Rutabaga Stories

The Play's the Thing

2011-07-11T17:51:00.000-07:00

Julian enjoyed his first night out at the theater (or should I say "theatre"?) last night.How does one take an eight week old to see a play? Thanks to summer, outdoor theater in Seattle is abundant, so yesterday evening we caught a performance of the improvised classic, "The Lost Folio", wherein a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions was created on the spot using audience suggestions. Julian didn't offer any suggestions, unless you count suddenly shrieking. What brought on the unexpected outburst? A few minutes later he burped, then all's well that ends well.

The brilliance of outdoor theater with a baby was that by positioning myself at the edge of the audience I was able to make a quick exit if needed, or simply walk back and forth with my son in my arms from the back of the crowd, disturbing no one, yet still able to enjoy the show myself. I could also pass him off to Michael and take my seat back on the grass to enjoy some of the delicious picnic that had been assembled between us and our friends - quinoa salad, Vietnamese spring rolls, barbeque turkey meatballs, cupcakes, and more.

In years to come, I hope Julian will learn to enjoy seeing live theater for himself, but in the meantime, it's great to know that he can tag along while his parents enjoy a summer evening out. A free show, friends, great food, and a sunny spot on the grass without having to pay for a sitter make the most out of our fleeting summer eves.

Homa Again, Home Again

2011-07-07T09:40:00.000-07:00

After ten nights at my parents' house in Oregon, we are back in Seattle, readjusting by doing laundry, sleeping in our own bed, washing bottle in our own sink, and learning how being back in our room affects Julian's sleep schedule and how every day he smiles more and more.

In point of fact, I don't think I've spent quite so much time at my parents' place in one shot since I left home for college at the age of eighteen. The Willamette Valley was gorgeous, all rolling green hills carpeted in vineyards and stands of oak over plains of newly mown hay and wildflowers. Now, looking out my dining room window, I'm greeted by rain over the gray roofs of my neighbor's homes (but it is supposed to be sunny again later today, right? Right?). Still, it's comforting to be back. And I needed to be reminded that in Seattle I should not leave the laundry out to dry on the porch overnight without first checking the weather report.

Since this was our first overnight trip with Julian, it was also a good lesson in how much stuff one needs when traveling with an infant. Fully stocked diaper bag, an assortment of onesies and sleepers, the ever popular "buzzy seat" to occupy him without us having to hold him every waking minute, play mat, baby tub (I don't quite feel comfortable washing him in a full sized bathtub yet), and a box of disposable diapers (no diaper service at my parents, and I wasn't about to spend ten days washing out cloth ones), not to mention all the breast pump equipment and bottles (our boy needs a little - OK, a lot - of help in the feeding department). Considering that we also need to make room for our dog, the Mazda 5 was filled to the gills.

Traveling with baby also lent itself to a much more, let's say, leisurely vacation. While our trip was bookended with family events, the week in the middle was spent at home, watching the baby, washing bottles, and painting fence boards for a backyard project to be completed up at our place later this summer, all while our car was in the shop getting some minor body work done tax free. I'm not accustomed to pacing myself quite so slowly, or not getting out at least once a day, but Julian is changing rapidly, and I realize it is only a matter of time before his horizons expand beyond our little household.

In the meantime, I'm glad to be back in Seattle, where our little day trips - walks to the farmers' market, evening concerts in the park, an hour or two relaxing at a cafe - keep me going.

Summer in the City?

2011-06-22T12:25:00.000-07:00

The first day of summer dawned bright and clear in Seattle yesterday. I opened the curtains of our bedroom, letting in a burst of sunlight, a fitting start to my favorite season. In the afternoon, Michael an I enjoyed a late, leisurely lunch of wine and sandwiches on the patio at Citizen, while Julian dozed in his shaded car seat beside us.

Of course, today the clouds are back. The weather report, which I distinctly remember predicted temperatures in the high 60s and partly sunny weather for the remainder of the week when I checked it over the weekend, now warns of incoming rain, just in time for our out of town guests from Norway, who arrive this afternoon.

I had high hopes for a summer off work with our new baby. Often the easiest way to get out of the house with a newborn is to simply take a walk around the neighborhood, a simple task that becomes more enjoyable when the weather's warm and the sun lingers longer in the sky. With last summer infamously known as, "the coldest summer in 30 years", I was sure that things could only go up from there, but the weather report and the thought of rain leaves me dejected.

Not that we haven't made use of the sun when it shines. Glancing down I can see the pale criss-cross of my shoe strap marked across my bare feet, evidence that yesterday really did happen. Sunny afternoons have made their appearance, just not as frequently as hoped.

Saturday we ventured out to Green Lake for our first "destination" walk - some place requiring a drive to get there, rather than simply stepping out our front door. The weather was disappointingly damp, but I still packed turkey sandwiches to share with our friend Lewissa, whom we met up with at Chocolati Cafe.

"It's June-uary!" Michael announced, while we picked from the exotic hot chocolate drinks listed on the menu. At least the weather was conducive to sitting inside and sipping decadent hot beverages.

"Well," I countered, "this isn't exactly unusual for June around here."

"But it's been June-uary for a year!" lamented Lewissa. Aaaand... point for Lewissa!

After picnicking within the confines of the cafe, however, we were pleased to find it dry enough to manage a walk around the lake after all. Of course, this being our first outing where we had intended to do much walking with Julian, we had inadvertently left the stroller at home. Fortunately, a one-month-old is still pretty light, so we took turns carrying him as we made the 2.8 mile loop around the lake. Even without the sunshine, it was good to be out.

Take Me Out

2011-06-22T10:01:00.000-07:00

Last week I spent Monday night high in the stands of Safeco Field with three friends, watching the Mariners lose to the Angels. At least, compared with a game I went to last summer, one that the Mariners ultimately won, there was some actual scoring throughout the innings. At that previous game, hardly a man made it to first base throughout nine innings, and it wasn't until the second extra inning that anyone made it safely to home plate.

More significantly, though, I was out... with friends... without the baby.

It was the first time, exactly four week's after Julian's birth. It felt good, on a beautiful evening, to feel normal again, just to be someone hanging out with friends enjoying a game, some conversation, and garlic fries. Parenthood, something I'm still trying to get a grasp on, felt far away.

I'm not sure when the feeling of being a parent kicks in for most people, but most parents I've spoken with can remember the early days as a whirl of wonder, confusion, and frustration. It's a sudden leap into new responsibilities beyond the magnitude of any most have previously experienced, and it comes with a label that all too often becomes the predominate lens through which others view us: we are now parents. Mothers, in particular, can get lost behind this new title. The world still tends to view us as the primary care providers, the ones most emotionally and physically invested in our children. And frankly, in the early days of breast feeding, we are often the sole provider of nourishment for our babies, something that occupies the majority of a newborn's waking hours.

It can be hard to come to terms with this new role and the pull it exerts on all other areas of my life, of my identity. I don't want to lose the friends I've had, spending all my nights at home with my child, trading adult socializing for the company of an infant who can't yet crack a genuine smile. As a mother, I am determined that I am adding to my identity, not taking away from it, and the occasional night out provides just the confirmation and respite that I need.

Of course, all bets are off when that baby does start smiling. I definitely want to be home for that.

Shower Power

2011-03-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

The baby shower: a rite of passage for moms-to-be. We run the gauntlet of games guessing what baby food is what (the winner can somehow tell the difference between carrots and sweet potatoes), cooing over onesies, and collecting clothespins for catching others in the act of speaking aloud that unavoidably overused word, "cute".

Well, maybe. I have to say I'm not enamored of such baby shower hallmarks. Judging from the number of people I've spoken with who seem to agree with this sentiment, I'm rather surprised these games are still going. Fortunately, there are two ways to trump tradition: know the people throwing your shower (and know that they know you), and invite the menfolk. They provide balance that naturally keeps the cuteness factor from rocketing up to radioactive levels. And besides, 50% of the parenting power in my household will be supplied by my dear husband. He has come to every single one of my pregnancy OB appointments, and he's coming to the showers. Heck, he even took care of registering us at Babies R Us on his own (thank you, Sweetie!) - now that is a brave, bold man!

Yesterday was our first shower, thrown by two of my co-workers. It was nicely low-key, a chance to visit and nosh and be on the receiving end of many presents. I haven't experienced such an outpouring of gifts since we were married over ten years ago, but soon-to-be-born babies seem to bring out the warm fuzzies in everyone, and the generosity shown to us felt almost overwhelming. It was then that I realized something: with this kind of support, with Michael by my side, and without the kitschy contests, I just might be able to pull this motherhood thing off.

Sleeping the Day Away

2011-03-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

Today was a particularly bleak day in Seattle, the rain moving seamlessly from drizzle to downpour. Feeling exhausted, I chose the option of an early afternoon nap on the sofa with the dog over taking her out on a walk. One thing pregnancy has taught me, although it's been a difficult lesson to learn, is to listen when my body is tired, to take the nap or head to bed early as time allows.

Only in the past few weeks has this tiredness come creeping back in, seeping slowly into my bones. A nap, I have found, can make the difference between a productive afternoon later on and one lost to restlessness and irritability. It's common knowledge that good sleep habits mean better health and even productivity, yet I still feel the subtle pressure of a society that admires those for whom sleep is something of a nuisance, that which keeps us from accomplishing our all. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," indeed.

I've always enjoyed a good night's sleep - when I could get it. And far from being one of those go-getters who routinely hit the sack for a mere six hours maximum, I've always figured that an average of at least seven hours a night was doing pretty well. But now I see that it's not even about me, it's about this new life I'm carrying, and I have no choice but to bow to his needs. My body does it without needing even my permission; if he needs nutrients, he gets them, no matter if I come up short. My body is focused on growing my child, and it will wear itself out if that's what it takes. My personal needs at this point are secondary, and if I don't eat well enough or sleep well enough for the both of us, my body is not going to show me any sympathy.

So I give in to my body, hoping all the while that by acquiescing to its demands now it will treat me kindly this week when I won't have the time for naps. For today, though, I am almost thankful for the bleak weather - it made taking that nap all the easier.

Springing Ahead

2011-03-12T21:41:00.000-08:00

Tonight, we lose one hour of precious time. I've set the clocks ahead already to mentally prepare myself, but there was really no need; although it's only 9:40 according to the old time, I'm already more than tired enough for bed, glancing at the clock as I type, grateful that soon I'll be snuggled under flannel sheets.

I could blame this lethargy on pregnancy. As I enter my final two months, it's normal, I've heard, for the fatigue to start to creep in. Still, I'm loathe to blame too much on the baby I'm carrying. Throughout much of my pregnancy I've focused on how my life can and will continue as normal. True, I may be sipping tonic water instead of a beer, but I can still catch a show at the club. I may experience a stronger fear of falling while navigating icy tracks on a rented pair of cross country skis, but I'll still hit the trail. And I can still stay up until midnight playing games with friends, it just means I may not be staying up quite so late the following night... especially when baby decides that 7am is the perfect time to wake mommy with his in utero calisthenics, regardless of last night's bedtime.

The truth is, I'm pretty happy with my life as it is, and as it has been. Sure, improvement is always a worthy goal, but my definition of improvement has long leaned towards better organizing my time, putting in more volunteer hours, remembering to write thank-you notes, calling friends on the phone more often, and so on. Such an enormous change as bringing a child into the world for whom Michael and I are solely responsible was beyond the scope of my modest goals. When life is good, it's hard to imagine shaking things up too much.

And yet here we are, on the verge of something that changes everything. Or does it? Is it cowardice or common sense to think that everything in life must rearrange itself upon the birth of a new baby? How do I navigate this new world, both as a mother and, quite simply, as me? Whatever I learn and however I change, I think I can safely say that I expect the unexpected - and that I expect the unexpected will be better than anything I could imagine.

Blahgging

2010-09-20T20:33:00.000-07:00

Tonight I found myself sitting in front of the laptop, mindlessly web surfing, either too tired or too listless to work on something productive. It was then that I thought to myself, "Hey, maybe I should blog." So here I am.

It's hard to say exactly what has led me to abandon my online writing. Unfortunately, I can't claim it's because any private writing has taken its place. I suppose it's nothing complicated, just the fact that I haven't set aside any time for it and that I've struggled with a lack of direction in these posts. On the surface, a blog sounds simple. After all, it follows that most basic of writing aphorisms, "write what you know". And what could you possibly know better than... yourself?

It's evident the memoir has taken on a significant role in our web-savvy, pop-culture obsessed, fifteen-minutes-of-fame culture. Does putting it in writing prove that it happened? Does it lend a significance to everyday events that we find otherwise lacking? Is talking up our latest foray the latest way of keeping up with the Joneses? Or maybe, for most of us, it's just a way to keep friends loosely informed and make use of the internet as a creative outlet.

It's really creativity I crave. But all too often I find my mind devoid of any ideas for creative pursuits, and I wonder if the internet takes some of that blame. Or perhaps I'm just getting older and more set in my ways. One thing I do know: since my Lenten break with visual/electronic media, I've been loathe to watch any TV shows or movies more than once or twice a week, and surfing the web has become primarily a tool for procrastination when I lack the motivation for real action (or am simply trying to avoid what I know needs to be done). Writing this is no exception to this rule.

So perhaps I'll write again soon, with fresh ideas percolating. Or perhaps I'll move on to other things, but then, who knows? Maybe moving on to other things would finally give me something to blog about.

Sunday Supper

2010-07-25T23:11:00.000-07:00

Remember Sunday supper at grandma's? If you were lucky enough to experience it, you're doubtless left with memories to last a lifetime. I recall grandma's special baked chicken (somehow no one else seems to be able to make it quite the same), green beans, mashed potatoes, and fruit salad, with berry cobbler for dessert. Swedish rye bread made according to the family recipe was served on the side, for no dinner could be complete without bread on the table.
Another great thing about Sunday dinner at grandma's (well, besides the company, of course)? Mom didn't have to cook! At least, I assume that must have been a blessing. As much as I love to cook, it's nice to let someone else take charge occasionally. And after a very full weekend, the prospect of Sunday supper at Volunteer Park Cafe may not have quite the same allure as grandma's, but it sure sounded good.

