It may come as no surprise to you that I am not a fan of big government. I also oppose changing the Utah caucus system, as the caucus system allows normal people coming from grassroots situations and budgets to run for office.
In addition, I think President Obama has gone off the rails in his latest speech about raising the debt ceiling. He must really believe we have absolutely no grasp of mathematics, economics, or human nature. Indeed, he must really believe we are all complete idiots -- or worse, he actually believes what his teleprompter tells him. Hey, if it's on the teleprompter, it must be true, right? And 2006 never happened, either, when he was on exactly the opposite side of this argument.
If Obamacare doesn't get defunded (or if there doesn't end up being any measure that will dry it up like an unwanted wart), I'm going to cry. For reals.
I just had to get that off my chest. Thank you for being so understanding.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
And Murphy Giggled Delightedly
I was telling someone the other day that being poor isn't all that bad. After all, you get to figure out creative solutions to things all the time, and successfully solving a problem on the cheap brings with it a great deal of satisfaction. Plus, you're forced to look at what is truly important in life and discard things that aren't important that you can't afford.
Because I said it out loud, however, Murphy laughed. His law immediately went into effect, and that evening, I got an email from my place of work informing the contract writers that the content writing department had nearly run out of work items. That's the first time that's happened since I've been working for them (several years now). They offered one of two options for the near future. First option: take two weeks off with no penalties for failing to make the weekly quota. The only stipulation is that you cannot write any work items whatsoever. Second option: continue to write, but be told how many work items you are allotted and stick with that amount.
Either way, it spelled a big decrease in our finances and a chance to really get creative. Every single penny counts. When Husband commutes 30 miles to work, you have to prioritize gas expenses, juggling your pantry and fridge with the hunger of the gas tank. Any money you do have for food has to be carefully spent. Are eggs more important than milk? I can make bread, but do I have enough flour to last until the next payday? And how can I dress up the supply of dried beans I have in my pantry in order to fill tummies without it becoming dull and monotonous? When several episodes of severely depleted finances have already mostly emptied the larder, what do I have left? How is it possible I could have accumulated so much canned spinach?
We don't live on the raggedy financial edge because we enjoy the thrill. Nor are we insensible to the wisdom of paying off debt, saving for a rainy day and retirement, and budgeting so we are not living paycheck to paycheck. Husband regularly beats himself up for choosing a profession that is not very lucrative, even though he works hard at what he does. I tell him that as an elementary school teacher, he is touching lives in a way that simply isn't possible in the corporate world. He still gets angry with himself. Every penny goes into living expenses, with nothing left over.
I don't think there is more purity or wisdom to be had by being poor than being wealthy. People with plenty of money can also learn the lessons of what is important in life. We're not better because we're struggling vs. someone who has never had to worry about whether or not their kids will be able to eat lunch for the rest of the week. We try very hard not to be frivolous. I certainly don't feel incredibly righteous, as I am always wondering if I'm squandering the stewardship I've been given.
But I am grateful. As tiring as it is, there is still a thrill at the challenges we are presented with. How do we overcome them? What is the best course? And will anyone eat another pot of peas porridge hot?
We have our children and our nearby family. We have good friends around us. The kids can be educated, we have never starved, and even if we can't afford a lot, we have everything we need. I would feel blessed even if we had to give up the house and all of our possessions, but just so you know, Murphy, that isn't something I really want to be tested on, thank you very much. On a side note, I wouldn't mind having a heftier bank account, if that's something within your power.
Because I said it out loud, however, Murphy laughed. His law immediately went into effect, and that evening, I got an email from my place of work informing the contract writers that the content writing department had nearly run out of work items. That's the first time that's happened since I've been working for them (several years now). They offered one of two options for the near future. First option: take two weeks off with no penalties for failing to make the weekly quota. The only stipulation is that you cannot write any work items whatsoever. Second option: continue to write, but be told how many work items you are allotted and stick with that amount.
Either way, it spelled a big decrease in our finances and a chance to really get creative. Every single penny counts. When Husband commutes 30 miles to work, you have to prioritize gas expenses, juggling your pantry and fridge with the hunger of the gas tank. Any money you do have for food has to be carefully spent. Are eggs more important than milk? I can make bread, but do I have enough flour to last until the next payday? And how can I dress up the supply of dried beans I have in my pantry in order to fill tummies without it becoming dull and monotonous? When several episodes of severely depleted finances have already mostly emptied the larder, what do I have left? How is it possible I could have accumulated so much canned spinach?
We don't live on the raggedy financial edge because we enjoy the thrill. Nor are we insensible to the wisdom of paying off debt, saving for a rainy day and retirement, and budgeting so we are not living paycheck to paycheck. Husband regularly beats himself up for choosing a profession that is not very lucrative, even though he works hard at what he does. I tell him that as an elementary school teacher, he is touching lives in a way that simply isn't possible in the corporate world. He still gets angry with himself. Every penny goes into living expenses, with nothing left over.
I don't think there is more purity or wisdom to be had by being poor than being wealthy. People with plenty of money can also learn the lessons of what is important in life. We're not better because we're struggling vs. someone who has never had to worry about whether or not their kids will be able to eat lunch for the rest of the week. We try very hard not to be frivolous. I certainly don't feel incredibly righteous, as I am always wondering if I'm squandering the stewardship I've been given.
