Cake No. 1: The Tiramisu Cake

 This is the cake you bake for your girlfriend. The one who’s not technically married, but definitely committed. The one who never skips the occasion to send a handwritten letter from her heart, who shows up on Christmas morning with a cardboard box bigger than her car. She who cheers on every paper published, every ladder climbed, every deep end dive.

The one worth celebrating for no reason at all, and for every reason after.

You’ll bake two rectangle cakes, one for her sister who is visiting and one to wrap in foil and send a street away. Her sister and her daughter's will moon over various making ideas – Mascarpone meringue? Roasted espresso? Vanilla cream? – before deciding she’s worth all three and the taste test begins.

You’ll learn later, of course, that she loves espresso.

But it won’t have mattered.

She’ll have left your messy kitchen knowing she’s purely loved, endlessly celebrated.

Forever adored.

p.s. Recipe from this (delicious) blog, and for the curious, let it be stated that – unanimously – Mascarpone Meringue is the only wise choice here.

p.p.s. Cake 1 here, and the series that started it all…

Giving Thanks

 

What To Do When Your Sister Moves Away

When your mom tells you the news that your sister is moving to Montana over a casual pizza night, you wince a little. The corners of your smile twitch upward because you want to smile, but your gut is pulling down, down – deep into the pit of your belly. So your face pulls like a kite string and it looks a little forced, because it is.

So you brace yourself for the coming weeks of missing her and pray they’ll tie neatly into a bow, but you know they won’t. You know everything will be different now, because you’ll never drive to her neighborhood for Halloween; her family won’t be there. You’ll never meet at the darling locally-owned coffee shop, the one she introduced you to years ago when you were new to this coffee business and lost in more ways than one.

And you’ll tell her you’re proud of her and you’re proud of her daughters. For taking a leap of faith that spans 3,000 miles and for embracing the today instead of the tomorrow. For doing something hard; for leaving the familiar and navigating the new.

And you thank her. You thank her for introducing you to her favorite nail salon and coffee shop and diner. You thank her for holding your hand on the hard days, through grief and loss and general bad decisions. For accepting you into her kid-less world even though you were child-ful, and for leading you into that same kid-less world when you suddenly weren’t. You thank her for the late night Chipotle and early morning coffee. For calling La Leche League when you were sobbing on the floor, baby in arms. You thank her for forgiving you for the time you sent her a pregnancy hormone-charged email. For photographing so much of your life, for being the one behind the camera. For being the one behind you.

And then you leave her home and you fight your tears but then you let them out as soon as you hit the pavement, because you know this is a test that you’ve already passed. That the test was actually in the friendship itself – in the very fact that you let someone come close enough that their absence left tears. And you know it doesn’t matter what happens next, because the tears fell and your heart was changed in the time you were lucky enough to have together.

And you tell her that you’ll visit in the fall – after she’s settled – and you warn her in advance that you’re really bad at keeping in touch but that you want to make an exception for her. And then you tell yourself that it doesn’t matter either way, whether you write or you call on her birthday or you do or you don’t. Because she already changed you. She fulfilled her duty, and you fulfilled yours.

And the rest – the future – just gets to be gold on a wheat covered field. 

 

Life Lessons

I know, I know. I’m still processing my trip to California – two months later. I’ve always been a late bloomer, and sometimes it just takes me a bit of time to think and learn and realize the truths that exist around me. And there are so many truths to be realized. Here are a just a few life lessons I carry closely with me, long after the scent of coffee and adventure and joy has left my suitcase:
Choosing and asking for help is far stronger than not.

Somewhere down the line, I’ve associated the need for help with weakness. Surely I should be able to handle my circumstances alone – people do it every day, right? Single mothers, widowed elders, orphaned children. They pull themselves through life, sometimes without the blessing of a strong support system existing around them. But the strong ones? They create one.
They ask for help and rely on their communities, swallowing pride and shedding tears and holding hands. And I can’t imagine that’s easy, to break habits or set boundaries or change. It’s precisely the reason we need help – because it’s hard and real and scary. Reaching out requires a great deal of strength.
I read somewhere that our muscles atrophy when we do the same thing with them each and every day. Walking, sitting, going through the motions of our daily lifestyle. So of course, it makes sense that to extend your arms and reach out for help is a very real and physical act of strengthening ourselves. Perhaps doing so is the only way to fight the atrophy of our habits.
I’m working on this.
Communication has little to do with language.