Fortunately for us, it tasted even better than it sounded. Light poured in through the open door onto the long communal table that runs the length of the cafe where Michael, Lewissa, and I took our seats. For Seattle, it had been a hot day - over 80 degrees! - but the evening warmth was pleasant, comfortable enough for me to wear the long-sleeved shirt I'd chosen to cover my newly sunburnt arms. Refreshed with beer, wine, and citrus agave water, we eyed the blackboard list of coming courses.

The idea behind the Sunday supper is a simple one: use what's in season, food from the garden, and serve it up family style. With a couple of musicians providing a low key soundtrack for the meal, we passed around giant enamel pots of salad, then meatloaf with onion gravy, silken mashed potatoes, and green beans. This was food that would no doubt have felt right at home on grandma's table, although it was admittedly a bit gussied up compared with the dinners I remember from childhood. The vegetarian offering was sweet pea risotto, something that never appeared at the grandparents' house, but the pop of fresh green peas amid creamy rice topped with succulent pea vines and a lemony, melt-in-you-mouth creamy cheese brought the taste of summer home.

After all that, it was hard to find room for dessert, but somehow we managed. Still warm from the oven, we received slices of golden-crusted blueberry buttermilk pie. The buttermilk custard lent a soft tang to the sweetness of the berries, and the crust was perfectly crisp and buttery. Pie is the ultimate in summer desserts, and a good Sunday supper is the ultimate end to a perfect summer weekend.

They Say It's My Birthday

2010-07-20T23:22:00.001-07:00

Another birthday come and soon to be gone. It's not a day I choose to loudly celebrate, although it is a good excuse to encourage Michael to do whatever I wish. Of course, that might work more to my advantage if I could actually determine what my wish really is.

We are not romantic when it comes to presents. Last year, I bought myself a DSLR camera, and declared that to be my gift. It's a good way to justify an expensive purchase.

"What do you want for your birthday?" Michael asked last week.

"I want to go for dinner at the Tin Table and swing dancing at the Century Ballroom," I replied, quite truthfully.

"No, what do you want? For a present?"

"Nothing," I was honestly perplexed at this question.

"Isn't there any kitchen thing you want?" Michael persisted. Ah, the"kitchen thing". I like to cook and Michael likes to eat, so what could be more perfect? So goes the rationale, at any rate. Hence I will be getting a new chef's knife and a pasta attachment for the KitchenAid mixer. Michael ordered them online this morning, and couldn't wait to tell me.

"Do you want to know what you're getting for your birthday?"

"Uh, no."

"Do you want to know?"

Silence.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Michael pulls me into an embrace, looking adorable.

"OK. It seems you really want to tell me. What am I getting?" I relent. There went the mystery, but I have to admit I cracked a smile at the mention of the pasta attachment. After all, homemade pasta is the way to anyone's heart.

While the Sun Shines

2010-06-30T22:19:00.000-07:00

Here in the Pacific Northwest we await summer with expectations high, glorified memories of sunny days past bursting through the rain clouds that fill our vision. There's nothing quite like waking to the sound of rain drops pelting against your windowpane in June. After eight months of saying, "Oh, summer in Seattle, it makes the winter drizzle worth it!", the sense that the weather has let you down out of pure spite is hard to shake.

So we are cautious now. We recall the saying that summer in western Washington doesn't start until after - that's right, after - the Fourth of July, and hold on to the hope that the last decade of shorts and flip flops, sunglasses and sunscreen while munching burgers and potato salad on the lawn in dutiful celebration of our nation's birth wasn't just a fluke. It was easy, in those years, to forget the times we suffered, bundled in sweatshirts and positioning buffet tables under cover, knowing that a "chance of showers" has less to do with chance and more to do with showers.

When a sunny day dawns, spirits soar. It's like nothing so much as falling in love. I love you, Seattle! There's the sensation that my heart is actually swelling as I pass beneath the big leaf maples that line my favorite stretch of road in our neighborhood. The overlapping leaves above my head form a mosaic of dappled green, illuminated by the glorious sunlight. Lake Washington shimmers below, a sapphire blue reflection of the sky.

But tomorrow? Well, who would dare to predict it? Make hay while the sun shines, as they say (not mentioning, of course, that a sudden storm can turn the freshly mown hay to rot before it ever gets to the barn). We wait and hope, but hesitate to speak aloud, fearful that the sunny spell be broken.

Remembering Morocco

2010-05-15T05:12:00.000-07:00

In Sevilla, our tour is winding down (but not before tonight's final dinner and horse drawn carriage ride, of course). Spain and Morocco have been a whirlwind, with too few opportunities to write about the experience. While Morocco now feels like a world away, I can still recall sitting on the roof terrace of the Dar Nour by night, surrounded by the layered rooftops of the kasbah, and hearing the day's final call to prayer as the meuzzins one by one began their chant. Unlike most Muslim countries, in Morocco the call to prayer is still sung by a live meuzzin rather than a recording, and the sound spreads throughout the city via the loudspeakers atop the minarets.

Below, the streets are packed with action until late in the evening. Kids and cats roam the twisting alleys while men drink mint tea at tables lining the sidewalks. Many women are out two, making their way though the narrow streets in both traditional caftans and headscarves and skintight jeans, but the cafe scene still belongs to the men.

Some of the best food can be found just outside the prime tourist zone at Le Saveur de Poisson, where one menu is served for lunch and dinner. Take a seat and you will be presented with a dish of black olives, a bowl of housemade chili oil, roasted almonds, and a basket of Moroccan breads. Soon, a bowl of shrimp and couscous soup appears. Dip your bread in the chili oil - it's positively addictive, and far spicier than almost anything you'll find in Spain. Even the flavor othe roasted almonds seems amplified beyond any you've tasted before.

But these simple delights are only the beginning. An earthenware dish of shrimp baked with spinach and cubes of fish soon follows, steaming hot from the oven. It tastes fresh and bright, the shrimp bursting with flavor, the fish and spinach melting together on the tounge. A main course follows of flatfish simply roasted over coals, served alongside kebabs of swordfish. Fresh and meaty, sweet and tender, nothing beats seafood roasted to perfection.

Finally, there is dessert. Toasted barley and pinenuts are mixed with coarse brown sugar and thick, dark honey that is just starting to crystalize, and luscious strawberries topped with the same honey round out the meal. Throughout it all, your goblet is constantly refilled with a home brewed fruit juice, tasting of figs and plums.

Like Morocco itself, the meal is enchanting and exotic. It's also a respite from the crowded streets outside, much like the roof terraces take you away from the bustle of a city packed with people, traffic, and non-ending noise. Spain feels tame by comparison. Here in Sevilla the weather is perfect, the city is beautiful, and the atmosphere is relaxed. But I can't wait to go back to Morocco for another taste of this different world.

Jamon and the Alhambra

2010-05-08T09:19:00.000-07:00

It´s a sunny day in Granada, with any snow merely a distant memory (after all, it didn´t even really stick). This morning, the group gaped in awe at stalagtite ceilings in the Alhambra, and even managed to beat most of the crowds. Down below in the old town, I headed for lunch at a local tapas bar with the guide and driver.

As any good Spaniard, or good traveler in Spain, knows, crowded equals good when it comes to tapas bars. And at around 2pm, this place was hopping. We snaked our way through the throngs and managed to squeeze out a little spot along the bar for a stand up meal. Out came a platter of migas (Spanish fried breadcrumbs, which are actually very tasty), quickly followed by selection of jamon, cheeses, and pates. We weren´t even halfway through it when small sampler plates of paella arrived, on the house.

Spain: scme for the sights, stay for the food, but don´t ever expect to lose any weight on this vacation.

The Snow in Spain

2010-05-04T08:31:00.000-07:00

...falls mainly around the plain. We woke up in Segovia on May 4th to the sight of white flakes swirling on the other side of the windows. Who would have imagined it, but so far our May tour in Spain has been colder than our April tour in Belgium and the Netherlands. On the ride to El Escorial, a light dusting of snow coated the rocks and trees along the highway, and while El Escorial itself was free from snow, a fierce wind whipped around corners and down alleyways, making any time spent outside a fight against the elements. The fingertips of my left hand prickled with numbness.

Fortunately, the sun was shining despite the nearly frigid temperatures, and in Spain all it takes is a nice, leisurely meal in a warm cafe to put things right. Some of the group, including the guide and I, took advantage of the menu del dia at a local restaurant. This Spanish specialty provides patrons with the option to choose a three course lunch with wine for one very reasonable price, in this case twelve Euros. For a mere twelve Euros, I enjoyed Russian salad, fish, and pudding for dessert, along with a full bottle of red wine to share. If you want to follow the recommended advice to fill up with a large meal at midday and enjoy only a light repast (tapas, antyone?) in the evening, the menu del dia is the way to go. In Seattle, you´d pay the same amount per person just to split a bottle of wine.

Finally warm again, I´m glad to be in Madrid tonight, where the weather isn´t quite so chilly. Still full from lunch, I wonder if I´ll even bother with dinner tonight. In the meantime, a walking tour around the Puerto del Sol should get the blood moving again, and I can honestly say it´s a beautiful day on the plains of Spain.

A Day Fit for a Queen

2010-04-30T05:35:00.000-07:00

After non-stop sun for well over a week, Queen's Day in the Netherlands was ushered in with a thunderstorm. Seemingly only minutes after the guide and I saw our tour members safely back to our hotel, the heavens opened. But this was Queen's Night - basically, an excuse to party on into the wee hours since the next day is the national holiday - and a little rain couldn't stop us from heading back out to the streets. Crowds packed the Amsterdam city squares, dance music blared from stages, and orange was everywhere.

This morning, too, orange was the color du jour. Alongside the red, white, and blue stripes of the national flag of the Netherlands flew orange ones in honor of the royal family. Queen's Day is, in fact, one of the only times when the royal orange can be raised with the flag. In such a tolerant country, it comes as a surprise to me that such a thing is so strictly regulated, although it lends a special flair to the bright banners.

While Queen's Day is, more or less, a celebration of Dutch independence, it's not fully clear what about this day makes it patriotic, other than the fact that Orange, in honor of the Duke of Orange, who helped liverate the country from Spanish Hapsburg rule, is everywhere. Besides the wearing of the orange, the day is celebrated by turning entire towns and cities into one gigantic flea market. On this day, anyone can sell anything (anything legal, that is), with no permit required. Little girls make cupcakes, college students mix cocktails, and a vast array of junk, ranging from orange leis to used comics to every article of clothing imaginable are on display.

Some get creative - electonic keyboards are set up on street corners for young musical geniuses to showcase their talent and maybe earn a few coins, a wishing wall becomes a place for people to write their wishes on orange post-its in exchange for a donation to help girls in need in Indonesia. "Your wish is absolutely guaranteed to come true," the woman promoting the wishing wall assured me. If that's true, we can all look forward to world peace in the near future. One young man even set himself up as a target for throwing raw eggs - for a fee, of course.

The entreprenurial spirit of the people, and that Dutch way with money, shine even when the sun doesn't. According to the local news, those who were planning on selling in the city planned to make an average of eighty Euros today. Talking with two girls who had a spread set out to raise money for orphans in Ghana, I learned that they had already raised fifty euros, all before noon. With a donation of two more from me, they were well on their way to surpassing the eight Euro mark. Further into the neighborhood, however, a man who convinced me to spring for a fifty cent cup of coffee to comlement my cupcake, noted that he had sold very little. So little, in fact, that he had slashed his prices by half.

"I'd rather sell some coffee for fifty cents than no coffee for one Euro," he told me, while his wife sat in the window of their home with the coffee maker ready for another batch. Dutch practicality wins the day.

As the rain started to clear away, streets and canals become more and more crowded with partiers on foot, bike, and boat. The party will last late into the night, I'm sure, but in the meantime I'll be on my way to Barcelona. Which is just as well, considering that another night of less than five hours of sleep would probably not be the best way to start off my next tour. Not to mention the fact that my orange shirt, purchased yesterday for the big event, probably would smell even less sweet after another night surrounded by spilled beer and various kinds of smoke wafting through the air... this is Amsterdam, after all.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy a last few hours in the Netherlands, and wish everyone, Queen included, a very happy holiday.

Light in the Low Countries

2010-04-26T06:09:00.000-07:00

It's late April and the sun is shining in the Netherelands. In other words, right now is the perfect time to be here. North Seat beaches that are packed in August offer today offer a wided expance of windswept white sand, thee tulips are just beginning to bloom, and bicyclists are out in their shirt sleeves. Even here at the hotel computer I can feel the warmth of the sun streaming through the window, highlighting the fresh green leaves on an apple tree that is just beginning to blossom.

Considering the time of year, the weather has been amazing. Sure, it's chilly in the morning, when I bundle up in my cardigan and jacket before stepping outside for our local walking tours, but by the time noon hits the extra layers have been peeled back and first on my mind is how to take advantage of the wonderful blue skies above in my photos.

So, I think you'll understand when I sasy I can't write for long - us native Northwesterners know we always must take advantage of a sunny day. Tot ziens!

2010-04-23T12:41:00.000-07:00

So, three Flemish sailors walk into a bar...

Well, to be more accurate, one Dutch guide, one American guide, and nine tour members walk into a bar, and meet the three Flemish sailors...

So began our optional pub crawl to a couple of traditional Belgain pubs here in Bruges for our tour members. The pub in question offers a Belgian tripel beer with 11% alcohol, and I think these sailors were already on their third by the time we met them (the third being the maximum number allowed by the pub, considering the high alcohol content). It made for a fun evening, the kind of thing that can never be planned.

So, if you should meet three Flemish sailors in a pub, invite them over. You won't be disappointed.

A Look at Luxembourg

2010-04-19T13:27:00.000-07:00

Last night in Luxembourg, tonight in Belgium (and believe me, I'm really craving a beer right now, so I know where I'm headed once I finish this post): it's a whirlwind tour! But I am thankful to be here, although it sounds like our poor tour group, which is scheduled to start tomorrow, may be down to eleven members. This, combined with the fact that my lead guide still has yet to arrive in the city, does make me just a little wary.

But Luxembourg was a joy to visit, filled with turrets, twisting alleys, beautiful bridges, and the distinctive feeling of France, but in a trilingual community and service with a smile. The Luxembourgers, having long been a small nation, sandwiched between the European powerhouses of Frqnce and Germany, have no choice but to live side by side with others. In fact, "foreigners", mostly from within the European Union, make up almost half of the population of this tiny country.