But I am grateful. As tiring as it is, there is still a thrill at the challenges we are presented with. How do we overcome them? What is the best course? And will anyone eat another pot of peas porridge hot?
We have our children and our nearby family. We have good friends around us. The kids can be educated, we have never starved, and even if we can't afford a lot, we have everything we need. I would feel blessed even if we had to give up the house and all of our possessions, but just so you know, Murphy, that isn't something I really want to be tested on, thank you very much. On a side note, I wouldn't mind having a heftier bank account, if that's something within your power.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Always Available, All the Time
I fixed the cell phone problem by myself. Yes, you read that right. All by myself. I know I'm too lazy when it comes to finding solutions to simple issues like that because I can always ask Husband for help and he will do a far, far better--and quicker--job than I. Since he was at work, however, I had to figure it out on my own this time. Sad that I'm always so proud of myself for sorting out easy tech problems, like where the SIM card goes in the new phone and how to get it out of the old phone. So very sad.
Anyway, I asked Gabrielle if she still had my old slide phone and charger from a few years back. "You mean Mr. McChunky!" she exclaimed, and then ran downstairs to her room to fetch it for me. Wow. This thing is nearly an inch thick, but it was top-of-the-line back in 2007. The only thing that was better than this phone when it was brand new on the market was the groundbreaking phenomenon known as the iPhone. But Mr. McChunky, old and thick as he is, still works just fine for making and receiving calls. It even has a full QWERTY keyboard for all those thousands of texts I'm constantly sending. Not.
Now I just have to get used to carrying a cell phone around with me again. I keep accidentally leaving it behind. Definitely by accident. But I was so glad to have it today when I dropped my in-laws off at the airport in The Big City so they could catch a plane to England. Just as I pulled up to the drop-off zone, I got a call from Gabrielle.
The essence of the call was, "Save me! These kids are driving me nuts!" The essence of my answer was, "Suck it up. And be nice."
Then, as I traveled across town to the hospital to see my grandmother in the Intensive Care Unit, I got another couple of calls.
"Can I and all the girls in the neighborhood use up the cake mixes and then leave the kitchen in a total mess while refusing to allow my brothers to eat any of the cake we baked because we're going to charitably give it away to other people but not charitably give any to my icky brothers?" (That was Elannah, and no, that's not exactly what she asked. I just read between the lines.)
Also, "Save me! These kids are driving me nuts! I may literally commit homicide!" (Gabrielle again.)
After I'd visited my grandmother--along with my mother, who was staying with her for the day--I got back in the car and began making the long journey home. When I got tired of listening to talk radio, I played my mixed CD full blast and sang along at the top of my lungs because no one was in the car to tell me to stop it, or that I was embarrassing him/her, or could I please, please, PLEASE turn off the CD and turn on their favorite radio station instead. The phone rang right in the middle of my very swanky rendition of "Black Velvet."
"Can I have a turn on the TV? [My sibling] has had it for [some extremely exaggerated amount of time] and I want a turn. [My sibling] has denied me a turn. Can you tell [my bleeping sibling] to get off the TV because they've had it forever! And when are you getting home?" (Joseph)
And again a phone call, interrupting me and Jamie Cullum during a terrific duet. "Can I cook that frozen dinner I found in the freezer?" (Sophia)
Ten minutes from home, the phone vibrated again. By this time, I had quit trying to do the dangerous gymnastics required to get it back into my pocket while I was driving and had set it into one of the cup holders. It was Husband.
"So....where are you?"
Apparently, every child in the house had forgotten that I had gone to see my grandma in the hospital after dropping off the in-laws at the airport. Husband had arrived home from work and had been met with shrugs and mumbled "I don't knows" when he asked where I was. He probably thought I'd run away for good this time and was inventorying the pantry and fridge to see if he could keep everyone from starving before I came to my senses.
So you see why I'm so glad I have a cell phone again, even if it is named Mr. McChunky. I definitely won't accidentally leave it at home anymore. Absolutely not.
(And, as you're probably curious, my grandma is in the hospital because she's bleeding in her stomach. While she has required a couple of blood transfusions, and the doctors can't figure out where the blood is coming from, she was resting comfortably and was happy that I came to see her. I think she'll be okay. The bleeding isn't constant, and once they scope out the problem area, the scope can also be used to cauterize or pinch off the blood source. I and my family will be praying for her. If you want to send up a prayer on her behalf, as well, it would be greatly appreciated.)
Anyway, I asked Gabrielle if she still had my old slide phone and charger from a few years back. "You mean Mr. McChunky!" she exclaimed, and then ran downstairs to her room to fetch it for me. Wow. This thing is nearly an inch thick, but it was top-of-the-line back in 2007. The only thing that was better than this phone when it was brand new on the market was the groundbreaking phenomenon known as the iPhone. But Mr. McChunky, old and thick as he is, still works just fine for making and receiving calls. It even has a full QWERTY keyboard for all those thousands of texts I'm constantly sending. Not.
