.

“Standing in front of a sink, bend forward to your comfort level and tilt your head to one side’” I read. Here goes, I thought.

I poured. Some of the solution did start coming out the other nostril, but the rest of it was suddenly filling up my mouth. I quickly tried to make the “KHA…KHA…” sound and nearly drowned in the attempt.

After recovering, I looked at the booklet again.

“It should not come into your mouth unless you are tilting your head backwards.”

Oops.

I tried it again, positioning my head more carefully, but I skipped the vocals. I’d decided that the KHA… KHA… must have some kind of mystical yoga benefit that was way beyond my experience.

This time it worked fine. I wouldn’t have called it soothing or enjoyable, but I was hopeful that all my sinus issues would soon be resolved.

Within a couple of hours, I had a terrible sinus headache. It lasted all night. And I must have washed away some brain cells, because the next day, after the headache had subsided, I irrigated my sinuses again. Well, it could have been a coincidence, right? It wasn’t. I was almost immediately struck with the worst sinus headache of my life.

My face hurt.

Ugh.

For two days.

And so ended my quest for pristine sinus passages. If I want to cure my symptoms, I’m going to have to do it some other way. Better keep searching the Web.

In-n-Out and Krispy Kreme

The recent In-n-Out Burger craze in Orem, Utah reminds me of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut craze that occurred just down the street about a decade ago. At that time, I wrote the following piece. I’ve been to In-n-Out Burger in California. The hamburgers and fries were just like the cheapest burger and fries I’ve ever had at any fast food place. At least Krispy Kreme brought back fond childhood memories.

Kind of long, but I hope you'll read it anyway!




“Crusty Crisps? Crispy Whats?” I intentionally get it wrong.

“Krispy Kremes!” my kids chant. “They’re the best doughnuts in the entire world!” they exclaim.

Sounds like a lot of hype to me.

“How do you know?” I ask. “You’ve never had one.”

Well, so and so, they assure me, had one while visiting cousins out of state, and he says it’s true.

“Maybe it’s kind of like The Emperor’s New Clothes,” I suggest. “People just want to be popular. They go along with the crowd so everyone will think they’re hip.”

“What’s hip?” they ask.

And so go our conversations, at least once a day during the week of the grand opening of the first Krispy Kreme doughnut store in our state, which happens to be in our town.

“Forget it,” I say. “No doughnut could possibly be so much better than any other doughnut that it would warrant standing in a line for three hours. Let alone camping out over night in a parking lot… And I have a new theory. After you stood in a line for three hours for a doughnut, would you admit that it wasn’t anything special?”

“What’s warrant?” my kids ask.

A couple of weeks go by, and one day I’m struck by one of those rare moods of generosity mothers like me get struck by about twice a year. I’m on an errand with my eleven-year-old, in the part of town where Krispy Kreme is located.

"Want to go to Krispy Kreme?” I ask. “The lines are probably normal by now,” I say naively.

“YES!” my son lets out. “YES!YES!YES! THANK YOU, MOM! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!”

Why don’t I try to be this nice more often, I wonder. Because if I did, I remind myself, I’d never get this kind of reaction. We turn the corner and my chin drops. Cars are parked on the street for 100 yards in both directions. The parking lot is completely full. The parking lots of neighboring businesses are completely full. The drive-thru line circles the building at least three times. We peer inside as we creep past. The line snakes around several times before heading out the door and down a flight of steps.

“NO WAY!” I holler. “Who are these people? Who would be STUPID enough to stand in line for that long for a DOUGHNUT?” I rant.

So much for my generous mood.

“Kurt,” I tell my son, “those people have got to be idiots.”

I tell him, “Sorry, Bud.”

We go to Einsteins and get a dozen bagels.

Several weeks go by. The kids bring home report cards, along with rumors that Krispy Kreme is giving out free doughnuts for every A.

“That’s crazy,” I tell them.

“No, Mom! The principal even said so on the announcements!” they insist.

The principal?

“Well,” I tell them, “put your report cards on the dashboard of the car. Sometime when I’m in the vicinity maybe I’ll stop in, if there’s no line.”

“What’s vicinity?” they ask.

I’m out doing some shopping one day soon, in the vicinity of Krispy Kreme. It’s about 10:30 a.m. A couple of months have gone by since the grand opening, and there are only a few cars in the parking lot. I park and go in. Only two other customers. I verify the free doughnut rumor, feeling a little silly as I ask. It’s true! One free doughnut for each A up to six per report card. I present four report cards and walk out with two dozen fresh, hot Krispy Kreme Original Glazed Doughnuts. I get in the car.

How can I resist? I’ve got to know what all the hype is about, and besides, if it weren’t for old Mom, making them do their homework and study for tests, there might not be free doughnuts, right? I lift one out of the box and take my first bite.

Have you heard it said that smell triggers memory? Well, taste does, too. Suddenly I’m a kid again, at the Kennedy Memorial Ice Skating Rink in Hyannis, Massachusetts, eating a honey glazed doughnut from the snack bar. We all ice skated when I was a kid. Not only at the Kennedy Rink, but on flooded cranberry bogs and neighborhood ponds. We all skated, whether we wanted to or not. I didn’t even really like ice skating, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of staying home. I didn’t like it because my feet always froze. We traded sizes around the neighborhood every year until everyone had a pair of skates that somewhat fit.  No matter how many pairs of socks I managed to cram on my feet under Sarah Carpenter’s hand-me-down skates, my toes would be numb after only a few times around. We all took lessons, too. I only made it through the beginners’ class. Every week I bawled all the way home in the car as my feet thawed out. My mother didn’t sign me up for the next level. I kept going skating though. I could skate forward and backward. I never got the hang of stopping; I’d just crash into the boards. Even my little brother would plod along on a pair of double runners. He was a wreck at sports. My parents had him convinced that Bobby Orr wore double runners. My sister got pretty good. She kept up the lessons. She could do all kinds of spins and jumps. She even danced the Mexican Hat Dance on skates one year at the annual ice show in a big sombrero and a bright colored poncho trimmed with orange ball fringe. I bawled through the whole performance, sitting in the stands with my parents. My feet were frozen.

We all skated at the Kennedy Memorial Ice Skating Rink, and we all bought the honey glazed doughnuts and the steaming hot chocolate at the snack bar. The hot chocolate was always too hot to drink (today they’d be sued), but we loved the doughnuts.

I pop the last bite in my mouth, lick each finger, and fasten my seatbelt. Wait till I tell the kids. Krispy Kreme doughnuts are nothing new to me. I’m certain they’re made from the same recipe as those doughnuts at the skating rink. I wonder if there’s a Krispy Kreme where my sister lives. I’ll tell her I don’t really know if these doughnuts are that much better than any other doughnuts. I’ll tell her I don’t know if the taste warrants standing in a long line for hours. But it might be worth it just for the memories.