This was one fact I learned on a guided tour through the city this afternoon, with a cheerful, yet highly opinionated, native Luxembourger as our guide. Among others, he rated both Regan and Obama as great American presidents, so at least it can be said that his opinions don't subscribe to one particular political ideology, at least other than democracy. Ah, democracy! That was the word of the day, as our guide insisted that everything was fair - as long as it was decided democratically, by the people, not the politicians.

We traveled up and down the city; situated as it is on top of a natural fortress of rock, it's easy to work up a sweat while traversing the town. Today, with the sun shining despite the haze on the horizon (a haze caused in part by volcqnic ash, perhaps?), it wass even easy to get an accidental sunburn.

I left Luxembourg feeling that my time there had been too short, and wondering why it doesn't even merit a mention in Rick's guidebooks. But then, it's also nice to feel like I've discovered a little piece of European charm all by myself.

Goodbyes and Hellos

2010-04-18T03:16:00.000-07:00

Volcanic ash may be swirling in the air high above me, but here in Mainz the sun is shining, light streaming through the windows onto crisp white walls. Sara and Taylor's apartment is immaculatly decorated, starting with a palette of pure white as the backdrop. Orchids soak up the sun, nestled next to window panes that peek out from under gabled dormers, and a triangle of glass in the loft lets in light from the terrace. I've hung the sheets outside to dry in the unseasonably warm weather, hopeful that they might be dry within the hour, at which point I'll be headed out to catch another train, this time for Luxembourg, taking all my luggage with me and leaving behind the key to this lovely place.

The only thing that would have made it better, I have to concede, would be if Sara herself were here. But as fate would have it, she and her husband were off to the United States mere days before I flew into Frankfurt, with the result that I would up with a free place to stay but no company with whom to share it.

It's been a lovely week, though, and I can't even muster up the will to worry about whether or not Iseland's ongoing volcanic erruption will prove disruptive to the tour I'm scheduled to begin on Tuesday in Brussels or not. For the first time in a long while, I will be leaving this afternoon with no reservations, only a plan to stop by the hostel in Luxembourg city, hoping they have a bed available (although I can't claim to really be so adventurous and devil-may care, considering I did check their website yesterday to make sure they weren't fully booked).

I'll miss my temporary home in Mainz, but it's also time to pick up the pace and get back into the travel routine, for I don't really conside what I've been doing this past week to be travel in the true sense of the word. A break from the routine, sure, and definitely a means of getting away from it all, spending time on my own without any agenda other than to do nothing beyond what I feel like doing, something which is surprisingly difficult to accomplish at home.

Goodbye, Germany. We'll meet again soon, I hope. Maybe in this very same apartment, over one more cup of tea.

The Taste of May

2010-04-18T02:09:00.000-07:00

"Do you know Maibolle?" Britta asked me.

"Marburg? No," I replied, wondering how it was that this town was coming up in the dinner conversation.

Britta proceeded to explain, auf Deutsch (the only language spoken when I visit my relatives in this part of the world), how wine and sparkling wine are infused with herbs to create a traditional spring beverege. It sounded delicious, but -

"They call this Marburg?" I asked again, still confused.

"Oh, no. Maibolle," she repeated, and this time I got it. The word "Mai", German for the month of May, immediately brings to mind thoughts of spring, and what could go better with spring than a refreshing drink of lightly sparkling and delicately herb flavored white wine. Peter, my dad's German cousin, brought out a pitcher and poured me a sample.

"It's delicious!" I enthused.

"And it goes quickly to your head!" Monika laughed.

"Don't tell her that!" Britta countered. Now everyone held their glasses out for a taste of Maibolle. Tonight, the grill had already made it's first appearance of the year, providing us with platters of wurst and marinated meats. Now, with the Maibolle, it was official: spring is finally here. Of course, it had grown too cold in the evening for us to enjoy the meal outside, but the sun was shining nonetheless.

Little discoveries, like Maibolle, provide me with some of the most pleasure when I travel. I don't even know if I'm spelling it right, or what a "Bolle" is, but two pitchers later, I can tell you that it sure tastes great. It's flavored with Waldmeister, a popular spring herb here in Germany, whose name literally means, "forestmaster". Having never heard of such an herb in the U.S., Peter pulled out a massive tome of a German/English dictionary to find a translation. The answer? Woodruff. Yeah, that cleared things up. Even at the Herb Garden, perhaps the Seattle area's fanciest restaurant, does woodruff ever make an appearance? Would the average American even recognize woodruff as a plant, let alone an edible one?

It's a shame, really, because Waldmeister is pretty tasty. So tasty, in fact, that you can even buy Waldmeister flavored Gummi Bears in the spring at Baeren Treff, the all-Gummi, all-the-time shop located in Wiesbaden. I made a pilgrimage to Baeren Treff with Leonie, the German student who visited us in Seattle last summer, who happens to live in Wiesbaden. I left the shop with a lighter wallet but a much heavier load, weighed down by more than four kilos of Gummi Bears, a bag of Waldmeister included for good measure. It may not be Maibolle, but for friends and family back home in the Pacific Northwest, it will be a little taste of springtime in Deutschland.

Trier at a Glance

2010-04-17T08:15:00.000-07:00

Never judge a town by its train station. By that standard, arriving in Trier is a real letdown. This is Germany's oldest city? Home of the best preserved ancient Roman building outside of Rome? From this vantage point, it looks more like the home of Germany's worst 1960s architecture, from which not even the station itself was spared.

But if you walk a little farther, you'll begin to notice some elegant 19th century town homes to your left, and before you've gone much further, something far older and far more interresting appears. The Porta Nigra, or Black Gate (named for the darkened sandstone from which it was made), marks a grand entrance into Trier's old town.

Walk through this portal, and the traffic and ugly architecture of more rececnt times are quickly put out of sight and mind. While little original is left of what was once a grand Roman city, capitol of the Western sector of ancient Rome after the Emperor Diocletian split the empire into four parts, what you'll see today features a mix of medeival and more, all centered around a pretty market square and capped with Germany's oldest Christian church, a fusion of Romanesque and Gothic, built upon an ancient Roman foundation. Even signs announcing the location of H&M and McDonald's above glassy window displays do little to detract from the scene.

Even better than the beautiful buildings, the people of Trier are what brings the town to life. It's easy to imagine that the town's inhabitants have been buying their fruit and vegetables here for hundreds of years, where today teenagers camp next to medeival monuments and practice their skateboarding moves in the square outside the fourth century Roman basilica. Around the corner, families stroll in Baroque gardens, enjoying the lack of rain despite grey skies overhead.

When the time comes for me to head back to Mainz, I walk straight through the Porta Nigra, exchanging the sound of children laughing for that of city traffic. But it only takes a quick turn of the head to see that the Porta Nigra still stands, no longer a necessary protector of the city, but a welcome into another world.

A Spa Day the German Way

2010-04-16T00:45:00.000-07:00

Wrapped in a warm, clean sheet enveloped in a soft woolen blanket, I realize that it has been a long time since I've been swaddled. In fact, I can't even remember back that far, although I'm sure that at some point in my infancy my mother must have bundled me in such a way, my arms tucked next to my body for comfort, safe in my own cocoon. Now, as an adult, I relax and enjoy the warmth and gentle silencec around me.

Getting to the swadling took some doing. It is the second to last step in a seventeen step process at Baden Baden's Roman baths. Considering that the seventeenth step is hanging out wrapped in another clean sheet on a lounge chair with a lackluster German magazine collection in the "reading room", I'd say that it's the last step that really counts. So, step 16: spend half an hour in the resting room, swaddled.

I admit I found the steps a little confusing at times. And reading the full step-by-step desscription out on the landing before I entered the spa probably wouldn't have helped much considering that seventeen steps is a lot to remember, and part of the confusion lies in the fact that the individual rooms for each part of the process are not laid out in a simple straight line. This confusion is compounded by the fact that without my glasses, the signs, written in soothing pale green and taupe, are rathere difficult to spot, and impossible to read from any distance. But who wants to weear glasses in a spa?

When it comes down to it, who wants to wear anything in a spa? These aren't called Baths for nothing - people come here to relax, recuperate, and get super squeaky clean, which means a dress code of nothing beyond your locker wristband is always enforced. I knew this ahead of time, but I also knew that most of the rooms, with the excecption of a couple of pools, were segregated by sex, with the exception of Sundays, Tuesday, and holidays, when bathing is mixed. But I had come on a Wednesday. Perfect timing, I thought.

But apparrently mixed bathing is pretty popular in Baden Baden, for when I walked up to the entrance of the elegant Friedrichsbad building, I saw someething that did not correlate with the information in my Rick Steves' guidebook: Mittwoch gemischt. Wednesdays mixed.

Now I had a decision to make, and ultimately, I decided that Friedrichsbad is a classy place and if the Germans themselves feel comfortable enough to do this three days out of seven, plus holidays (and believe me, they have more holidays than we do), then I hadn't come all this way just to turn around in false shame. It was no big deal, right?

And... it wasn't. A big deal, that is. Nobody pays much attention to anyone else, as everyone is there to enjoy their own personal experience, alone or together with their partner, friends, or family. Guests and staff (who are professionally clothed all in white) are curteous, quiet, and help the space maintain a sense of utter relaxation, cleanliness, and even elegance.

Starting with a shower that warms you to your bones, you'll move to the sauna rooms before returning for another soothing shower. You next visit the steam rooms, after experiencing the optional ten minute brush massage (if you paid for it). The steam rooms lead you to a series of mineral pools, starting with a wonderfully warm one. Throughout this experience you can close your eyes and drift into a half sleep, or stare at the beatifully tiled ceilings and glass domes. The culmination is the grand dome in the center over a pool of clear, cool blue water. Completely alone when I entered this space, I swam silently across the circular pool, gazing up at the amazing surroundings. It felt like a taste of heaven.

After a soak in the warm water whirlpool, followed by a final shower, drying off with a fresh warm towel, and applying "creme", or lotion, I found myself finally in the quiet room. Beds formed an inner and outer circle under yet another dome, and I could make out figures bundled in blankets atop some of the beds across the room. Charmed by the idea, I lay down on one of the beds and folded the blanket over me.

Some minutes had passed when I felt a gentle nudge near my feet. A woman in white whispered for me to rise. Had I done something wrong? Yes, as it turns out, you are supposed to let them wrap you, and I'd skipped protocol. You don't just lie down on a plain old blanket. But the woman was very nice about it as she laid a clean warm sheet on a new blanket for me, then wrapped me just snugly enough to be supremely cozy.

Somestimes, a good swaddling is exactly what we need.

Planes, Train, but no Automobiles

2010-04-15T13:49:00.000-07:00

German trains are not always on time; that is a myth. Granted, a German train might only be late by five minutes, as compared with a five hour delay on Amtrak, but clockwork timeliness is not always acheived. That award would go to the Swiss.

Still, the train system is a marvel. Bold yellow placards display the daily arrivals at each station, and locals start to peer down the tracks with just a hint of angst in their stolid expressions when a train does not appear precisely when expected. Waiting by the tracks, I practice my own look of nonchalance, hoping to seem nothing more than the average daily commuter.

Inside, however, I am not always so suave. Despite the thoroughness of the German rail system, I have already managed, since my arrival Tuesday evening, to make more than one blunder. First: choosing the wrong train at the Frankfurt Airport station. What can I say, the train I was supposed to take followed almost the same route as the one I mistakenly boarded while neglecting to check the number posted clearly on the side of each car. I point the blame squarely on having just completed around 13 ours of flight time, not including my layover in Heathrow. It was to be expected that I wouldn't be quite with the program, right? Fortunately, being familiar with the region (and, more importantly, being familiar with how to read the transportation system maps clearly posted in the local trains featuring clearly labeled routes in clearly defined lines, not to mention the clearly visible digital updates and occassionally clear verbal announcements prior to each station) I realized my mistake as soon as the train headed back across the Main River. I waited to disembark until the appropriate station where the two train lines converged again, then caught the train I should have taken in the first place heading in the opposite direction.

But then there was yesterday. Without having first checked the schedules online, I headed to Mainz Hauptbahnhof, certain I would find a direct connection leaving for Baden Baden sometime soon. As a matter of fact there was one leaving... right this minute! I turned and ran to the stairs, only to see said train pull out of the station a mere two seconds before my feet landed on the platform. This train was definitely on time. But no problem: I only had 50 minutes to wait before another one. To pass the time, I headed out to take a few photos with the sun almost shining through he whiteness overhead. I was back at the station with time to spare.

Just how much time I had to spare wasn't immediately discernable, but I began to feel suspicious when, with only five minutes left before the scheduled arrival, the sign on platform four still remained blank, rather than listing the oncoming train information. I hopped nimbly up the stairs to the main hall to check the supersized arrivals board, only to find that my train wasn't even mentioned. Huh?

Too proud to ask for help when I figured I still had few minutes to remaining and could spare myself the embarassment, I scrutinized the yellow departures sign back down by the tracks. It was then that I noticed the tiny asterisk below the train number. Whatever this meant, it couldn't be good. There, below the full listing of stops the train would make once leaving Mainz, small italics noted: 29, 30 Dez. This train, apparantly, only ran on December 29th and 30th. How convenient. Every other day of the year, I realized when I scrolled further down the listing searching for my next option, it left Mainz one hour later. I had another 60 minutes to wait.

Still, the train showed up on time, and I had a wonderful afternoon in Baden Baden, with time to addmire the wonderfully efficient German city bus system, where each stop has a name, all routes are cleaerly outlined at every stop, automatic machines issue tickets and provide change, and LCD screens even illustrate where the bus is headed once you are on board. Seattle, you have a long, long way to go.

A Fish Story

2010-04-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

"It's on the house," Toyoda's sushi chef slid a plate heaped with albacore sashimi towards us. My eyes widened.

"Wow, that's a lot of fish," I murmured, chopsticks paused in mid-air already grasping a slice of maguro tuna. The tiny dish of maguro and scallop had seemed, to me, to be the perfect size for one. Now I'd been presented with an unexpectedly large gift, increasing my fish supper three-fold.

Not that I could complain; the albacore was soft and delicately flavored, fresh and cold on my tongue. But I couldn't eat it all on my own - I needed to bring Michael over to the sashimi side of sushi.