Now I just have to get used to carrying a cell phone around with me again. I keep accidentally leaving it behind. Definitely by accident. But I was so glad to have it today when I dropped my in-laws off at the airport in The Big City so they could catch a plane to England. Just as I pulled up to the drop-off zone, I got a call from Gabrielle.
The essence of the call was, "Save me! These kids are driving me nuts!" The essence of my answer was, "Suck it up. And be nice."
Then, as I traveled across town to the hospital to see my grandmother in the Intensive Care Unit, I got another couple of calls.
"Can I and all the girls in the neighborhood use up the cake mixes and then leave the kitchen in a total mess while refusing to allow my brothers to eat any of the cake we baked because we're going to charitably give it away to other people but not charitably give any to my icky brothers?" (That was Elannah, and no, that's not exactly what she asked. I just read between the lines.)
Also, "Save me! These kids are driving me nuts! I may literally commit homicide!" (Gabrielle again.)
After I'd visited my grandmother--along with my mother, who was staying with her for the day--I got back in the car and began making the long journey home. When I got tired of listening to talk radio, I played my mixed CD full blast and sang along at the top of my lungs because no one was in the car to tell me to stop it, or that I was embarrassing him/her, or could I please, please, PLEASE turn off the CD and turn on their favorite radio station instead. The phone rang right in the middle of my very swanky rendition of "Black Velvet."
"Can I have a turn on the TV? [My sibling] has had it for [some extremely exaggerated amount of time] and I want a turn. [My sibling] has denied me a turn. Can you tell [my bleeping sibling] to get off the TV because they've had it forever! And when are you getting home?" (Joseph)
And again a phone call, interrupting me and Jamie Cullum during a terrific duet. "Can I cook that frozen dinner I found in the freezer?" (Sophia)
Ten minutes from home, the phone vibrated again. By this time, I had quit trying to do the dangerous gymnastics required to get it back into my pocket while I was driving and had set it into one of the cup holders. It was Husband.
"So....where are you?"
Apparently, every child in the house had forgotten that I had gone to see my grandma in the hospital after dropping off the in-laws at the airport. Husband had arrived home from work and had been met with shrugs and mumbled "I don't knows" when he asked where I was. He probably thought I'd run away for good this time and was inventorying the pantry and fridge to see if he could keep everyone from starving before I came to my senses.
So you see why I'm so glad I have a cell phone again, even if it is named Mr. McChunky. I definitely won't accidentally leave it at home anymore. Absolutely not.
(And, as you're probably curious, my grandma is in the hospital because she's bleeding in her stomach. While she has required a couple of blood transfusions, and the doctors can't figure out where the blood is coming from, she was resting comfortably and was happy that I came to see her. I think she'll be okay. The bleeding isn't constant, and once they scope out the problem area, the scope can also be used to cauterize or pinch off the blood source. I and my family will be praying for her. If you want to send up a prayer on her behalf, as well, it would be greatly appreciated.)
Monday, September 9, 2013
Bargains! The Musical
I was lying in bed one night when I came up with the idea for Bargain! The Musical. In it, a spunky, energetic woman sings about fantastic bargains she's found, accompanied by a joyous and physically coordinated chorus. The costumes are all early 19th century (which is absolutely the best period in which to set any musical because of the hat styles), and there is no swearing or offensive subject matter, making it a visual spectacle fit for the entire family! There will be dancing! Singing! Lights! Costumes! Sets!
Okay, so I might have been half-asleep and not entirely in my right (left?) mind at the time. The strangest things flit through your head when you're in that gray world between being fully awake and fully asleep. What brought on a fit of play-write fever was probably the fact that I am the proud new owner of a very decent used laptop, purchased at an excellent price from a local pawn shop. I am no longer tethered to my home computer! I can now write my work articles and blog posts anywhere that has wi-fi!
The problem is that I'm burned out. I can't complain, because I have a work-at-home job that pays me for as much work as I am willing to do. So I am really not complaining about that. I am complaining that my brain, after four nearly non-stop years, is pretty much done, and getting through even a bare minimum of writing ends up taking most of my day while I allow myself to get distracted or wander away from the computer altogether in search of something less mentally exhausting. I'm getting quite good at some of Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words, particularly Duet. I am also a huge Sharukh Khan fan, by this point (Khan is, I think, the undisputed King of Bollywood Actors). I read Brandon Sanderson's new book, The Rithmatist, in one day. If I had more money, I'd probably shop more. Notice how many blog posts I've written lately? And I was briefly tempted to learn how to write in Gallifreyan.
Sadly, the house isn't that much tidier, as I am not often motivated to clean like a thing possessed when fueled by anxiety (or any other emotion, really).
So getting out of the house and into another environment is good because I can focus a little better. Once I solve the problem of a lack of a cell phone, I won't have to worry about missing an important call from one of the three schools my children attend. It's happened. Chaos ensued. Hey, even if I have to buy a cheap $30 Walmart phone, at least I could get and receive phone calls about children vomiting noisily all over their desks or not having enough lunch money to be able to eat that day. That is always helpful in focusing my mind on writing.