I came home from California with a new appreciation for nonverbal cues, body language and facial expressions. I know just a few of other people's love languages, but for every phrase I couldn’t remember, a smile filled in the blanks. For every question I didn’t know how to ask, a kind gesture answered. For every idea I tried to communicate, an embrace was offered.
Of course, there is a risk in communicating with those that don’t speak our love language. Sure, we might unintentionally offend. We might break an unspoken rule. We might create a misunderstanding. But it’s worth the risk, isn’t it?
On one of our last days together, we visited in an open courtyard, enjoying freshly brewed coffee and watching Laurie painting a portrait of us. And my mind immediately reeled: “By offering to tell my friend that Newport isn't spelled correctly, will she think her picture isn't good enough as/is? Will she think I'm correcting her artistic beauty? Will I leave a hint of doubt in her heart that she was made perfectly good and lovely, just the way she was?” I hope not. That was certainly not my intent, but I struggled – I couldn’t communicate my fears with her, because I didn’t have the words.

Instead, I called Martin, who usually answers with a smile and a gesture and a hopeful spirit. And judging by my giggles and stories that my boyfriend loved our time of makeshift art studio together, just as we did. We had a moment of connection together – of NEPORT BEACH and mutual respect and endless dreams.
How many times have I not taken that risk? How often do I see a frenzied mother in the Norstrom parking lot with a screaming baby and a bagful of clothing, struggling to open her stroller as she chases her 2-year-old? And because I don’t want to offend, I give her a knowing smile of sympathy, hesitating because I fear she’ll feel inadequate if a helping hand is offered.
It’s backwards and unnecessary and selfish of me that I wouldn’t risk a few moments of awkwardness or misunderstood intentions to help someone experience a bit more peace or joy or simplicity in their days. To make a connection with another person going through life in the next lane over.
I’m working on this.
A smile can brighten someone’s day, but mostly your own.

On our way home from California, we had a relaxing travel experience full of flights that weren't full and no unexpected surprises or missed connections. There was a permanent smile on the faces of so many of us. How could we fret a few extra minutes in an airport when we have so much to be grateful for? So many lessons to be realized? So many facets of light to see through?
We smiled and laughed and connected with each other, and as a result – something beautiful happened. We felt better. It was as if we made a collective, conscious decision to press on through circumstances beyond our control (COVID) and embrace these rare, few moments of uninterrupted conversations.
I found myself smiling a lot in California, mostly as a form of communication – an attempt to share my gratitude to the women who are sharing so much of themselves and their stories and their time. And even after landing in our home state, where my words were understood and language was expected, I still relied on a smile to communicate my thoughts and feelings to perfect angels waiting there to pick me up.
And the effect was magical. Walking through the airport, everyone was smiling. Because I was. I sought to make eye contact instead of hiding behind my mask, and when Martin's smile met my eyes I couldn't help but smile back, as he was waiting for me with a pair of angel wings and a halo, with a sign that he held up, "Found wings - Looking for an Angel." – a brief connection in our day, yes, but such a meaningful one.
My smiles have been fading lately, and it’s disappointing. Responsibility and details and work have crept into my life and tugged a bit on the corners of these lips. But I’m making an effort to remember how important those smiles are to those around me. To my family. To my community. To myself.
I’m working on this.
Music and dance are the great connectors.

In California, when there was no shopping and no gelato and no beach, we danced. We hummed and sang and swayed and clapped, and the rooms filled themselves with joy. Dancing is often reserved for celebration, but don’t we have so much to celebrate? Why aren’t we throwing daily dance parties where the music is good and the energy is high?
I love dancing with my boyfriend - may our home be filled with music and beats and rhythm, voices riddled with joy.
I’m working on this.
Change is made by growth, not leaps.