There is very little in the way of seafood that Michael will eat. But a tuna sandwich, especially one featuring albacore, is one thing that doesn't elicit a grimace, and with the discovery about a year ago that he outright loves spicy tuna rolls (which, let it be known, contain tuna in the raw), I saw an opportunity.

"Michael, you really should try a piece," I offered. "The flavor is just like albacore from the can, and it's much milder than the maguro, which is what you ate in your spicy tuna rolls."

Michael wasn't so sure, but with a little more sake, he felt ready to take the plunge. First, though, the albacore must be marinated in soy sauce and wasabi. And oshinko maki (pickled radish roll) was on hand to act as a chaser. Gingerly, he picked up the piece of tuna, practically dripping with soy sauce, pausing to examine it with a worried look before popping it into his mouth.

He chewed. I waited silently, breathless with anticipation. I still remember the putrid look he gave me when I convince him to try calamari in Greece, and I was hoping this wouldn't be a repeat. He swallowed, then turned to face me.

"You know, it wasn't bad," he mused. "If I can just get over the idea of eating raw fish."

Victory was at hand! Over the course of the evening, Michael managed to eat two more pieces, and even tried a tiny sliver of scallop, my personal favorite. Of that, he wasn't sure what to think.

"It's not fishy," he agreed, "but it's slimy and weird." He reached for another piece of albacore, and I happily polished off the rest of the scallop by myself.

Spinning Round

2010-04-06T22:06:00.000-07:00

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! The balance has shifted in the load of towels, bedsheets, and denim, and the machine wobbles slightly under the strain. It's hardly a reassuring sound, but I've learned to ignore it as long as the knocking doesn't reach a fever pitch. The sound gradually decrescendos to a comfortable, even whirr.

In less than a week I'll be heading out on the road (or, perhaps more aptly, on the plane), and tonight is the last night I'll have to completely to myself before that trip. What better way to spend it than doing laundry? In go crimson sheets and towels to restock the guest room for my family's arrival tomorrow, and I make sure to include the brand new pair of black jeans I've bought for my travels. With any luck, this will be the last load of laundry I'll do before I leave. But who am I kidding? I can already see another one, this time a pile of dingy whites, forming in my near future.

The time comes to move on to the second step in laundry care: the dryer. Pulling out sodden balls of terrycloth and dripping cotton, I'm a little wary. Isn't the washer supposed to wring out the excess water? An armful of only a couple of towels feels crushingly heavy, but I transfer them to the dryer anyway. I have the Rick Steves' DVD cued up for Granada and Morocco, not to mention a mug of hot tea calling my name.

But when the final scenes of Tangier fade from the screen, I find the laundry room suspiciously silent. Our dryer is not all powerful, and stubbornly refuses to put any more effort into the Herculean task of drying such a soppy mess. Back in the washer they go, while I utilize all my brainpower to trying to determine where precisely to set the washer dial to achieve maximum spin with minimal time and no more water. After an initial rush of water comes streaming in (I said spin, not rinse!), I realize that five minutes is all it takes to wring out the excess, and the dryer now hums happily with a more manageable load.

It makes me wonder, how many times do we cut corners only to find ourselves right back where we started, losing any time we thought we'd saved and more? How long does it take to learn such a simple lesson? Frankly, I'm too tired for such thoughts at the moment. Any life lessons found in a load of laundry will have to wait until tomorrow morning, along with the freshly cleaned sheets.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2010-04-05T20:09:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter! Now that Lent is over, I'm back online. That's right - I gave up the Internet for Lent - at least, inasmuch as that was reasonable, meaning I was still online at work (technically all of our work systems are online, without even counting the times I go to the web for work-related information) and I used my lunch half-hour to respond to email, pay bills, and check my accounts online. But that was it: no Internet usage at home, no blogging, no random surfing, no news, no comics, nada. Plus, no TV, DVDs, or movies, period. The idea was to go as free from electronic visual media as possible.

In a way, I'm sad it's over. Lent has a way of forcing me into self-control that I might otherwise lack. However, the idea that this self-imposed media fast would bring about reflection on relationships and spiritual needs over material over-consumption may not have exactly panned out.

As for the blog... I'm not sure what step to take next. I enjoy the writing, but sometimes the banal, "hey, look what I did today, come read all about it!" aspect of blogging can be wearing. It was good to take a break. Maybe it's time for something a little different.

But first - Rutabagastories goes on tour again. I'll be flying into Frankfurt next Monday, and spending five weeks in Europe. Where will I go? Follow along, if you're curious. I know I am.

Surprise!

2010-02-06T12:51:00.000-08:00

So. This morning I gave a travel talk in the Edmonds theater about the Basque region. And I'm pretty sure Rick was there for part of it (and I'm not going to mention his last name, but those of you who know me know who I'm talking about).

So. I wasn't nervous before my talk (I'm one of those strange people who enjoy public speaking), but I am nervous now.

I have to relax and tell myself that it went well. And if it got people excited about visiting the Basque area - or taking our lovely tour there - then I did my job. And that's a pretty fun job to have.

I just hope I get to keep it. Kidding! At least, I hope I am...

Always Fresh, Always Good

2010-01-29T18:08:00.000-08:00

The website for Volunteer Park Cafe can be found at www.alwaysfreshgoodness.com. It's an easy one to remember because the food at VPC is always fresh and definitely always good.

Until last night, I'd only visited for lunch. January proved to be a good time to try out dinner, as the cafe was offering a three course menu for $30 in celebration of their third anniversary. Fittingly, we went as a group of three - Lewissa, Michael, and I - and together shared one of the most enjoyable meals I've had this winter.

VPC doesn't do fancy food. At least, not fancy by urban restaurant standards, although I realize that to some the fact that wild boar bolognese appears on the menu takes the food out of the realm of the everyday. But ultimately, the food is just good. Really good. Twirl the homemade pasta onto your fork and just revel in the flavors, food doesn't get much more satisfying than this.

Michael and Lewissa each ordered the bolognese mentioned above, while I got the vegetarian offering, a fantastic dish of pappardelle tossed in a light coating of creamy, tangy sauce tasting richly of cheese. Salads were tossed to perfection, and dessert almost stole the show. Tender bread pudding that melted in the mouth, a concoction of hot chocolate sauce, soft chocolate cake, and whipped cream they call "muck muck", and - almost surprisingly the piece de resistance - a pear and ginger crisp. With just the right amount of ginger, it was a winning combination.

I always feel like I'm walking on clouds after a meal there. Sure, it can be crowded around mid-day on the weekends, but I've never had a bad experience here, never a bite that wasn't delicious, never a server that just didn't care. And the homey atmosphere with window seats and throw pillows but without the tablecloths and overly styled decor make me want to stay for hours. So yes, I may sound a little overly enthusiastic, but Volunteer Park Cafe is always fresh, always good, and pretty much what I've always wanted in a restaurant.

Lazy Hazy Days

2010-01-26T21:40:00.000-08:00

My mind, it is mush. I've spent the last few evenings at home on the sofa with Michael, watching DVDs. In the morning, I feel listless, unable to keep sleeping, yet not eager to rise. What causes such lethargy? Clouds may still hang overhead, but the sun does occasionally push through, and when I head home from work at five, the heavens are not yet cobalt in hue, much less black.

Still, it must be the winter blues, at least in part. Fortunately, Saturday was a nice reprieve, and I made the most of it by working in the front yard and taking Lucy on a long walk along the Burke. Sunday was "date night"; Michael and I followed an early dinner at the Tin Table with the live production of Xanadu at the Paramount (it's our favorite campy 1980 cheese fest). We finished with dessert at Dilettante. If a big bowl of salted caramel ice cream topped with molten truffle sauce and studded with shards of dark chocolate praline doesn't chase away the doldrums, what will?

Or perhaps it's the letdown after the guide summit. Ever busy at work, it's still not the same without people speaking in foreign accents around every corner, and your employer's blessing to live it up each night in the name of getting to know one another. The fact is, I'm getting a little home-sick again. Yes, that's sick of home, not sick for home. The combination of winter weather with no travel plans clearly visible on the horizon is a bit difficult for me.

But I shall persevere! Spring is around the corner, and I just need to find some projects to keep me well occupied in the meantime. Perhaps some more volunteer work? I've sadly gotten out of the habit of that lately. New adventures are ahead, and I'll be back, hopefully with a new story to tell.

I'm Sooo Tide

2010-01-16T20:37:00.000-08:00

There's a blues song I love where a man and a woman are having a conversation with each other about the woman's state of being.

"I am tired," she drawls.

"Mmm-hmm," the man agrees. "How you spell that?"

"T-I, D-E, tide," she shoots back.

And tonight, I am T-I, D-E tide. After working more than 11 hours, most of them on my feet, at our "Test Drive a Tour Guide" event, I want nothing more than to be lazy tonight. With about 80 guides from Europe visiting Edmonds for a week, I've spent the past two evenings in extended happy hours after work, but tonight opted for the peace and comfort of my own home. Of course, I had to wear my heeled boots today, leaving my feet screaming even as I sit here at my desk. Bad decision. Bad, bad decision.

But tomorrow I have the day off - well, from work and happy hours at least. Except for the fact that I do have to make a dessert for the staff and guide potluck on Monday night. Which will be followed by the tour member prospects and guide mixer on Tuesday night. Hmm...

Aw, I'm not really complaining. Guide summit happens but once a year, and happy hours are called "happy" for a reason. Tide though I may be, I'm still smiling.

Two on the Road

2010-01-14T07:14:00.000-08:00

Jane and Michael Stern are my road food heros. Understandably, considering they wrote the book Road Food, as well as many others, including Two for the Road, a book full of hilarious tales from their times on the road that Michael and I read out loud to each other in the fall of 2008 on our own California road trip.

So, when I heard the couple was coming to town for a talk at Benaroya, I convinced Michael we should go; hilarious as they are in writing, I was sure it could only be better in person.

I was right. We spent almost an hour and a half laughing along with crazy anecdotes and learning about how their food and writing experience evolved. The only problem was, not quite an hour and a half was not quite enough. We could tell Jane and Michael had more to say, and there was little time time to answer questions from the audience before they were whisked off the stage. Boo.

Afterwards, Michael (my own Michael) and I were in the mood for food, but I admit our choice was hardly a Road Food kind of destination. The dessert menu at Poppy on Capitol Hill was calling; I'd been longing to try a dessert thali there for a long time, and this was the perfect excuse. On a Tuesday night just after nine, it was easy to find a parking spot and a spot to sit in the bar. The happy hour offerings led us to each pick a fancy schmancy cocktail, but I was really here for the food. The food held up its end of the bargain; it was really there for me, too.

The concept of the dessert thali is a great one: for $15, choose one dessert off the menu and one ice cream. You'll receive your choices on a small platter accompanied by five other mini desserts, perfectly paired for two to share. Mmmm...

The highlight was our main dessert, the "herbed apple deep dish with bay leaf ice cream". Amazing. Underneath a cracklingly crsip pastry crust studded with turbinado sugar crystals were squares of perfectly cooked apple, soft cubes with just enough bite and nary a mushy piece to be found. We twirled the small sccop of bay leaf ice cream over the crust, letting it melt against the hot pastry, making each bite a combination of hot and cool, the faint herby quality of the cold ice cream providing balancing out the sweet, hot apples. Heavenly.

Not that the rest was anything to complain of. Passion fruit gelees were flavorful, semi-sweet and semi-sour, the taste of the fruit shining through. Nutter butter squares combined a creamy peanut butter frosting with a crunchy, nutty bar. Best of all the small bites, though, were the salted chocolate caramel truffles. Nothing more than a thin slice of chocolate dusted with cocoa, these packed big flavor. The chocolate melted elegantly on the tounge, a perfect balance of dark chocolate, deep caramel, and a hint of salt.

It may not be as exciting as getting rear-ended by a truck with a couple dozen jars of homemade barbeque sauce in the back of your Suburban (yes, this happened to ther Sterns, not us), but our night out was still an experience.

So Happy Together

2010-01-09T16:57:00.001-08:00

I love long days at home that make me feel productive, both in work and socially. In a society where it feels that people often move too quickly and substitute online tweets for lengthy conversations, it feels good to busy myself in the kitchen, making chocolate cream pie, washing the dishes, and even wiping down the floors, all with the expectation for an afternoon of company.

Two friends, complete with two baby daughters, made it out for a casual lunch and visit. Nothing special was on the menu, other than the aforementioned chocolate cream pie, but is there a better way to spend an afternoon than together with friends? Ultimately, what you do matters so little when compared with the value of time spent with each other.

And now it's back to work, preparing for tonight's dinner. But I don't mind. In fact, I'm looking forward to it.

These Boots Were Made for Walking

2010-01-08T20:33:00.000-08:00

The best purchase I made in 2009? Rubber boots! Thanks to rubber boots, my feet stayed dry both heading to and from work in what proved to be a very wet bus commute. Rubber boots, you're the best!

And second best? Thanks, black button-up $25 cardigan from H&M. I wear you almost every day and your button-up collar even keeps my neck protected in the cold. It's like having a scarf without having to carry it around. Plus, you go with everything, over shirts and under coats.

It's friends like these that make the winter commute bearable.

The Beauty of Everyday Objects

2010-01-03T14:42:00.000-08:00

While it seems we are always looking ahead to future home projects, and my head always hs a couple of decorating ideas percolating in the background, sometimes it takes a long, long time for these ideas to come to fruition. Finally, with a free afternoon today, I took some time to take photos in the hopes of picking some to display in our dining area. While my theme for these photos has changed somewhat over the years since the idea first sprouted, I think I have my final four picked out from this afternoon's shoot. Plus, I already have the frames and mats, which have been sitting in a closet for about a year. It looks like I may have even found a high quality photo shop to reproduce my first ever digital prints. And here they are:

I like to play with macro, can you tell? And I love my Nikon DSLR!

New Year Tidings

2010-01-02T19:30:00.000-08:00

So. The blog posts, they be a-slow comin'. And I, well, I be a-pretty slow movin' myself at the moment. After the bustle of Christmas, which involved a three day trek to Oregon including two family gatherings, skiing for the first time since college, and a stop off to see Michael's sister's family at her in-law's in Vancouver, I hit the New Year feeling a little under the weather. Is it the flu? Do I just have some unidentifiable stomach pain? I'm not sure, and I rather feel too tired to care.