Oh, but speaking of bargains, MIL wanted to visit my favorite grocery discount store last week to buy American treats and sweets for the British relatives (whom they are soon to be visiting), and I found 2-pounds punnets of blueberries for 99 cents each! If you know of my love for blueberries, you will not find it hard to believe that I nearly passed out right next to the display. I now have a goodly amount of frozen blueberries all snugged away in my freezer, ready to be dropped into my kale/spinach/coconut milk smoothies or cooked into wheat pancakes or baked up into a pie (I love pie). My main character in Bargains! The Musical will definitely sing about blueberry bounty.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Off to College
My baby girl, my oldest, Sian, went off to college yesterday. As she's attending a university fairly close to us, Husband and I got to drive her there and help her haul all her stuff up to her third floor dorm room. We met her roomie, visited the cafeteria, and walked onto campus to get her student ID and find out where she can do her banking. I went to this university 20 years ago, and just about everything has changed since I walked those grounds and sat in those classrooms. The dorm rooms are reconfigured, the cafeteria has undergone a complete and lovely overhaul, and many new buildings have been added.
We were standing in a crowded hallway waiting for Sian to have her student ID printed and Husband asked me, "You look like you're enjoying this. Would you go back if you could?"
I don't know. Would I go back? If I went back knowing what I know now, I would miss my family too much. If I went back in time with no memory of my life since college, I'd end making all the same decisions I made the first time around and simply relive my life. No, I wouldn't go back. Nor do I expect Sian to have all the same experiences that I did. She's not me, and she'll make different choices and do different things. I just hope there are plenty of happy times interspersed with the inevitable drama of living with other girls, dating, and learning to take care of yourself as an adult.
I only went to the university for 1 1/2 years. I didn't finish my degree because I left college to be a missionary, and then I got married soon after returning home. I hadn't counted on meeting the man I was going to marry while I was in England; rather, I had fully intended to come back home and finish up my education. I have no regrets about my decision to marry and have children while supporting my husband as he finished his education and began providing for our family. I have been wonderfully blessed with love and happiness.
What more can a parent wish for their child than to be happy? Because she's always lived her life in a manner that allows her to respect herself and others, I think Sian will do just fine. It won't stop me from missing her, but I can sleep peacefully knowing she's ready for this big change and whatever she will face.
We were standing in a crowded hallway waiting for Sian to have her student ID printed and Husband asked me, "You look like you're enjoying this. Would you go back if you could?"
I don't know. Would I go back? If I went back knowing what I know now, I would miss my family too much. If I went back in time with no memory of my life since college, I'd end making all the same decisions I made the first time around and simply relive my life. No, I wouldn't go back. Nor do I expect Sian to have all the same experiences that I did. She's not me, and she'll make different choices and do different things. I just hope there are plenty of happy times interspersed with the inevitable drama of living with other girls, dating, and learning to take care of yourself as an adult.
I only went to the university for 1 1/2 years. I didn't finish my degree because I left college to be a missionary, and then I got married soon after returning home. I hadn't counted on meeting the man I was going to marry while I was in England; rather, I had fully intended to come back home and finish up my education. I have no regrets about my decision to marry and have children while supporting my husband as he finished his education and began providing for our family. I have been wonderfully blessed with love and happiness.
What more can a parent wish for their child than to be happy? Because she's always lived her life in a manner that allows her to respect herself and others, I think Sian will do just fine. It won't stop me from missing her, but I can sleep peacefully knowing she's ready for this big change and whatever she will face.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
An Exhaustive Discourse On My Two Culinary Triumphs
I had two culinary triumphs yesterday. For the last several years, as my interest in complex cooking has waned, any culinary triumph is a miracle. So to have two in one day was almost too much for me, and I will now have to publicly pat myself on the back.
First, after years of unfruitful attempts, I produced a loaf of bread that had the crispy, crackly golden crust of a bakery loaf. Second, I successfully roasted a leg of lamb.
First, the thorough and extensive story of the bread: (you can stop reading now if stories of baking or roasting make you want to repeatedly pound your head on an unforgiving surface or stick spikes through your eyeballs. I would not want to be responsible for blog-induced injury. Just celebrate my triumphs with me for a moment and then go on about your life.)
Do you know how impossible it is to recreate steam injection in your home oven? I played with terra cotta tiles and spraying water onto the bread as it cooked, but every time you open the oven, all the heat escapes (as well as the steam), and it takes a good ten minutes for the temperature to recover. Leaving pans of water on the bottom shelf didn't help, either.
But yesterday, in a burst of culinary inspiration the likes of which I haven't experienced for a very long time, I pulled out my unglazed clay pot. I bought this clay pot from a thrift store about a year ago, knowing I was getting an incredible bargain; but even at that very reasonable price, I have only used it once in all this time. Yesterday, however, I suddenly realized I had the perfect ingredients for a steam oven (the original recipe calls for a cast iron Dutch oven with a lid, which also traps steam and is what gave me the idea, but I don't own a cast iron Dutch oven with a lid). I soaked the pot in water for 15 minutes while the oven heated up. Then I stuck the loaf of bread into it (my hands were wet, so that also helped create that crackly crust), snugged on the lid, and popped the whole thing into the hot oven. After 30 minutes, I took the lid off so the crust could brown. 15 minutes later, I pulled out this gorgeous, golden-brown loaf and put it on a rack. I could literally hear the crust cracking as it cooled.