I’m often frustrated when I don’t make progress in certain areas – healthier eating habits, a calmer spirit, a more grateful perspective. But change isn’t something that’s easy to track. Progress is often little more than a series of choices in the right direction, steps toward something bigger and greater that we might not stumble on until we’re looking behind us at the breadcrumbs we’ve left behind.
The women of  'Girl Night' each made huge changes in their lives, reuniting themselves with lives of motherhood and church callings. And I can imagine how difficult that change must have been, slow and steady with slips and mistakes and many moments of self-doubt. But with each day, they pressed forward and showed up – for classes and training and community. And what looks like a leap was likely more of a slow growth – some steps forward, a few back and a lot of shuffles along the way.
I’m learning to see change in this way. A series of choices – some bad, but more good – that slow spiral around and around and around the base of a mountain until, years later, steady and hopeful, I’ll have reached the peak.
I’m working on this.

I have a lot to work on indeed. But I’ve had some excellent teachers who have spiraled and are spiraling and will continue to spiral with a steadfast heart and a willing spirit. And someday we’ll meet at the top of our mountain, smiling and dancing and singing side by side – celebrating the peaks and valleys of our trip.

New Doctor

 

5 New Recipes

You can tell we’re in a cooking rut if you visit our kitchen at 5pm on any given weekday and find us all dining on pepperoni and apples, a handful of almonds straight from the bag. It’s our families unofficial back-up meal, swooping in to save the eve for our other unofficial back-up meal (breakfast for dinner, always), and well, when I’m tiring of my back-up’s back-up? It’s time to shake things up.

If you, too, are feeling bored in the kitchen and need a few healthy recipes to add to your arsenal, here are 5 new dishes we tried (and loved!) last week…

Quick Sicilian Eggs and Spinach 

Eggs are in regular rotation over here, so I’m always up for trying a new rendition on a forever favorite. This one was flavorful and delicious, with a winning cream-based sauce I’d absolutely drink for dessert. (Tip: Martin swapped the bacon for sausage because I was fresh out, and it was just as divine!) Enjoy!

Kids can help with: Cracking eggs, whisking cream.

Banana Curry

Whenever I’m in the thick of a cooking rut, I’ll look to Martin for a few meals to teach me a new flavor or technique. This one was simple with a handful of ingredients we already keep on hand, so re-creating it will be a breeze. Plus, the whole recipe took just 20 minutes. Win/win.

Kids can help with: Mashing bananas, seperating the cauliflower.
Full recipes here.

Best Creamed Spinach

I’ve been on the hunt for a simple creamy spinach recipe since I first botched a fancier version on a Sun Valley vacation over two years ago. For me, simple is best, and this one’s both delicious and easy (made even easier if you sub for frozen spinach!).

Kids can help with: Stirring spinach, measuring spices.

Roasted Green Bean Stew

When I visited Berlin, Ratskeller Köpenick was my favorite restaurant, if only for the savory green bean stew. Last season, Martin unearthed his mom’s official cookbook to recreate the German specialty, and while I’m certain his version is better, this one’s an irresistible replacement until our next visit.

Kids can help with: Snapping the green beans, seasoning the pan with salt & pepper.

Creamy Gluten-Free Pancakes

Martin served this dish for dinner guests last year and even the skinniest physicist happily lapped it up. It’s both gluten-and nut-free but tastes completely indulgent with the help of briny zucchini and bursting with carrots. A definite crowdpleaser.

Kids can help with: Grating potatoes, whisking eggs.

Tell me, what are you cooking up in your kitchen these days? I’d love to hear!

 

Dewali

Dewali

 

All Eye's On You

 

settebello's

 

My Mom's Birthday

 

Year One

 

There is nothing fair about life, and there is nothing fair about love. There is no method or formula to happiness, except to choose – each and every day – to allow yourself the circumstances you are offered. To welcome them and feel them and search for the beauty in the quarantine.