Still, we rang in the New Year successfully a small group of friends and plenty of Greek food. In fact, we still have plenty of Greek food, so if you'd like some pita, tzatziki, or melitzanosalata, come on over! Tonight I'm baking the last of the spanakopita.

Lucy, the dog, decided that, rather than ringing in the New Year, she would pee in the New Year. On our downstairs sofa. While sitting next to me. Happy New Year! To be fair, I should say that it was not so much that she "decided" to pee at the stroke of midnight, but rather that all the tooting horns and the sound of Michael shooting off confetti poppers with abandon caused an involuntary urinary reaction. Oops. As this has not happened previously, I concluded that in other years she must not have joined us downstairs for the big event. Next year we will be more cautious. Our dog continued to shake in abject fear for about half an hour, so I'm sure she'll be grateful for the distance.

So, happy New Year everyone! May it be a good one, free from want and and the unwanted (like dog pee). What more could we want in 2010?

Sounds of the Season

2009-12-13T22:04:00.001-08:00

OK, so I still haven't been blogging. Bad me. The fact is, things have been pleasantly busy lately. I haven't been overwhelmed with goins-on, but there's been just enough happening, or just enough that I want to do, that getting online at home for any reason other than a quick email check just hasn't been a priority. Usually, I have plenty of time where I sit and think, "Hmm, what should I do with myself?" But lately, I find myself with a mental list of activities that seem to occupy all my time.

Some of those activities are as simple as making the time to watch the movie that Michael and I rented earlier in the week, or choosing to do spontaneous post-church brunches on the Ave rather than head home early. But those are the little things that make life enjoyable, as well as providing much needed social and mental breaks.

Of course, there have been many holiday activities. Recently, in the span of eight days, I went to five concert events, all of them holiday themed, yet each one unique. Beginning with the Round at the Triple Door (something I actually did get to blog about), I enjoyed Black Nativity at the Intiman with Michael, the Swedish Julfest service at Seattle First Covenant with my friend Kristina and her parents, the PLU Christmas concert at Benaroya hall with family and friends, and the Brass Band Northwest concert in which our friend Doug takes part, again with my family.

I mention them all primarily because I don't want to forget the wonderful music that has been filling this season. Experiencing live music is a great privilege, and it has made this December one to remember. As Christmas draws ever closer, the music, the time with family and friends, and all the little things that fill my days are a great blessing. Take time to really listen to the music of the season, and I'm sure you won't regret it.

Christmas Steps It Up

2009-12-08T22:48:00.000-08:00

Let it be noted that on November 30th I told Christmas to "bring it". And Christmas, well... Christmas done brought it! This, a Tuesday night, is the first I have sat at my home computer since my last posting on December 2nd. Last weekend I did not even do so much as check my email once, and you know that means I'm pretty well occupied.

So... deep breath. A lot has happened. And I don't have time to write about it now. But maybe tomorrow (or maybe not), we'll get to the holiday lowdown. It's all been fun, but my bed is calling. And right now, there's no place I'd rather be.

Round It Goes

2009-12-02T07:24:00.000-08:00

The Round is a music/art/spoken word event that began in Seattle's Fremont Abbey four or five years ago. The idea is a simple one: local musicians, who may normally never appear on stage together, sit together in a row facing their audience, taking turns playing songs they wouldn't normally play. The audience all faces forward and listens; this is no barroom show, where people yell into their companion's ear just to be heard over the din. Most of the musicians choose to go acoustic, while in the background three different artists paint on canvases, and spoken word poets come forward to give impassioned recitations during breaks in the music.

It's a once a month event, and I manage to get to it, oh, about once a year. Fortunately I made it to last night's holiday show at the Triple Door with a couple of friends. What a way to kick off December. The Round can be a little irreverent, and the performers' backgrounds are varied, but it always comes together in an amazing way, and there is always a spiritual element underneath it all. We listened to musicians ranging from Mark Pickerel to Star Anna to Jesse Sykes to Damien Jurado, and many more, singing songs of bleak midwinter and songs praising the baby Jesus. In the end, everyone came back on stage for an obviously unrehearsed rendition of John Lennon's Happy Christmas (War is Over).

It's the unrehearsed part that makes The Round special. The backup band provides improvised harmony and rhythm throughout the night, musicians try out songs they never thought they'd perform in public, and the painters attempt to bring their visions to light before the night ends. Taken as a whole, it's a beautiful thing.

It's the Busiest Time of the Year

2009-11-30T21:36:00.001-08:00

Ah, yes... the "holidays". That mythical time when life becomes a whirlwind of parties, concerts, family gatherings, shopping, caroling, cooking, and sipping giant mugs of hot chocolate. In real life, it's perhaps not quite so idyllic, but the air around us does start to whirl a little.

Tonight I came home and immediately went to work in the kitchen. On top of this evening's dinner, I made sauteed a couple pounds of ground turkey and also made a fresh batch of tomato sauce, all because I know that it may be the last time I have to properly cook anything resembling a meal this week. And to me, meals are important. Eating homemade food is important. Just because the holidays are coming, that's no excuse to let the vital things in life slip.

Starting with tomorrow, there will be concerts and organized cooking baking and decorating, visits from family and work parties, putting up decorations and maybe even sending out Christmas cards, not to mention cooking up a new batch of chili for our friends' annual cook-off and watching It's A Wonderful Life for the umpteenth time at the Grand Illusion's Christmas party. And, not forgetting the spiritual side of the season (Jesus is the reason, after all), church services and hopefully some volunteering, too.

I'm looking forward to it all. Bring it, Christmas. I'm ready.

Christmas is Coming

2009-11-28T23:29:00.000-08:00

"It is no longer Thanksgiving, it's now Christmas!" my friend's mom announced tonight as some visiting cousins draped the final strands of tinsel over their Christmas tree. She was speaking to the fact that since her daughter and son-in-law would not be around on the actual Christmas day, Christmas day would come early, and it was time to open presents.

As unexpected as it was to find myself in the midst of a mini-Christmas celebration with a family not my own, I did start to get into the spirit of things earlier this afternoon, when a few friends cam over to cut out paper snowflakes and Swedish paper heart baskets. We sipped mulled cider and snacked on shortbread, but I kept the music selection to strictly non-Christmas albums. I may be shifting towards Christmas, but I'm still just dangling my toes in the water, not quite ready to take the full plunge. Snowflakes taped to the window pane are a sign that more is coming, and when I bring home the advent wreath tomorrow, I may just break down and pop on a Christmas CD.

Compared with last year, I feel more mellow about the whole holiday season. This is probably due to the fact that I have not yet visited a single mall for any Christmas shopping. Perhaps I should try to keep it this way.

For now, I'm enjoying the sight of snowflakes on the window and none on the roads. That, and another piece of shortbread before bed, are enough to make my season bright.

Closet Thanks

2009-11-28T08:33:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and now we are already looking towards Christmas. But go back a few days to the Thanksgiving holiday itself, and you will find Michael and I surrounded by Rubbermaid tubs, stacks of paper, and an assortment of odds and ends in the living room. For us, Thanksgiving turned into a day to organize. More specifically, we were organizing a lifetime of Michael's memorabilia.

The project began last weekend when, upon realizing I had an entire Saturday free up until 6pm or so, I decided to ignore my first instinct ("I should make plans with friends!") and follow my second ("I should use this windfall of time to get things done around the house!"). I pulled out drawers and bins, compiling socks without mates (there were more of those than the ones with mates, I fear), thinning out the rag collection, which was growing to Blob-like proportions, and filling the recycling bin with the empty cardboard boxes I have inexplicably held on to for more than nine years ("But they were nice boxes!"). A large portion of what remained to be sorted were bin after bin of Michael's stuff - the stuff that parents like to hoard and then pass on to you when they see that you finally have a house of your own. Then, instead of taking up precious space in their home, it can eat up room in yours.

I had this same experience with my childhood remnants, and last year managed to pare them down to one small filing box of mementos to save, one smaller box of items to pass on if I ever have a daughter, and one not-so-small dollhouse that my father made me for Christmas as a child. It's not easy, but I can honestly say that I do not miss a single thing I threw out. In fact, I can't remember what it was that I threw out. Well, with the exception of the German beer coasters from college. And I have to admit a small part of me does kind of miss those.

But with this experienceunder my belt, I girded myself to help Michael through this arduous process on Thanksgiving day. And in the end, Michael had to admit it felt pretty good. He, too, has pared down to a small filing box, along with one smallish Rubbermaid tub for items that won't fit in a file box. Our living room is back to normal, and not only that, but several of our closets are noticeably neater and emptier. Our bedroom is the cleanest it has been in years.

And for that, I give thanks.

Falafel-ly Good

2009-11-23T21:38:00.000-08:00

I once read a restaurant review of my favorite little Greek fast food joint in Tacoma, It's Greek to Me. The reviewer raved about pretty much every item he tried there, with one notable exception. The falafel, he noted, was "fal-awful". It's Greek to Me has the distinction of being the first place I ever tried falafel, back when I was staying with my aunt and uncle in Puyallup while attending piano camp the summer I turned sixteen, and, as such, it holds a dear, dear place in my heart. Clearly, this reviewer had a palate ill-equiped to appreciate the nuances of such a complex dish.

Fortunately, I was not the only one who took umbrage with the review; the next time I visited the restaurant in question, I saw that they had taped a copy of the offending article to their door, along with a lengthy response from one of their falafel fans, praising their falafel as one of the best he'd ever eaten, even taking into account the ones he'd had in Israel.

It had been a very long time, however, since Michael and I ate our last falafel. I do occasionally make them from scratch, and after a lengthy hiatus I decided tonight was the night to bring falafel back. Armed with a new recipe from the November issue of Saveur, I set about chopping garlic and Persian cucumbers for tzatziki, mixing yeast, warm water, flour, and olive oil for fresh pita bread, roasting red peppers in the toaster oven, and making the blender earn its prime spot on the counter top, grinding away at a mixture of raw soaked chick peas, onions, garlic, cilantro, and spices.

For dinner, we were rewarded with the best falafel I have ever made. What's the secret? You know, I'm not entirely sure, but I will say that having a deep fryer is a real boon. If you would like to try it yourself, you can find the recipe at www.saveur.com. I did deviate from the recipe slightly, using cilantro rather than parsley, since that was what I already had on hand. Also, I do not own a food processor, hence the iron man workout I put my blender through tonight (be cautious if you try this at home - some blenders may not survive).

Falafel is best served on freshly made pita bread (those cardboard frisbees from the store do not compare), and we like it with topped, rather untraditionally, with tzatziki, preferably made with a good Greek or Middle Eastern yogurt, as well as some Bulgarian feta. It's a real Mediterranean fusion food this way - fal-awfully delicious.

Hope for All

2009-11-21T10:55:00.001-08:00

Last night I made another trip to the Grand Illusion (yeah, big surprise, I know), this time to see a couple of documentaries, one about the history of Faubourg Treme, a mostly black neighborhood in New Orleans, the other about a small group of American surfers who travel to post-war Liberia. Both films had me mesmerized. It's an amazing experience to watch a film and actually feel like you have been changed by it, to learn of horrors committed by man and nature, and yet to feel hopeful at the end of it all that things can change for the better, that people can build bridges to gap the hate, the pain, and the misery. Recent reading and slide shows about the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, both past and present, have also highlighted the powerful need for forgiveness and love in a world that sometimes feels ruled by revenge and fear.

Lately I feel hyper-aware of the fact that I live in a position of extreme privilege. Not only do I have more than adequate shelter, more than enough to eat, more than enough to wear, and have all my basic needs more than met, but my life is also free from hate, fear, and any truly difficult situations. My husband and family are alive and well, and my relationships with friends and family are a blessing, not a curse. It feels, at times, as though I live in a tight cocoon, wrapped in love, safe from the outside world. Of course, I know this could change in a heartbeat. None of us know what the future may hold. But for now, I'm in awe of this life.

Yet while I'm thankful for all of this, I hesitate to say I've been blessed by God. Perhaps, but what does that imply towards those who are lacking in material and familial comforts? I certainly believe God loves them just as much as me, or any other human, and I have done nothing to earn any special blessings. One thing that stood out while watching the film Sliding Liberia was how many of the Liberians, after having lived through an atrocious civil war, still gave thanks to God for their place on this earth, still looked to God for their hope. It is the only way, perhaps, that one can survive such terror intact. We must look to something beyond ourselves, and give thanks for even the smallest piece of happiness to enter our lives.

With Thanksgiving around the corner, perhaps it's natural to be thinking of our blessings. But I pray that not a single day will go by that I forget to be thankful, or that I forget those in need of love, forgiveness, healing, hope, and a life or their own, free from want and fear. As a world, we still have a long way to go before we get there.

Chiang's

2009-11-17T07:38:00.000-08:00

When pondering what to do for dinner on Sunday night, Michael decided that nothing sounded good but Chinese food. And for us, Chinese food means pretty much one thing only: Chiang's.

We couldn't remember the last time we'd been to Chiang's, which is a sure sign that it had been too long. Chiang's is something of an institution in north Seattle, the funny place with the red vinyl banquettes stuffed inside a former A&W Root Beer joint, the sign proudly proclaiming "Chiang's Gourmet", even though it looks more like something you'd find adjacent to a truck stop than a dining destination. But for Chinese food in north Seattle there's no place finer, and everyone knows it.

We decided to branch out a bit and try some new dishes, the problem being that we tend to get the same items each time we go. But I knew that we hadn't really mined the depths of what Chiang's has to offer, and we were more than pleased with what we found: leek dumplings, bursting with an herby, woodsy mixture of... what? leeks? leeks and...? Michael declared he didn't want to know; he knew they were darn tasty, and that was all he needed. We also went for the spicy Szechuan pan-fried homemade noodles, the hotness of the red peppers melding with the numbing quality of Szechuan peppercorns. Wanting to be sure we ate our greens, we also ordered an old favorite, the sauteed pea vines, which come in a brilliant green puddle, wilted in a mound of garlicky goodness.

Of course, these dishes are all pretty pedestrian compared to many of Chiang's other offerings; their Chinese menu (they have two dinner menus: Chinese and American) also includes such delicacies as the tofu of strong odor, jellyfish, and pig intestines. We have not tried any of these items as of yet, and I have to admit we probably won't any time soon, but it's somehow reassuring just to know they're there.