Later, when Husband got home, I sliced off a hunk of it, slathered it in butter and Fortnum & Mason's Christmas Extra Jam Spiced Preserves ("Extremely full of plums, redcurrants, strawberries & raspberries") and presented it to him with a flair.
"Just look at that crust!" I crowed.
"It looks just like bakery bread. You bought this bread, didn't you?" he said with some unbelief.
"Remember that clay pot you wondered why I bought and when I was ever going to use it? Turns out it's perfect for baking bread."
He loved it, of course. Now he's having fantasies of enjoying fresh, crusty bakery bread every day, and I can't wait to play with different flours. Of course, I forgot to mix up a batch in the evening so I could let it sit overnight. But tomorrow, the heavenly scent of baking fresh bread (mixed with a slight undertone of wet clay) will once again bless the house.
Later in the evening, I pulled the leg of lamb out of the fridge, where it had been marinating in olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary all night. I roasted it directly on the oven rack and let the juices drip into a pan on the rack below. I don't buy lamb as a rule. I don't buy much meat at all, in fact, much less meat from darling baby animals. But the leg was a gift from someone, and I felt that the poor, sweet little lamby would have died in vain if I didn't make use of his leg.
It turned out really well, all tender and juicy, and so tasty when doused in mint sauce. We ate dinner and then I cut the rest of the meat from the bone and put the bite-size pieces into baggies in the freezer to be used later for a Greek pita filling and Indian lamb coconut korma. I'll use the bone and bits to make a broth. Then I will probably never eat lamb again.
I don't know...two culinary triumphs in one day is kind of exhilarating, and exhilaration can be exhausting. I don't even know what we're having for dinner tonight. I also just remembered I have a meeting at six o'clock, so my family will be lucky not to starve until I get back. It's feast or famine around here.
First, after years of unfruitful attempts, I produced a loaf of bread that had the crispy, crackly golden crust of a bakery loaf. Second, I successfully roasted a leg of lamb.
First, the thorough and extensive story of the bread: (you can stop reading now if stories of baking or roasting make you want to repeatedly pound your head on an unforgiving surface or stick spikes through your eyeballs. I would not want to be responsible for blog-induced injury. Just celebrate my triumphs with me for a moment and then go on about your life.)
Do you know how impossible it is to recreate steam injection in your home oven? I played with terra cotta tiles and spraying water onto the bread as it cooked, but every time you open the oven, all the heat escapes (as well as the steam), and it takes a good ten minutes for the temperature to recover. Leaving pans of water on the bottom shelf didn't help, either.
But yesterday, in a burst of culinary inspiration the likes of which I haven't experienced for a very long time, I pulled out my unglazed clay pot. I bought this clay pot from a thrift store about a year ago, knowing I was getting an incredible bargain; but even at that very reasonable price, I have only used it once in all this time. Yesterday, however, I suddenly realized I had the perfect ingredients for a steam oven (the original recipe calls for a cast iron Dutch oven with a lid, which also traps steam and is what gave me the idea, but I don't own a cast iron Dutch oven with a lid). I soaked the pot in water for 15 minutes while the oven heated up. Then I stuck the loaf of bread into it (my hands were wet, so that also helped create that crackly crust), snugged on the lid, and popped the whole thing into the hot oven. After 30 minutes, I took the lid off so the crust could brown. 15 minutes later, I pulled out this gorgeous, golden-brown loaf and put it on a rack. I could literally hear the crust cracking as it cooled.
Later, when Husband got home, I sliced off a hunk of it, slathered it in butter and Fortnum & Mason's Christmas Extra Jam Spiced Preserves ("Extremely full of plums, redcurrants, strawberries & raspberries") and presented it to him with a flair.
"Just look at that crust!" I crowed.
"It looks just like bakery bread. You bought this bread, didn't you?" he said with some unbelief.
"Remember that clay pot you wondered why I bought and when I was ever going to use it? Turns out it's perfect for baking bread."
He loved it, of course. Now he's having fantasies of enjoying fresh, crusty bakery bread every day, and I can't wait to play with different flours. Of course, I forgot to mix up a batch in the evening so I could let it sit overnight. But tomorrow, the heavenly scent of baking fresh bread (mixed with a slight undertone of wet clay) will once again bless the house.
Later in the evening, I pulled the leg of lamb out of the fridge, where it had been marinating in olive oil, salt, pepper, and rosemary all night. I roasted it directly on the oven rack and let the juices drip into a pan on the rack below. I don't buy lamb as a rule. I don't buy much meat at all, in fact, much less meat from darling baby animals. But the leg was a gift from someone, and I felt that the poor, sweet little lamby would have died in vain if I didn't make use of his leg.
It turned out really well, all tender and juicy, and so tasty when doused in mint sauce. We ate dinner and then I cut the rest of the meat from the bone and put the bite-size pieces into baggies in the freezer to be used later for a Greek pita filling and Indian lamb coconut korma. I'll use the bone and bits to make a broth. Then I will probably never eat lamb again.
