You Call THAT Summer?

As short as this summer felt, we were able to squeeze in at least one high-adventure camping trip. We were camping at 6000 feet in late August and experienced just about all of the weather possibilities known to man: snow, hail, rain, high winds. Oh, and eventually some sun. It was loads of fun. In a tent.

I slept with three sleeping bags, three sweatshirts (hood up), two sweatpants, two socks, and gloves. And I still took hours to truly warm up. The snow accumulated so fast that we had to beat it off the sagging roof of the tent every 20 minutes, until we abandoned camp and huddled at the Lodge cafe for a couple of hours eating our way through pizza and cobbler and gallons of hot coffee while we played canasta. It was emotionally very hard returning to camp, as you might imagine, but I just went straight to bed again and huddled under the covers reading all day.

The night of the high winds, I was awakened by the tent collapsing over my face. Lovely feeling in the dark of night. Oh, and did I mention that we were camping in bear country? So you know I waited awake each night for the entrance of said bear into our tent through the broken zippered front. We were very careful not to have food or even bathroom supplies such as toothpaste in our tent to entice the bears to enter - but what about the Frito's stuck in my teeth?

Our beloved dog must have gotten car sick on the road trip to camp because that first night she vomited about ten times. Do you wanna know how much like a bear's growl her vomiting heaves sounded?? It was a lovely night. One daughter and I truly had the giggles. And Dad pulled his famous line for all time and all situations: This Is Ridiculous.

But yes - eventually we had three days of sunshine and spent all day on the lovely white pumice and sandy beach on East Lake right outside our tent door. Finally, it was warm, and only occasionally did an arctic breeze blow across our sunning backs. I read and read and read and devoted and drew and painted and ate more Frito's. Now THAT is my kind of camping.

Menacing Mail Attack

Turning 50 has not only been relatively painless and less traumatizing than I projected, but actually a full-of-joy experience for me. Thanks to my hubby and dear friends and family, I had an absolute blast. I felt like I was gently carried over that half-a-century line and soothingly placed on the far side, upbeat and ready to face the-rest-of-my-life.

But then the attack began. It was insidious and sinister. And it started with AARP. Asking did I want to start my very own personal subscription to the OLD PEOPLE'S MAGAZINE?? I don't think so - thank you very much. But they are insistent, and not a month goes by when I don't receive another AARP reminder that the world at large considers me OLD.

But this week was the clincher. I received a LIPOLIFT 'Aesthetic Medicine' brochure in the mail, assuring me that I could laserlift myself right into new and improved! I could be reshaped, resized, rebuilt, lifted, tucked or suctioned. Wow. Doesn't that all just sound so fun? Right after our coffee date, how about if we gals go get worked over??

What is the matter with the me that I am? I mean, its not like I don't work on me quite enough as it is. I work out regularly; I wear deodorant; I shave my legs, apply lotion, paint my toenails, color my hair, wear make-up, and file my fingernails. This is about all the time I want to expend on this me. Oh, I guess I do like to dress myself in bright colors, capris, and black strappy sandals.

I stand HERE, strong and true, just over the 50 yard line, resistant to the AARP attack. I-will-not-subscribe. Are you with me?

Confessions of a Foodie Family

We take our food seriously in this family - we are dedicated, passionate foodies (and drinkies).

Our lives spin and gyrate around food. Good food - snacky food - gourmet food - chocolate food - we really aren’t that picky. But we are religiously firm believers in the mantra: God-gave-us-all-things-to-enjoy. That’s a command, isn’t it? So we are busy about the enjoying of ‘all things’, which means we are diabolically good at coming up with reasons to celebrate something…anything.

We are really not all that picky about the pretext we come up with to justify our ritual imbibing. Birthdays help a lot; weeklong or month-long birthday revelries are respectable. Graduations are good. So are anniversaries. But then we are left to our own strategic devices; believe me, we can get imaginative. It’s the first Friday of the month; the last Friday of the month; the beginning of a new month; a favorite month. Get the idea?

Planning a car trip only partially entails motel reservations and planning the route on our map. Mainly it involves the gleeful discussion of what special snacks and drinks we’ll take along. Admit it, as soon as those wheels start rolling, you want a bright yellow peanut M&M, too, right along with your chai tea latte. Right? Now do you know why we like road trips?

Our holidays start and end with meal planning, dessert making, food consuming. Our advent celebrations are undergirded with special treats of cinnamon dolce twisted pastry sticks or Belgium chocolate or homemade coconut joys or garlic flavored Boursin cheese on crackers.