But I still have a few spicy Szechuan noodles leftover for my lunch today, and that is definitely something to look forward to.

Play it, Sam

2009-11-14T23:23:00.000-08:00

The 2009 annual casino night fundraiser for Elizabeth Gregory Home has been a rousing success! Thanks in part, no doubt, to my homemade Moroccan chicken rolls. Kidding! But the Moroccan influence seemed appropriate considering that the theme for tonight's event was Casablanca. Michael looked sporty in my great grandfather Allarick Hagglund's vintage hat, and I did my best effort at 1940s glam make-up and kept my stylish, full-skirted blank trench firmly cinched at the waist for the evening.

The blackjack tables were the place to be tonight, and Michael managed to more than double his money, while another guy at our table did far better than double. The fact that he has experience playing blackjack at an actual casino no doubt helped. And we also benefuited from his tips and pointers, something I'm sure no legitimate casino would tolerate at the table.

But that, of course, is what makes it fun. It's about getting to play with no pressure, no money lost, and knowing that every penny you spent on tickets for the event goes to a good cause. Getting into the spirit of things, Michael and I even won all three items we bid on for the silent auction - including a jazz CD (from Leah Natale, the singer who performed for us tonight), a $40 smoothie gift certificate for a local shop, and a day of kayaking for two (we'll wait until the weather improves to take advantage of that one).

But it was our friend Michelle who received the most sought after prize of the night - a pale purple satin clutch covered in tulle rosettes. Despite the desirability of this bag "covered in bling," as Michelle's boyfriend put it, she was actually more than willing to part with it, after we told her we could put it to good use by gifting it to our seven year old niece. I sure hope Katelynn appreciates it!

Most importantly, I hope the money raised to night will continue to keep Elizabeth Gregory Home ative, providing a place for women who have been homeless or suffering in abusive relationships a chance to build their lives again in a safe environment. Fifty women have graduated from the live-in program EGH offers to permanent housing and jobs, a number that will soon be fifty-one. Now that is an accomplishment worth celebrating.

A Reel Deal

2009-11-12T21:53:00.000-08:00

I've stated before that film screenings at the Grand Illusion Cinema can be small affairs. And last night, it finally happened: Michael and I were the only people at the show.

"You get a private screening!" the volunteer projectionist laughed nervously while introducing the film, which happened to be the 1947 film Odd Man Out (excellent movie, by the way; I highly recommend it).

We munched on popcorn doused with "nutritional yeast", which is much tastier than it sounds, and is quite possibly the most addictive popcorn topping ever. The film rolled and we were transported to a chilly night in the Northern Ireland of the 1940s, following an IRA fugitive attempt to escape his dire fate.

Finally, the words "The End" appeared on the screen, and we wandered back out into the cold Seattle night. Popcorn and a movie: $13. Getting our own special show for the price of a typical movie ticket these days: priceless.

Making a Birdhouse in my Soul

2009-11-12T10:42:00.000-08:00

Allow me a trip down memory lane. As someone who grew up on classical music (more or less), one of the first rock bands I was introduced to in high school was They Might Be Giants. The quirky, sometimes nonsensical lyrics and unexpected instrumentation captured my imagination, and TMBG, along with the Beatles and R.E.M., opened me up to new genres of music.

So, when I found out TMBG were playing a special show featuring the album Flood on Tuesday night, I convinced Michael to come along and relive the experience live. Probably their most popular album (the Johns joked on stage that it recently went platinum... making it the slowest album to ever achieve platinum status), it's hard to believe that it was released in 1990. Twenty years ago! Man, that makes me feel old - although I can at least say I wasn't yet in high school at the time. After opening with a few of their newer "science" songs, John and John kicked into Flood: "It's a brand new record for nineteen-ninety..." followed closely by the entire audience singing along to "Birdhouse in Your Soul".

I remember the first TMBG concert I went to. It was back in college, and Amy G (Amy S at the time) and I took the bus up from PLU to the Moore Theater in Seattle, fully aware that by the time the concert ended there would be no more buses running to get us back to Tacoma. We toyed with the idea of staying at the airport, but luck was with us , and I spotted someone I knew, a fellow PLU student, in the audience. Would she be able to give us a ride? No, but she knew someone else who could. After the show, we piled into our benefactor's car, and everything went smoothly until we got to the edge of campus and the little car sputtered and died. Talk about timing!

As TMBG worked their way through their songs on Tuesday, I smiled, thinking back on those times. Not about to let them go, the audience called the band back onstage for an encore after the last strains of "Road Movie to Berlin" died away. And then a second encore after that. For their final song, TMBG pulled out another oldie, the infamous "Fingertips".

Ah, "Fingertips". This brings me back to high school again, when spending spring break of my sophomore year on the ferry heading up to Alaska. Three of the girls in our group became obsessed with the schizophrenic song, which is nothing more than a p[atchwork of unrelated song bits and pieces strung together in a way that is oddly effective. On the ferry, they would play "Fingertips" over and over, rewinding the tape (yes, we still had tapes back then) after each rendition to hear it again, never listing to any of the other songs on Apollo 18. The rest of us were mighty sick of that song by the time the trip was through.

But now, I can love it again. And sing along with every single word. Heading back out into the rainy night, I still felt the warmth of the atmosphere from the show. They Might Be Giants hasn't lost their touch.

Lucy Come Home

2009-11-08T07:56:00.000-08:00

On Thursday night we drove through pouring rain and wind to my parents' place in Oregon. We had one big reason to brave the awful weather and traffic (it took two hours to get from Seattle to Olympia, almost twice the time it took us to go that distance on the way back home): Lucy.

Lucy had been living the farm life since our Oregon trip back in September. As much as she loves running around through the woods and barking at unseen things in the night with my parents' dog, Pepper, she's not exactly cut out for the farm life. She managed to set the cows off and running when she squeezed through a gate and startled them. Even more startled herself, Lucy ran back to the house and didn't dare go near the cows again. We also discovered that my brother RAN OVER OUR DOG when backing up the pickup one night. Yes, although he thought both dogs were still in the back of the truck, he felt the tire drive over a bump, and got out to find that he had run Lucy over. Thankfully, no bones were broken, but she did have some terrible abrasions on her back left leg which have fortunately healed well. But still.

So now Lucy is curled up on the sofa, in a tight, safe little ball. We worry she may miss her country freedom, but hope that the warmth and coziness of the indoor life with us will make up for it. We missed you Lucy; I hope it's good to be back home.

Dance Like You Mean It

2009-10-31T22:21:00.000-07:00

There's this thing called the Seattle Head Nod. Or so I've heard it called. Go to a live rock show, and people don't dance. They nod. Heads bobbing in time to the music. Heck, that means you're into it. Everyone else is standing stock still, beer in hand, or hanging out in the back, catching up with friends.

Because, you know, you don't want to get too carried away. Except That Guy in front, dancing like a maniac, a lone hip shaker in a crowd that barely sways to the beat. But who wants to be That Guy?

Secretly: everyone wants to be That Guy. Well, maybe not everyone, but come on, he's having fun. And last night, at the Sunset Tavern, there were a lot of folks who decided to let their hair down and just have fun.

It was the album release party for the Tripwires, and no doubt the fact that these guys have been around for, oh, a couple decades, playing in bands ranging from the Screaming Trees to the Model Rockets, played a part in the festive atmosphere. The small crowd seemed filled with many who knew the band, and connections were tight between the Tripwires and their opening acts, Small Change and Llama. During the first two sets, Liz and I were happily head bobbing to the music, but when the Tripwires came on stage, everyone let loose.

People shimmied and swayed, twisted and turned. Up on stage, the band members sweated it out in sports coats, jumping and grinning and playing to the crowd. As people squeezed by to get to the restroom, I more than once felt someone's hands lightly at my waist - not in an obtrusive way, mind you. These were just people passing through, and rather than elbow their way by or try to skirt around us with as little contact as possible, they weren't afraid of a little touching out of consideration. It was, well, friendly. And like little kids dancing out of sheer youthful joy, we just felt happy to be there.

After all, there's no shame in being that lone dancer when you have a whole crowd backing you up. And dancing to the Tripwires beats doing the Seattle Head Nod any day of the week.

Bring It On Home

2009-10-30T20:26:00.001-07:00

Late last Monday afternoon, following a harrowing night trying to sleep in the Athens airport, a total of thirteen hours in flight, one layover, U.S. customs, and our first ever ride on Seattle's new light rail, Michael and I arrived back home.

Determined to stay awake until a decent bedtime, we headed out for groceries at Costco. The car radio was tuned to KEXP, and within ten seconds the opening strains of the Zombies' "Time of the Season" came over the airwaves.

Which just so happens to be the song that was running through my head as our last flight made its way to Seattle.

Which proves that the DJs at KEXP are not only capable of spinning a great mix, but are also psychic.

Hey, Seattle, it's great to be home.

The Last Days

2009-10-25T02:29:00.000-07:00

If anyone has actually been reading this blog, you may have noticed a lack of posts for several days, largely owing to a lack of cheap, easy internet access (I really need to get a Netbook!). But since I have fifteen more minutes of internet time at the moment, here's a quick rundown of what was missed:

Enjoying a taste of Italy in lovely Nafplio, with real gelato and a Venetian style old town
Hiking to the far reaches of the Palamidi fortress in Nafplio
Enjoying a group meal at a real, non-touristy local taverna in Nafplio, complete with live music and folk dancing - all in some very close quarters (this was about the most fun I had while on this trip)
Being amazed by the great ruins of the Myceneans, getting up close with architecture that is more than 3000 years old
Listening to groups singing and reciting from ancient Greek plays in the theatre at Epidavros
Our group dog, Winnie, who met us when we arrived on Hydra, and was never far away - she even came out to the ferry with us the day we left, and stayed until we boarded the hydrofoil. Michael wanted to adopt her and bring her home to live with us and Lucy (seriously, he was actually considering this)

Greece has been fantastic, and I am convinced that trip to northern Greece is in order for the future - there's so much that we didn't have time to see in three weeks! But for now I'm happy to be heading home, because the cement hard beds of this country can't compare to my own sweet bed at home. And while we'll all miss Winnie, I can't wait to see my own dear dog, Lucy.

Sick and Tired

2009-10-25T02:13:00.000-07:00

Waking up at 3am feeling naseous is never a pleasant feeling. After a free day spent hiking and and swimming on the island of Hydra, followed by a group dinner featuring rabbit and goat (and rather a lot of wine), I went to bed feeling pretty wonderful, then awoke four hours later feeling pretty terrible. Was it the tap water I'd consumed in an effort to rid myself of the hiccups prior to bed? The tap water on Hydra is slightly saline and not recommended for drinking, although it shouldn't make you sick. I hadn't had that much to drink, had I? Unfortunately, it appeared that I had been hit by the same bug that hit Michael the night we were in Dimitsana last week, when he, too, had spent the wee hours primarily in the bathroom.

The night was an uncomfortable one, my body racked by chills and intense stomach pain. By around 7am the chills had subsided and, in sheer exhaustion, I was able to fall back asleep. The exhaustion coninued the entire day, where I managed to sleep sitting on a bench in the rain while we waited for the ferry, on the extremely bumpy hydrofoil ride to Athens, all afternoon at the Athens hotel, and all night after skipping out on the last night's dinner due to excruciating pain.

Thankfully, this morning I awoke feeling... hungry. I hadn't felt hungry for more that 24 hours - even the thought of food made me naseous - so this was progress. I am still not back to 100%, but am truly grateful to be through the worst of it. It may not have been the most glamorous end to our trip, but I'm looking on the bright side: our flight doesn't leave Athens until tomorrow morning, a day after the tour officailly ends, which gave us the opportunity to sleep in and take our time packing this morning. Tonight, we'll be heading to the airport for the night, since I don't see the point in paying for a hotel when we have a 6:30am flight. I love travel, but there's nothing like getting sick on the road to make you appreciate your health and home.

Monemvasia

2009-10-19T08:25:00.000-07:00

While the beach is rocky, the crystal clear waters of Monemvasia's beaches is still enticing, especially on a warm day like today. Michael and I, anticipatingly the warm water we'd sampled (hands only) in much colder Kardimyli, waded in eagerly.

"Oy! Cold!" I cried.

The water was not so warm after all.

But while each step exposed new skin to a shock of cold, the reality was that it only took a few seconds to adjust, and soon we were swimming in the soothing salt water. Joined by two others in our group, we found ourselves drifting further and further from shore with very little effort. Before long we realized we were more than half way to the rock island that put Monemvasia on the map. The challenge was on! We swam all the way to the island's pier, then managed to make it back through now choppy waters.

We'd visited the island earlier in the day, learning about squirting cucumbers and all other manner of plant life from our guide, David. We hiked to the ruins of the citadel, winding up the steep sides of the natural rock fortification, marveling at the sweeping views of the village below and the deep blue Mediterranean. Michael, attracted by the idea of making as many cucumbers squirt as possible, found a long, thorny stick with which to poke them. The small, prickly wild cucmbers really do squirt - somettimes spraying people as far as five feet from the offending cuke. It's a strangely addicting habit, walking along poking at little green globes in hopes you'll get it to explode.

We decided to commemorate our time in Monemvasia with a poster print of the town created by a local artist. Stylistically rendered, the poster shows the town nestled against the rocky bluff, ruins and the church of Agia Sofia dotting the hilltop. The artist himself showed me the work he was currently finishing - he painstakingly inked each dot and line to sreate a web of miniscule geometric designs framing boxes of color.

"I've worked on this for one month, every day," he told me.

I was impressed with his dedication, and asked if I might take a photograph with him, showing the man behind the art.

"No, take a picture of the posters," he said. "I am nothing."

Nothing, that is, if not modest.

But Monemvasia has been a highlight of the trip for me so far, and thanks to him, I will have always have a way to remember it.

The Greek Odessey Continues

2009-10-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

Lest you think that Greece is nothing more than a paradise where the sun shines 365 days a year - it is not. A couple of days ago, upon leaving Delphi and heading into the mountains of the Peloponnese Peninsula, we were caught in heavy fog and even heavier rain on our free day in the coastal town onf Kardamyli. Thankfully, the clouds broke today, leaving us with blue skies to explore the Mani Peninsula and our arrival tonight in Monemvasia.