I don't know...two culinary triumphs in one day is kind of exhilarating, and exhilaration can be exhausting. I don't even know what we're having for dinner tonight. I also just remembered I have a meeting at six o'clock, so my family will be lucky not to starve until I get back. It's feast or famine around here.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Good-Bye For Now, Mark
At the end of February of this year, I got a Facebook message from one of my high school friends. "Call me," it said. "I have something to tell you, but it's not something I want to tell you over Facebook."
I knew immediately that is was about our mutual friend, Mark, the guy I blogged about on his birthday in this post. At the time I wrote that post, I had no idea of what was shortly to come. Mark and I had kept in intermittent contact by passing messages back and forth, but I didn't have any reason to suspect something was really wrong, though I had wondered about his lack of status updates and pictures of his girlfriend. Now, suddenly, my stomach was sick with the sense that something terrible had happened.
I called Caleb, feeling breathless. We greeted each other soberly.
"It's bad, isn't it? What is it?" I asked, my voice wobbling.
"I'm so sorry, Eva," he said. "Mark passed away in his sleep two nights ago."
I started crying, though I tried to keep my voice steady enough to talk.
"What happened? Why did he die? Was he sick? Why didn't he say something?"
Caleb told me that Mark had found out near the end of 2012 (right around his birthday, and right around the time I started thinking about him and wrote that post) that his liver was failing. He ended up spending months in the hospital, nearly dying several times and losing a tremendous amount of weight. Though he had tried to get himself healthy and stay alive long enough to get a liver transplant, he had finally lost the battle.
"I was able to visit him several times in the hospital," Caleb told me. "We had some long talks. He didn't want me to tell anyone because he was worried that people would judge him, I guess."
That made me feel awful. Of course I wouldn't have judged him! Didn't he know that? But Mark was always concerned about how people viewed him, and it was just one of his personality quirks that I didn't question anymore.
I sniffled a bit and Caleb was kind and patient while he waited for me to compose myself.
"That jerk. You know, I never fought with anyone else more than I fought with him." I was crying and laughing at the same time.
"You were very special to him, Eva. He talked a lot about you. Someday, when you come back up to Minnesota, I'll make you a cup of tea and we'll talk about it."
Caleb ended the phone call quickly after that, knowing I was very emotional. I sat on my bed and cried for a while. Then I logged into my Facebook account and re-read the last few messages Mark and I had exchanged. Sadly, they were from over a year before he died.
Mark and I never dated. We were never a romantic couple, though we spent a lot of time with each other during the times we weren't fighting. He and I as a romantic couple wouldn't have made sense, and that wasn't how we felt about each other; as it was, we were each others' sounding boards on the people we dated, our jobs, our life decisions. We talked for hours, watched movies, ran errands together, and saw a lot of late-night episodes of Married, With Children. And that was perfect for both of us.
He never let me touch him, though. We weren't huggy or snuggly in any way, and at times he seemed to almost have some sort of phobia about me touching him. I remember one time when he was driving kind of quickly around a curvy road and the force of gravity made me lean to my left. "Get off me!" he said, laughing, and pushed be back upright with his arm. He was never mean about it, but it did puzzle me, as I was not a clingy person and was never trying to snuggle up to him.
Once, in one of his messages to me, when he was feeling a little sentimental, he wrote how I was and would always be his best friend. As part of my response (which was more light-hearted than serious), I responded, "You never let me touch you, though, except for that prom dance [when my then-boyfriend, who was a college sophomore, and who didn't want to go to prom, took me to the part of the evening where all the prom-goers parade past in their finery with their dates. Mark, who was at the prom with his girlfriend, asked my boyfriend and his girlfriend if it was okay, and then led me out to the dance floor so I could say I had danced at my senior prom. It meant a lot to me.] and when you hugged me good-bye the night before I left for my mission. I would have hugged you more."
During the week after Mark's death, I felt him near. Of course I was thinking about him, but I could actually feel his spirit visit me throughout the days. It wasn't at all spooky; in fact, it was a very natural sensation. I missed him, but I didn't feel that he was all that far away. The veil between mortality and the spirit world seemed very thin.
Then, the day before his funeral, which I wasn't able to attend, I was sitting in church waiting for the last meeting to start. I was sitting alone, and as my thoughts often had during the last seven days, they turned to Mark. Suddenly, he was there, right next to me. I couldn't see him, but I knew without a doubt that he was there. And he hugged me. I felt enveloped in his arms for a few seconds. I sat stock still, the tears chasing each other down my cheeks as I sensed that he was expressing his love to me and saying good-bye. He was going now to stay full-time with his family, his parents and his sister, and especially his two children, as they celebrated his life and mourned his death. Then I felt his presence leave. The next day, I distinctly felt the veil draw closed, and Mark stepped forever into the post-mortal realm. I checked the time and saw that his funeral had recently ended.