Hubby will ask - “Are you ready to start celebrating advent season?” He isn’t asking if I have researched special Bible passages or whether I have all the candles I need or whether I have the advent wreath unpacked and arranged - no - he’s asking if I have the FOOD we need to celebrate. Advent hardly goes forward without these things. Seriously.

We play games as a family and watch movies all together while propped on our bellies lies a luscious bowl of oiled and salted popcorn. Or we pass around a couple of deluxe chocolate bars. You gotta try the new coconut white chocolate bar or the blueberry chocolate bar. We’ve done research. Num.

I can hardly even read a book without eating. And I read a lot of books. I’ve always thought that if I gave up reading, I’d be skinny as a thin line notebook. But I love reading - I could read my life away - and that becomes much more plausible and excusable if not only am I engrossed in a catering mystery or a who-done-it book, but I am also eating breakfast. Or lunch. Or my afternoon pick-me-up snack. I read to eat. Or, do I eat to read? - One of life’s large and looming dilemmas.

It begins to look like we foodies may even play games and watch movies to eat. Even celebrate advent to eat. Go on road trips to eat.

One of life’s real joys is stumbling across a fellow foodie. Is that you?

Christmas Tree Adventure

We got our Christmas tree in early December, on my oldest daughter's 21st birthday, per her request. Otherwise, we would have been bartering with Daddy for weeks to please, please, please be able to get our tree early!!! The Christmas tree tradition he was indoctrinated in during his childhood, espoused that the parents got the tree, decorated said tree and the whole living room behind closed doors, and 'ta da', on Christmas Eve the whole magical room was unveiled. Hmmm. Special tradition. Nice and all - but definitely not appealing to the women of this household.

Every year he wants to wait that long and - poor guy - every year he loses out to the female horde in his home and graciously gives in to our wishes. For of course we girls want the tree up as soon as possible, otherwise how could we fully enter into the joy of the season? How could we properly get into the lit-candle mood of advent? Without a tree, how could we sing Christmas carols during family devotions? How could we munch on holiday cookies and candy canes outside of the proper atmosphere of a glittering and ribbon bedecked tree?! Makes no sense.

So, we usually get our tree early - give or take a couple of weekends - depending on our persuasiveness that particular year.

We loaded up the Suburban in the pouring down rain with tarp and rope and gloves and handsaw and drove past all of the signs advertising Christmas tree farms practically right in our backyard and drove miles away to discover a new - cheap - tree farm. We found one with a sign that advertised selected red ribbon trees for only $10. That would qualify as cheap.

We started our tramp through the trees, spreading out like frost on a cold window, each exclaiming over the perfect tree - over here! I quickly surmised why they were cheap, for the trees had such expanded girths they had outgrown most houses. But year after year we are tempted by giant trees, so that was not a deterrent for us. We chose our tree, sawed it down, and carried it to the waiting Suburban. It didn't fit inside. It barely fit on the roof of the car though we tied it down and drove off with our arms out the windows holding it in place. I'm sure we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies.

We hung blankets to protect our new front door as we shoved and heaved the tree into our living room. Ahhh. The hard work was behind us - let the fun begin! I warmly contemplated how early in the season we'd managed to whine our way to a tree!

I've never been so deceived in my smug complacency.

For now the second yearly debate began...where to place the Christmas tree! Daddy wants the tree in the middle of the room - I kid you not - for clearly that way everybody gets a good view of the twinkly lights. Every year he wants this. Every year we girls trample all over his fanciful fantasy with derision and scorn and passive aggressive behavior, for the tree clearly must go in its proper place in front of the window. Clearly.

This year something came over me and I said - I really did - I said go ahead and try it where you would like it. Then I hid in the kitchen doing clean-up while he and the girls dismantled and disarranged the whole living room to experiment with his tree fantasy.

To properly set the scene, you must know that my oldest daughter had assisted me in thoroughly decorating the large living room just the day before. Displays of snowmen, creches and candles, our large Christmas book collection, holiday villages, bowls of sparkly colored balls nestled in green moss covered every surface, and it was beautiful. And it was almost all dismantled as couches and chairs and trunks and coffee tables and end tables were all moved around to accommodate the intruding fat tree.

Well, he got it to its imagined place of triumph. From the kitchen I heard him say: "Hmmm, it doesn't quite work there." I was still in the kitchen, yes. I sometimes find it easier to maintain a godly, gracious demeanor - facade - if I am not directly tempted by watching. It is a whole lot less painful than biting my tongue.