Leaving Kardamyli this morning, we headed deeper into the Mani, first stopping at the tiny (population 40) hill town of Kastania. After a tour of the orthodox chapel-studded village, we sat under the trees for Greek coffee and locally made cheese.

Our lunch stop in the (almost) equally tiny town of Gerolimenas fulfilled everyone's vision of the sunny Greek coastal village that we had missed out on during our rainy stay in Kardamyli. Pale aquamarine water lapped over blindingly white, smoothly polished rocks. The restaurant terrace put us directly above the bay, where we could enjoy views of the water with our lunch of Greek salad, tzatziki, calimari, crispy Mediterranean anchovies (nothing like the kind that, as our guide David put it, "live on pizza in the U.S.A."), artichokes, and green beans in tomato sauce.

But the real entertainment came after lunch, when some decided to roll up their pants and test the water temperature. Lovely - yet treacherous. Those polished white stones proved to be quite slippery when wet, and one woman ended up thoroughly soaked after taking an unexpected tumble. Myself, I was safely on shore with my camera, documenting it all, of course.

But the excitement didn't end there. A Greek fisherman, enjoying lunch with his family, spotted dinner from their waterfront table and promptly went down to get it. The unsuspecting octopus he grabbed was soon the center of attention, trying vainly to wriggly out of the man's grasp. He ended up in a small blue plastic bag, and although he made a valient attempt at a daring escape, he was not fast enough to escape the fisherman, who prompty tightened the knot in the bay (and, we suspect, put the octopus swiftly out of his misery once our group had left).

The forecast for tomorrow is for clouds, but I still feel optimistic. And if it's sunny after all, you may just find me in the water as well - intentionally, of course. I have no plans to fall in clothes and all - I packed too light for that!

The Wisdom of Delphi

2009-10-14T11:20:00.001-07:00

A great guide brings a sight to life. Instead of seeing a pile of rubble on a hillside, the caved-in faces of unknown people from more than two millenia ago on crumbling marble remains, the guide gives you the chance to see the temple in its former glory, to understand the story behind the statues and the all-too-human triumphs and tragedies that they represent.

In Athens, our tour group had the pleasure of a guided tour through the Acropolis and Ancient Agora, followed by a trip to the Archeological Museum this morning. We learned to tell archaic statues from severe, the severe from the classical, and the classical from the hellenistic. We imagined the processions that would wind their way up the Acropolis Hill every four years in honor of Athena's birthday, making their way through the massive gates and ending in front of the Parthenon, the grand temple to the virgin.

But my favorite experience so far has been this afternoon's trip through the museum and archeological site at Delphi. Leaving metropolitan Athens behind, we find ourselves surrounded by rocky, pine forested mountains, with towns clinging precariously to cliffsides. Our guide, Penny, was bursting with enthusiasm to show us the amazing artifacts in the Delphi Museum, and to remind us of those ancient stories - from the the Trojan War to Oedipus Rex - that, with the right perspective still have so much to teach us today. The famous Oracle at Delphi was, after all, a place where people went in search of answers, and when all was said and done, it seems the most important answers were the ones insribed above the temple: "Know thyself", and "Everything in Moderation".

"The answers were not vague," Penny told us. "They were open to interpretation."

One story, an unfamiliar one to me previously, sticks with me in particular. In the museum, archaic statues of two larger-than-life twins stood. "They are the happiest men," Penny told us. "Why do you think that would be? I'll tell you later!"

At the end of the tour, however, Michael and I realized we still had not heard the full story, so we questioned Penny on her own.

"As a parent, what do you most wish for your children?" she asked. Not being parents ourselves, we weren't sure what to answer. Penny told us the story of a rich king who came to the oracle, wondering whether he should engage in war with the Persians or not. The oracles response was, typically, up to interpretation. Unfortunately, the king made the wrong choice, started a war in which he lost all his riches and his kingdom - the things he had mistakenly believed brought him happiness - and found himself about to be burned to death by the Persian king.

Before this tragedy befell him, however, a very different event had taken place back home. In honor of their mother, the queen, a celebration was being held at the temple. Two oxen were supposed to draw the chariot seven miles to the temple, but the oxen were nowhere to be found. Wanting nothing more than to bring honor to their mother, the two twins of the famed statues took the place of the oxen and they themselves pulled the chariot to the festival. Upon their arrival they collapsed, exhausted but happy.

Their mother, pleased with her heroic sons, asked the gods to favor them for their deed. In the morning, the two young men were found dead, having peacefully passed on in their sleep.

"This," Penny continued. "Is as much as you can hope for: to die in peace, with no suffering, having done a great thing."

Finally, on the pyre about to be torched to death, the former king remembered his sons and the words of the oracle, and realized how mistaken he had been in his choices. On voicing his newfound realization to the Persian king, the Persian ruler ruler realized that here was a wise man indeed, and rather than killing him, offered him a position as his very own counselor.

So, in the end, he learned from his mistakes, and took responsibility for his errors. This, our guide told us, is what we can still learn from today. No matter what anyone may say, we are all responsible for our own actions, and within each of us is the ability to find our own happiness in the things that truly matter, and to make a wrong situation right.

Athens Aglow

2009-10-13T04:31:00.001-07:00

The Greeks love the nightlife. Any day of the week, they can be seen strolling the streets, stopping in clubs, sipping drinks at sidewalk cafes, and heading out for dinner as late as midnight, with the entire family in tow. And Athens, at least in October, is the center of it all. In the islands I felt languid in the evenings, happy to dawdle over a slow-paced meal at a local taverna. In Athens, I felt energized, surrounded by hundreds out for a Sunday night on the town.

Michael and I wound our way through the ancient streets of the Plaka as dusk settled over the city. Without even trying, we found ourselves on top of Mars Hill, a glorious view of the Acropolis and the incredible urban sprawl of Athens at our feet. It was almost enough to take one's breath away.

After drinking in the view, we set off for a three course dinner on the move. First stop: gyros on the go. On traditional and one pork, along with a Coke 0 for Michael, for less than five euros. If only cheap, fast food in the U.S. could be so delicious!

Next up: gelato in the Psyrri district. Disappointingly, the gelato was not up to Italian standards. Plus, it cost more than our gyros! But we strolled the streets nearby as we ate every last lick, peering into clubs blasting house music from what looked like an English pub on the outside, to restaurant floors carpeted in carnation petals while the staff tidied up for the night, to ultra mod night spots where it was evidently still far to early, even on a Sunday, for a crowd to have gathered.

Wandering the back streets, I let Michael take charge, but not without first speculating, "Where are we going?" Instead of streets lined with stings of twinkling lights and crowded cafe tables, we were surrounded by dilapidated buildings dark alleyways.

But then, rounding a corner, we saw the perfect little bar for our final course - ouzo for Michael, campari for me. With orange walls and crazy lamps strung together out of bits of glass, old silverware, and curling scrap metal, we took our seats on tall stools at the open window. In the corner, a jazz band set up to play, and Athenians in their thirties gradually packed in the tiny spot while the DJ spun a variety of songs. We were, in fact, the only non-Greeks there. As the band played, we nodded in time with the music, drinking in the scene. You never know what you might find around a dark street corner.

We got back to our hotel around 10:45 - very early for an Athenian, but just about right for us. Monday would be a long day, full of more discoveries in the incomparable Athens.

Athens Ahoy!

2009-10-13T04:15:00.000-07:00

After a relaxing ferry ride (note of advice: when riding Greek ferries, bring card games, books, and bakery treats from town to make the time pass quickly) on Sunday, we left the laid back islands behind for Athens. From the moment we stepped off the boat, it was clear we were is a different world. Far from shutting down for the season, the port of Piraeus was hopping with black market vendors, cab drivers soliciting the new arrivals, and swarms of dazed-looking tourists. We headed straight for the metro station. Hotel Tempi, where we would be staying for one night only before joining the Rick Steves' tour, was an easy, direct metro ride away on line one, and we were eager to get settled in.

But, as with many of our transportation experiences in Greece, it wasn't quite so simple. Point in case: for two days only, most of metro line one was closed. We arrived on one of those two days.

After checking the advice of a ticket counter clerk and a random man-on-the-street, we decided to hop the metro and take it three stops - the end of the line for the day. According to man-on-the-street, from there we could catch a bus to Monastiraki Square, a short walk from our hotel.

Things started off well. We managed to fit (but only just) on the bus heading into the center of town from the last metro stop. When I literally fell into the back door as the bus rounded a corner, I was kindly offered a chance to squeeze in to the one remaining seat in the back. Now all I had to do was keep an eye out for Monstiraki; how hard could that be?

Dang near impossible, it turns out. It finally dawned on me we must have overshot our mark, so I asked the woman sitting across from me on the now half-empty bus, "Pou ine Monastiraki?"

My Greek was apparently good enough to encourage the woman to discuss with me, and then another woman one seat up, in great detail about the location of this place in relation to the bus. Throughout the conversation, I could occasionally make out the word, "Monastiraki," but not another syllable. Fortunately, I did correctly deduce that we should get off at the next stop, which turned out to be about a mile down the road from where I'd first asked the fateful question. No doubt about it, we were far, far away.

But the fates were on our side! The next stop was conveniently located at an entrance for metro line two, and before long we were on a speeding underground train, emerging at Omonia Square, and walking down the pedestrian street to our hotel. Athens, here we come!

The Long and Winding Road

2009-10-13T04:00:00.001-07:00

On Saturday, our last full day in the islands, we found ourselves with a full free day. Having spent the last couple of days on the very quiet island of Antiparos, we decided to explore a little further afield. After an early afternoon visit to Antiparos's famous cave (previously visited by Lord Byron, whose etched his name in the limestone, along with thousands of others, for posterity), we hopped on the ferry to Paros, only a quick ten minute jaunt across the water. From there you can catch the bus to the port town of Parikia.

Usually, the buses are scheduled to line up with the ferries, but at this point no bus was in sight. I checked out the schedule posted, and saw two distinct schedules listed side by side. Handily, the titles of these two schedules were written only in Greek, despite the fact that there was an English translation of everything else. To further confuse matters, the only difference between the two schedules was that one listed a bus departin at 13:25 - coincidentally the time of our arrival - and one did not. Hmm...

After waiting around for fifteen minutes, I grew impatient. No one else loitering around the stop was Greek, and they seemed to have complete faith that a bus would come. But me, I don't always like waiting. As usual, I decided I'd rather walk, and convinced Michael we should make a go for it.

"How far away is Parikia?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. But it can't be that far. It was what, maybe a fifteen minute bus ride?"

Thus we found ourselves walking along a road with no shoulder, clearly not meant for pedestrian traffic. But we had scarcely gone two minutes when a van pulled to a stop alongside us.

"Where are you going?" asked the driver. "Parikia? I can get you half way there."

We clambered aboard, joining the two other passengers, who, it turns out, were on their way to the Paros tennis club.

"It's the finals today. Romania against Croatia. Who are you for?"

When I paused to think, the driver encouraged, "Go for Romania!"

"He likes the Romanian best," the man sitting next me informed us.

"And you?" I asked. But it turned out our fellow riders were the referees for the match - no favorites allowed.

Before long we had reached the club, and waved good-bye to our Good Samaritan driver. Ahead of streched the long, winding, shoulder-free road. Thankful for the ride, we realized we would have had wuite a long walk had they not come along.

Almost an hour later, after much grumbling about dodging the traffic, not knowing where we were, tired feet, and hunger, we made it to the old town of Parikia around 3:00. Famished, we sat down at a waterfront bar for fantastic dolmades and souvlaki pitas. It's amazing what a good meal can do for one's mood.

Going Greek

2009-10-09T08:31:00.000-07:00

Traveling off season in Greece can be a delight. For around 20 euros per night we ended up with a deluxe room in Antiparos complete with a large terrace overlooking the harbor. Not bad!

Of course, this is Greece, and luxury can have a different meaning here when away from the four star hotels and glitz of the high end resorts. In our bathroom, a sign kidly posts in Greek and English, "Do not put paper in the toilet". Instead, one should toss it in the garbage, so as to avoid clogging the plumbing. Our hotel proprietor, Vassilas, also made sure to let us know that we should not drink the tap water. And our shower is little more than a showerhead that hangs waist high on the wall next to the toilet. There is no curtain, only a small raised tile border to let you know where the theoretical shower walls would go. Of course, the spray covers almost the entire bathroom floor when showering, nevermind the tile border. But since the entire room is encased in tile, it doesn't seem to much matter.

The town of Antiparos itself is in process of shutting down for the winter. While the weather is still lovely, tourists are few at this point, and a walk through town finds entire streets devoid of any life other than the occasional cat. A select number of tavernas open in the evening for business. Last night we did dinner the Greek way, and headed to a place far off the waterfront that Gary had recommended. As we enjoyed our mezes of Greek salad, tsatziki, and saganaki, Vassilis and his wife came and took a table across the patio, and not too much later Gary and his Bulgarian girlfriend also stopped by for a leisurely meal. On the way back, we spotted Andy and Leonie, our diving buddies, at another bar. Here, in the course of one night out, we managed to run across every person we know on Antiparos without even trying.

It is nice when most of the people out and about are locals rather than tourists, though. Late this afternoon, we watched as the old men of the village made their way to the tables outside the cafe of the town square. Talking loudly and playing backgammon, this appeared to be the Friday night ritual. Or - who knows? - perhaps it's every night's ritual. The pace of life is slower here, and I could easily see the Greeks taking the time for a regular chat in the evenings.

In the mid-afternoon, all but a couple of small markets and waterfront restaurants are closed tight. It's siesta time (the Greek equivalent, at least). In the heat of summer, of which I've been fortunate enough not to experience personally, I'm sure this is a welcome respite from the overbearing sun. Everyone age two to ninety-two can be seen out after the sun goes down, as late as midnight and beyond.

We've adapted pretty well to the laid-back lifestyle, I'd say. After today's dives, we took in a slow lunch, showered, and ambled down the road for a walk around the northern tip of the island. Other than reading on our terrace and heading out for another two hour dinner, not much else is on the day's schedule. We are temporary Greeks; all we need is to learn how to play backgammon, and I think we're set.

New Depths

2009-10-08T07:58:00.000-07:00

"Can you make out that thin white line there on the shore?" our dive instructor asked.