And over our year together – one on November 7th– we have adventured on every park apparatus we know: on the seesaw, giving and taking and giving again. On the merry-go-round, spinning faster, wild, blurred, toward covid quarantine-remote work we never intended to pursue. Off the merry-go-round, and promptly.We’ve climbed the rusty ladder of hard election work, slid down the hot metal slide of shared grief. We’ve crossed the monkey bars into shed-remodeling-hood – learning as we go – one rung, then two. We have swung high and low, up and down, pumping our legs to a soundless rhythm we cannot hear or see, but can feel.

Year one is this: unrolling the picnic blanket and laying down in green grass. There is rest and cloud-watching and dream-telling and quiet. It is he with his sacked lunch that he brought just to share with me, neither of us seeking to change the contents of each others’ snacks. We feed ourselves in harmony – he’ll choose biscuits, I’ll choose mochi – and the difference is okay. It’s good. We are happy as two, so we are happy as one.

Year one is long enough to let go of the idea that you have the rest of your life to slowly, surely change your lover, and instead, accepting – embracing – the changes your lover has created in you.

Year one is long enough to own my contribution to the pair, to learn to take care of myself to learn to take care of another. It is seeking responsibility for my joy, my fulfillment, my being. It is understanding that the goal of two is to become stronger than one. Woven. Molded. Sealed.

Year one is to grow into ourselves, to stop allowing circumstance or trial or emotion to diminish our spirits, and instead, to stretch far beyond the scratchy blanket and the picnic ants and rise above the up-rooted trees surrounding us. It is to plant, and to be planted.

To look above and greet the sun, and hear the rain, and feel the clouds, and return to the biscuits, the mochi, the two.

Real Talk

Months ago, when COVID-19 was still a whisper, I was photographed by the Huntsman Cancer Institute about my face masking. The photograph was one, the questions many. Do face masks “work”? How can working in one affect your health? What’s your advice for those just getting tested?

Nine months later, the pandemic roars. Our nation’s priorities have been thrown into a sack, shaken, spilled onto the floor. Tried-and-true expert strategies are hardly applicable, let alone sustainable. How do we move forward now that our methods of wellness – daily yoga, weights at the gym – are deemed unwell? When our social infrastructures – Sunday morning brunch, concerts in the park – dissolve? How should we proceed when our indoctrinated school system – a teacher stands and speaks, a group of children sit and listen – is now disputed for safety, efficacy?

I have few answers, but I know the importance of the question. It is no longer: What is happening? It is only: What happens now?

The reality is this: we have been handed a year of turmoil. Norms are toppling, status quos are being called to question.

What happens now?

What will happen is this: your entire family will tilt toward discovery. When I was home-schooled we would spend less time fretting over kid’s school schedules and more time igniting wonder in our childhood souls. My mom educated us in the way that worked for generations prior: one of apprenticeship, of practice, of trade. Her children gained independence. We made our own lunch. We washed our own socks.

(Yes, even the littles.)

Her children learned from her.
My mom learned from her children.

She would invite us kids into her daily life, whether through accounting spreadsheets or blueprint renderings or sautéed garlic.
Yes, she still had time to herself. Yes, her kids still had the basics covered one way or another. Yes, her children did take ownership over their own education with a few hours/day and a library card.

Yes, it can feel tricky with littles. 

No, it is not feasible for everyone, logistically-speaking. Neither is remote learning, or business-as-usual, or co-ops, or pandemic pods.

But it’s an option for some, nonetheless. And it’s one worth considering.
—
And she did, perhaps, get what she wanted all along: a child that begins to value Shakespeare over taco day, achievement over athleticism. She got the choice to switch out Laura Ingalls Wilder for L.M. Montgomery. She could ban Dr. Seuss; she vetoed letter grades. Tossed the uniform, and the uniformity. She educated as an act of resistance, and she raised children to think critically about their role as an advocate for the world around them.

If goodwill is hard to find, if our kids feel lonely and unsafe and ill-equipped, perhaps it’s time to offer them a gap in the war.

What happens now?

It’s up to us.

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