After about an hour of finagling, back the tree went to its properly designated-before-creation place of triumph and beauty in front of the window. I came out of the kitchen, and we girls all heaved a sigh of relief. I consoled myself with the knowledge that surely, now, this temptation to dilly dally around with the tree will be forever nipped in the nappies and we'll not have to deal with this particular trial again in future. At least I have a whole year to be free of this particular worry.

Onward to the decorating. We left the tree out a bit from the window for ease of decorating,
added a bit of water for the thirsty tree, and began the tradition of winding the white lights about the tree while we sipped our hot spiced cider. Until we ran out of lights. This also is a yearly family tradition. Once back from the store, we finished up the lights, added wide red ribbon wrapped around the tree, and gold, red, and white ornaments. It was gorgeous. My eldest daughter kept a tight rein on the wilder, less beautiful ornaments, for she was to be the hostess of her Bible study's Christmas party this year. Any ragged ornament outside her theme was snatched off the tree and we were informed it could go back on after the party. This whole decorating thing with her has been quite fun as she is a minimalist - and I - well, I am a 'maximalist.'

The tree is now all decorated and it is time to move it back into its place against the window. We had the heavy metal stand placed on a three foot piece of plywood to protect our new floors and as we slid the tree home - you guessed it - the water sloshed out onto the board, swam to the edges and leaked under the board. Oh Oh. Of course we could not leave the water under the board for the whole month of December. (Although tempting)

Now the fun really began. Hubby had a plan. Remember the large girth of this tree - and imagine its weight. He marshaled his troops, we all had our assignments: one hold the tree, one slide the plastic under the board, one dry the floor and the board, and he would tilt the board to accommodate all. You know what happened. We did dry the floor, we did get the plastic under the board, but the tree fell over, twice, in the process and all of our decorating came undone. About fifteen ornaments crashed onto the bare floor and broke and the lovely red ribbon hung in bedraggled rows reminiscent of a harlot after a long night.

We decorated again. And we put the living room back in order again. The amazing truth is that all of this happened in just one afternoon and evening. We kept our humor - you must agree, it was all really quite laughable, and it has been fun sharing with you our tree trimming escapade. Debacle. Adventure!

Active Voice Obsessions

I am obsessed with popcorn. To obsess: to haunt or trouble the mind; harass; preoccupy; usually in the passive voice.... My obsession has an active voice. A loud voice.

My teeth bare in defense of my own private bowl and before I ever make my own batch of popcorn, I carefully question the crowd to ascertain if there is somebody else who wants popcorn. Because if so, I'll make their batches first - all in premeditated protection of my own buttered and salted bowl of ambrosia. You see my motives. They are to be sated with their own popcorn so that by the time I have my own, they'll not come near me with grubby groping fists.

And I'm not talking about a cereal bowl, but a mixing bowl sized batch and I eat the whole thing. Myself.

Prior to owning an air popper we indulged in microwave popcorn. Awhile back in my up and down weight history, I decided to kick the popcorn habit. I threw into the garbage can my remaining three bags of microwave popcorn. You might ask, what is wrong with low-fat, low calorie popcorn? Nothing. Except that I add fat and calories by pouring on the butter. Otherwise, I ask you, what is the point?

By mid-afternoon of that same day, my resolve crashed and burned, enduring under as I had, the clarion call of my precious popcorn bags from the garbage can under the kitchen sink. I sneaked back and surreptitiously fingered through the detritus remains of various kitchen activities, like a bag lady plowing through a dumpster, but I could not find my three precious plastic wrapped bags of microwave popcorn!

"GIRLS!!" Looking at them with narrowed eyes as they sat eating lunch together in the dining room. Hands on my hips, I interrogated, "WHAT have you done with my popcorn?!" My eldest spoke up and assured me with mischievously snapping eyes, that she'd HIDDEN them and that I'd never find them.

Bent on imbibing in a bowl of buttered popcorn, I charged upstairs to begin the search. Her confidence that I'd never find them told me that it had to be someplace special. In hindsight, I believe that the three packages of plastic wrapped microwave popcorn wanted me just as much as I wanted them, because they subliminally drew me right to them.

I pulled out one drawer in her captain's bed to explore the space behind - something I'd never remembered was there in all the years we'd owned the beds - and there they were. I snatched them up, hugged them tightly to my chest, and triumphantly descended upon the girls with a "HA! I found them!"

With grim satisfaction I plopped one into the microwave, melted several teaspoons of butter and salted the life out of my precious white kernels. Never again would I so blithely abandon this obsession of mine. This irresistible impulse. This bewitchment. I fully intend to regularly indulge myself in the future and the one concession I may make for health's sake is that I will sometimes use olive oil in place of butter. Sometimes. But I am making no foolish rash promises as such.