I had started a post about him months ago, but it's easier to edit yourself when the emotion isn't so strong. There are so many stories I could tell about Mark, but I'll pick one that has to do with this picture. Mark had won some sort of contest sometime after we graduated from high school. The main prize was a free cruise, and one of the additional prizes was a free portrait. He said he felt stupid having his portrait taken alone, so he asked me to come with him. The photographer, assuming we were a couple, tried to get Mark to put his hand on my shoulder. We both laughed, and the photographer settled on having Mark put both of his hands on his knee. I tell you that because of what happened a few months later, which is when the following incident occurred. I'm just going to quote the letter Mark sent me in September of 1991, when we were both turning 20 and I had started my second year of college in Utah while he was back in Minnesota (you'll recall that the internet was still sort of a twinkle in Al Gore's eye at this point, so it was either paper mail or phone calls back in the day).
"I was at this party that Joel was having at his dorm room. And as fate would have it, a female was actually talking to me. She had dropped her purse when she came in, so I was giving her a hard time about that. (AND I WONDER WHY I DON'T HAVE ANY GIRLFRIENDS?) Anyway, she thought I was charming, and we talked about various items which were exposed when she dropped her purse. To make a boring story longer, she told me that, because I saw what was in her purse, she wanted to look in my wallet. (GOOD THING I LEFT THE 35 CONDOMS I USUALLY CARRY IN MY WALLET AT HOME) Well, I gave her my wallet and the first thing she sees is the picture of you and me together. She gives me this 'look of death' and says, 'Is this your girlfriend?' I screamed nicely told her that you and I are just really good friends. She paused for a moment, looked up at me, and said, 'Listen, I may be a blonde, but I am not dumb. Nobody gets a snuggle picture taken with just a friend.'
"So now I am laughing at what she is saying, and I am trying to tell her with a straight face that we are just friends. Then she says, 'Look! You can't even keep a straight face!' I am trying to explain to her about my free cruise, and how I didn't want a picture of just me. Then I see Joel and I tell him to tell this dumb blonde who you are. Joel (WHO HAD ABOUT 492 BEERS IN HIM) says, 'I recognize her. That's the girl you got pregnant and then dumped.'
"AHHHHHH!
"So now this girl is having like 4893 cows and at the same time telling me what an ass I am and how I should be ashamed of myself. Needless to say, I slowly walked out of the dorm room with about 20 people looking at me. I found out the next day that Joel told everyone the truth and that the dumb blonde wished she wouldn't have been so mean because I was cute and charming. We have a date next Friday. Just kidding. I still have a boring life."
That's not the funniest letter Mark ever wrote to me. His letters usually had me laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. But it's a good story nevertheless, and it explains the "snuggle" picture and the consequences of carrying it around in his wallet to college dorm parties. I think he left the picture at home after that. It's the only picture I have of the two of us.
I have many memories of Mark, both good and bad, but they all add up to a sincere and deep friendship that grew as we grew and matured. As I said before, we fought a lot and could go weeks without speaking to each other, and there were times when I sincerely did not care if we ever spoke to each other again. He could be quite an idiot; but, well, so could I. And always, some little voice inside would tell me to soften my heart and get off my high horse, and eventually I would listen to it. Over the years, I saw him for who he really is, and I loved him for it in a way that goes beyond anything trivial and earthly. I believe he's found peace and happiness where he is now. He said to me once, "I love you. Very much. I am a better person because of you. Best prom dance ever? YOU."
Right back atcha, buddy.
I knew immediately that is was about our mutual friend, Mark, the guy I blogged about on his birthday in this post. At the time I wrote that post, I had no idea of what was shortly to come. Mark and I had kept in intermittent contact by passing messages back and forth, but I didn't have any reason to suspect something was really wrong, though I had wondered about his lack of status updates and pictures of his girlfriend. Now, suddenly, my stomach was sick with the sense that something terrible had happened.
I called Caleb, feeling breathless. We greeted each other soberly.
"It's bad, isn't it? What is it?" I asked, my voice wobbling.
"I'm so sorry, Eva," he said. "Mark passed away in his sleep two nights ago."
I started crying, though I tried to keep my voice steady enough to talk.
"What happened? Why did he die? Was he sick? Why didn't he say something?"
Caleb told me that Mark had found out near the end of 2012 (right around his birthday, and right around the time I started thinking about him and wrote that post) that his liver was failing. He ended up spending months in the hospital, nearly dying several times and losing a tremendous amount of weight. Though he had tried to get himself healthy and stay alive long enough to get a liver transplant, he had finally lost the battle.
"I was able to visit him several times in the hospital," Caleb told me. "We had some long talks. He didn't want me to tell anyone because he was worried that people would judge him, I guess."
That made me feel awful. Of course I wouldn't have judged him! Didn't he know that? But Mark was always concerned about how people viewed him, and it was just one of his personality quirks that I didn't question anymore.
I sniffled a bit and Caleb was kind and patient while he waited for me to compose myself.
"That jerk. You know, I never fought with anyone else more than I fought with him." I was crying and laughing at the same time.
"You were very special to him, Eva. He talked a lot about you. Someday, when you come back up to Minnesota, I'll make you a cup of tea and we'll talk about it."
Caleb ended the phone call quickly after that, knowing I was very emotional. I sat on my bed and cried for a while. Then I logged into my Facebook account and re-read the last few messages Mark and I had exchanged. Sadly, they were from over a year before he died.
Mark and I never dated. We were never a romantic couple, though we spent a lot of time with each other during the times we weren't fighting. He and I as a romantic couple wouldn't have made sense, and that wasn't how we felt about each other; as it was, we were each others' sounding boards on the people we dated, our jobs, our life decisions. We talked for hours, watched movies, ran errands together, and saw a lot of late-night episodes of Married, With Children. And that was perfect for both of us.
He never let me touch him, though. We weren't huggy or snuggly in any way, and at times he seemed to almost have some sort of phobia about me touching him. I remember one time when he was driving kind of quickly around a curvy road and the force of gravity made me lean to my left. "Get off me!" he said, laughing, and pushed be back upright with his arm. He was never mean about it, but it did puzzle me, as I was not a clingy person and was never trying to snuggle up to him.
Once, in one of his messages to me, when he was feeling a little sentimental, he wrote how I was and would always be his best friend. As part of my response (which was more light-hearted than serious), I responded, "You never let me touch you, though, except for that prom dance [when my then-boyfriend, who was a college sophomore, and who didn't want to go to prom, took me to the part of the evening where all the prom-goers parade past in their finery with their dates. Mark, who was at the prom with his girlfriend, asked my boyfriend and his girlfriend if it was okay, and then led me out to the dance floor so I could say I had danced at my senior prom. It meant a lot to me.] and when you hugged me good-bye the night before I left for my mission. I would have hugged you more."
During the week after Mark's death, I felt him near. Of course I was thinking about him, but I could actually feel his spirit visit me throughout the days. It wasn't at all spooky; in fact, it was a very natural sensation. I missed him, but I didn't feel that he was all that far away. The veil between mortality and the spirit world seemed very thin.
Then, the day before his funeral, which I wasn't able to attend, I was sitting in church waiting for the last meeting to start. I was sitting alone, and as my thoughts often had during the last seven days, they turned to Mark. Suddenly, he was there, right next to me. I couldn't see him, but I knew without a doubt that he was there. And he hugged me. I felt enveloped in his arms for a few seconds. I sat stock still, the tears chasing each other down my cheeks as I sensed that he was expressing his love to me and saying good-bye. He was going now to stay full-time with his family, his parents and his sister, and especially his two children, as they celebrated his life and mourned his death. Then I felt his presence leave. The next day, I distinctly felt the veil draw closed, and Mark stepped forever into the post-mortal realm. I checked the time and saw that his funeral had recently ended.
I had started a post about him months ago, but it's easier to edit yourself when the emotion isn't so strong. There are so many stories I could tell about Mark, but I'll pick one that has to do with this picture. Mark had won some sort of contest sometime after we graduated from high school. The main prize was a free cruise, and one of the additional prizes was a free portrait. He said he felt stupid having his portrait taken alone, so he asked me to come with him. The photographer, assuming we were a couple, tried to get Mark to put his hand on my shoulder. We both laughed, and the photographer settled on having Mark put both of his hands on his knee. I tell you that because of what happened a few months later, which is when the following incident occurred. I'm just going to quote the letter Mark sent me in September of 1991, when we were both turning 20 and I had started my second year of college in Utah while he was back in Minnesota (you'll recall that the internet was still sort of a twinkle in Al Gore's eye at this point, so it was either paper mail or phone calls back in the day).
"So now I am laughing at what she is saying, and I am trying to tell her with a straight face that we are just friends. Then she says, 'Look! You can't even keep a straight face!' I am trying to explain to her about my free cruise, and how I didn't want a picture of just me. Then I see Joel and I tell him to tell this dumb blonde who you are. Joel (WHO HAD ABOUT 492 BEERS IN HIM) says, 'I recognize her. That's the girl you got pregnant and then dumped.'
"AHHHHHH!
"So now this girl is having like 4893 cows and at the same time telling me what an ass I am and how I should be ashamed of myself. Needless to say, I slowly walked out of the dorm room with about 20 people looking at me. I found out the next day that Joel told everyone the truth and that the dumb blonde wished she wouldn't have been so mean because I was cute and charming. We have a date next Friday. Just kidding. I still have a boring life."
That's not the funniest letter Mark ever wrote to me. His letters usually had me laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. But it's a good story nevertheless, and it explains the "snuggle" picture and the consequences of carrying it around in his wallet to college dorm parties. I think he left the picture at home after that. It's the only picture I have of the two of us.
I have many memories of Mark, both good and bad, but they all add up to a sincere and deep friendship that grew as we grew and matured. As I said before, we fought a lot and could go weeks without speaking to each other, and there were times when I sincerely did not care if we ever spoke to each other again. He could be quite an idiot; but, well, so could I. And always, some little voice inside would tell me to soften my heart and get off my high horse, and eventually I would listen to it. Over the years, I saw him for who he really is, and I loved him for it in a way that goes beyond anything trivial and earthly. I believe he's found peace and happiness where he is now. He said to me once, "I love you. Very much. I am a better person because of you. Best prom dance ever? YOU."
Right back atcha, buddy.
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