We squinted across the waves while our boat rocked in the breeze. "Yeah, I think so."

"That's Tom Hanks' house," he told us.

"Really?" I was a little incredulous. But apparently Mr. Hanks had the house built last year, and the family spent seven weeks there this summer, including some time spent diving with his sons and your truly, our dive instructor, Gary, from Blue Island Divers, the only dive school on Antiparos. And it seemed that we were about to dive in one of the same spots the famous actor had tried.

It was our second stop of the day, between two tiny, rocky island between Antiparos and Paros, both uninhabited, but one with a tiny white chapel perched on the shore. Weddings have been held there, no doubt due to its impossibly scenic location, with the wedding party being transported by boat for the ceremony. While windy on the surface (typical for the Cycladic Islands), once submerged the water is calm and clear. How clear? I'd guess at least fifty feet, probably more. Even without the help of contact lenses or glasses, I was awed by the world of craggy orange rocks carpeted in delicate white and green seaweed, dotted with plush purple sponges, sea cucumbers, and the occasional urchin or seastar. We found a shy octopus at home in his tiny rock cave, doing his best to blend in with the scenery, and a moray eel peeked its small head out from its hole hesitantly as we swam our way around the island with the chapel. Small fish, including wrasse and pork fish, swam to and fro in the aquamarine sea.

It was Michael's and my first time diving together. The previous time we'd tried, about four years ago in Kauai, a cold had prevented him from doing anything more than snorkeling. This time, we both made it below, although I had a momentary panic attack when I first entered the water. I couldn't seem to get a good grip on the regulator with my mouth, I lost a fin, and my mask was taking in water. Back when I first learned to dive I found myself facing unexpected fears when it came to breathing underwater, and in a split second I felt those old fears come flooding back. But with a different pair of fins, kindly lent me by Leonie, our boat mate who was spending today's trip at the surface due to an especially sore back, and the realization that I simply needed to tighten my mask, my fears evaporated and I was floating down into the magical blue world below.

"Oh, yeah," I thought to myself. "This is why I like diving!"

"Maybe we should have done six dives," Michael told me when we were back at our apartment, washing up. I could tell he was enamoured, having had his first chance to dive in warm water.

I smiled. Six dives? Maybe. But right now I still have two more to look forward to tomorrow, and I can hardly wait.

Rebuilding the Ruins

2009-10-08T07:34:00.000-07:00

After our eventful day arriving in Athens, we were extremely thankful to be "home" on Santorini and have a full say to explore. Taking the bus, we traveled from our hotel in the beach town of Perissa to Fira, perched on the cliffs high above the caldera. The present day island of Santorini is the result of an ancient volcanic eruption, so violent that much of the former mountain collapsed into the sea, leaving behind the stunning crescent that is Santorini along with a few smaller islands, including the volcano itself in the center.

Fira is well known as tourist trap central, but the nice thing about being there in October is that the crowds have shrunk to a manageable level. Even as first-time visitors, we could tell that we had missed the usual crowds; while there were certainly many others out walking the winding streets and snapping photos of the fabulous view, street upon street of nearly deserted bars, restaurants, and hotels attested to the fact that this was a place geared for serious tourist traffic. We walked long and hard through the entire town, stopping for lunch at a place far from the town center for a sit down meal of delicious chicken souvlaki for only two euros apiece.

Our favorite town, however, was definitely the lovely Oia. While it, too, is a magnet for travelers, especially for the famous sunset view, Oia managed a charm that escaped the more commercialized Fira. Out on the ruins of a castle overlooking the tip of Santorini, we took in breathtaking views of Oia in the golden glow of the evening sun while the wind whipped around our heads.

By the time sunset was nearing, the entire western edge of town was lined with people hoping to catch a view of the famous sunset. Never have I seen so many professional-looking cameras in my life; many made my dear little Nikon D5000 SLR look like child's play. Tripods were set up upon the rocks, their owners desperately clinging to them to keep them from toppling in the violent gusts of wind. The people watching was just as entertaining as the sunset, if not more so.

Michael and I had other plans however, so we slipped out from the masses early, before the sun had finally sunk below the horizon. We headed straight for the restaurant 1800, a slow food place recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook that sounded like just place for a romantic splurge out to celebrate our first "real" night in Greece.

The meal did not disappoint. Our beautiful servers and hostess graciously showed us to a table on the terrace, where we were soon greeted with an amuse bouche from the chef - a shot of Greek salad in a minuscule cup - pureed, creamy tomato topped with a dollop of smooth feta and olive oil. It was our first taste of the evening, and it boded well for the meal to come. An elegant take on the traditional Greek salad came next, with thin ribbons of cucumber mixed with sliced fennel, capers, cherry tomatoes, mild goat cheese, and a crisp pita for embellishment. Michael enjoyed tender pork with fig sauce, sweet pepper relish, and herbed canellini beans, while ordered the sea bass. It came with perfectly crispy skin topped with lemon "caviar": beads of light lemon aspic piled like caviar atop the fish, alongside tender cooked fennel and a puree of fava beans. Our wine, far from the Greek stereotype of sweet retsina, was an excellent accompaniment.

Tired and happy, we took the bus back to Perissa. The trip may have gotten off to a rough start, but things were definitely looking up.

Our Trip in Ruins

2009-10-06T01:16:00.000-07:00

Saturday night found me in bed, tossing and turning, convinced that I had forgotten something important regarding our impending trip. I had, in fact, recently discovered that the flight I had booked from Athens to Santorini was mistakenly for a morning, rather than an evening flight. The result? Nonrefundable tickets that could not be used. We decided rather than pay the exorbitant prices for a later ticket we would take the ferry. Everything seemed now to be under control, but I couldn't shake my paranoia.

Sunday, everything seemed to be going smoothly. We relaxed on the long flight to Amsterdam, and made an easy connection to Athens. From there, we caught the hour long bus that heads to the port of Piraeus. Tired and hungry, we disembarked at the port and headed to the closest travel agency to buy our tickets.

"There is no ferry to Santorini today," the agent informed me.

"What? But - but, I saw it online, there must be!"

"No, only at seven in the morning, and one now, at four. But it is too late."

Don't panic, I told myself. It wasn't quite four. Michael and I decided to make a run for it. We had only to cross the street to the dock, but there was no ferry to be seen. I stopped by the Blue Star Ferry office, hoping they had information the travel agent didn't.

"There is no ferry to Santorini today," the desk clerk at Blue Star said.

At this point, I began to cry. As I turned my face away, big tears rolled down my cheeks, and my countenance crumpled. Here we were in Piraeus, with a reservation that very night for a hotel on Santorini, and no way of getting there. And I had checked, double-checked, triple-checked the schedule online. How had I gone wrong?

"Hey, don't cry," Michael told me. "I could have done the same thing."

"But you didn't," I sobbed. "I don't see how I could make two such huge mistakes! First booking the wrong flight, now this!"

We took a moment to regroup. And before long we were back on the bus, heading back to airport, another hour spent in transit on top what was already a very long day. Despite the considerable expense, we booked a flight for 7:20 that very evening, and made it to Santorini without another hitch. In the end, we decided that it was better to get to our destination where we could relax and enjoy a full day to ourselves today, rather than spend the evening seeking out reasonable lodging in Piraeus or Athens, and spending nine hours on a ferry the following day.

When you travel, expect the unexpected. Ultimately, I am happy to be safe, healthy, and enjoying a beautiful warm day in Greece. Was I happy to pay almost $500 to get here? No, but that's way I plan a large emergency buffer into our travel budget. Up until now, I haven't really had to use it.

So, hello Greece! Our three weeks with you have only just begun, and we hope the best is yet to come. Stick around, I'm sure the adventure is just beginning.

Monday Night Done Right

2009-09-29T20:33:00.000-07:00

Michael took a bite and closed his eyes. "Mmmm," he groaned.

"You like it?"

"This is possibly the best burger ever," he enthused. Weighing in at half a pound of ground sirloin topped with bacon and English cheddar, this was, apparently, no ordinary burger. Michael does enjoy the occasional ground beef patty, but I'd never seen him react to a burger like this.

Not that I didn't appreciate the "wicked linguine" I'd ordered. Spicy and sassy, with just the right touch of creaminess without being over the top, I was more than pleased with my selection. Across from me, Lewissa reveled in a dish of penne n' cheese. Creamy and sharp with more of that English cheddar, it couldn't be beat - except, perhaps, by the mac n' cheese at the Frontier Room, which Lewissa assured me was even better.

We were enjoying a luxurious night out, complete with cocktails and chocolate ganache for dessert, but what made it even better was the price. Sunday and Monday evenings, the Seattle steakhouse El Gaucho, well known as restaurant where one can easily drop some serious cash, offers happy hour all night in the bar. With bar food that is definitely priced above the average joint, yet still a good deal more economical than the dinner menu, happy hour give you the opportunity to try it out for half price, along with $6 cocktails, $5 glasses of wine, or $3 beers.

And despite the fact that we were fine dining on the cheap, our waitress still treated us with a smile, always there when we needed her. What more could you ask of a Monday night? I can't think of a better way to start the week.

When Reality Sets In

2009-09-29T20:15:00.000-07:00

Fall has come, and I find myself ill prepared. Yesterday evening found me shivering on the sidewalk in a skirt with bare legs and sandals, desperately waiting for the light to turn so I could cross to Target and the warmth of the indoors. But how was I to know? When I left to catch my morning bus, the skies had been reassuringly sunny. Heading to work with only a cardigan over my little black top seemed only natural.

Today I fear I'm out of excuses, although I could claim that the discovery, a mere fifteen minutes prior to departure, that my wallet was nowhere to be found threw me off my game. Just in time to catch the 41, I ran down the road with a pocket full of pennies for bus fare and still only a cardigan on my back. Thus it was that I spent this evening's commute running through the rain bareheaded from one bus route to the next, all of which were late; I guess we really don't know how to drive in the rain in Seattle. At least this time I was wearing pants.

By the time I arrived home tonight, the reality of the season had sunk in, and I could see endless dark, damp nights stretching ahead of me. The three bus commute can be a joy in summer, but the winter waiting is merciless.

But who am I to complain? Next week at this time I'll be in the Greek islands, where the weather report promises sun and temperatures in the mid-seventies, enabling me to blissfully ignore reality for one more month. I can hardly wait.

100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall

2009-09-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

Never have I made my own beer. Much as I like the stuff, I generally rely on the expertise of those Belgian and German brewers for my personal pints. After all, they've been brewing it for hundreds of years, so should know a thing or two by now, right?

For those who'd like to try U-Brew, there is, however, a simpler option than turning you're basement into a chemist's lab of questionable results. Gallagher's in Edmonds offers the ingredients, the equipment, and the expertise to guide you in making your own beer. While I haven't yet tried my own hand at this, Michael and some other guys made their own brew at Gallagher's for our friend Ian's bachelor party, and last night it was finally time to bottle. And, since the official "bachelor party" was over, my status as a woman was no longer a reason to keep my distance.

Ian had chosen a stout for his personal brew. The barkeep (for lack of a better term; what do you call the staff at a U-Brew shop?) poured us each a sample, and everyone's first comment was unanimous.

"It tastes like coffee!"

Yes, it tasted like coffee. Beer... it's what's for breakfast.

"My wife said if the beer tasted like coffee she'd drink it," Ian said. "I thought there wasn't much chance of that, but..."

Well, we'll see if this coffee-beer meets Karin's requirements. In the meantime, the six of us at the brewery had a lot of bottles to fill. After having run them through the sanitizer, having already discarded the bottles with "fuzz" growing inside (coffee flavored beer: good; mold flavored beer: bad), we took turns with one person filling bottles directly from the tap while another capped the filled bottles. In the end, we had more than 100 bottles, including several 22 ouncers and a growler full.

The beer made us hungry for pizza, so we headed to Romio's for dinner once our project was over. But no more beer. We'd had our fill for the moment. Of course, Michael and I now have 22 bottles of home-brewed stout in a box in our kitchen. Anyone up for a cold one?

The Dog Days of Summer Come to an End

2009-09-21T21:44:00.000-07:00

As a native Oregonian, I was shocked to realize recently that it had been more than nine entire months since I had set foot in my home state. Nine months! I could have gone through an entire pregnancy from conception to childbirth in that amount of time (please note I said could have; this in no way a reflection on what actually happened during the previous nine months)!

Fortunately, last weekend remedied this situation, as Michael, Lucy, and I drove to my parents' home late Friday night. Saturday was spent with my parents, dining (I use the word here with just a touch of the facetious) at Sheridan's lone Chinese restaurant - home of Michael's favorite General Tso's chicken, hiking out to the point of Cape Lookout on the coast for some fabulous views and woodland scenery, and letting the dogs loose on the beach, where a piece of kelp stood in quite nicely for a stick for Lucy to chase.

We had picked this last weekend of the summer for our trip as a wedding reception was held on Sunday for my cousin, Noah. The wedding had been in Mississippi, and the reception was a casual one, although the setting, in a beautifully landscaped home garden outside of Newberg, and the weather were gorgeous. The casual atmosphere was apparantly a good match for Noah - well, actually, even this setting was more formal than Noah's wedding attire, which he dutifully wore to the reception. While Rosalie, his bride, wore a lovely, simple white wedding gown, Noah had on a pair of dungarees, a striped Hickory shirt, and red lumberjack suspenders. I'm not sure how he convinced Roaslie that dressing like a logger was the way to go for the ceremony; perhaps the folks in Mississippi figured that this must just be how us Oregonians get gussied up. But hey, at least the clothes were clean.

We were on our way to Seattle following the reception, sadly with one of our family left behind. Lucy will spend the next month and a half as a farm dog with my parents, who have offered to dogsit while Michael and I vacation in Greece. But now that we're back home and still have almost two weeks until our trip, the house feels strangely lonely without our beloved pup. Nuisance though she may be at times, it is comforting to come home to someone who's always excited to see you, always eager to snuggle up next to you on the sofa, and who sleeps only an arm's distance away next to my bed each night.

But I have the feeling the next two weeks will be busy enough that we won't have too much of a chance to miss her. And when we get back, Lucy will be an bonafide Oregonian herself, fully integrated into her country dog ways. But don't worry, I'm sure she'll miss her Seattle sofa, at least a little bit.

Dog Trick

2009-09-20T21:13:00.000-07:00

When a picture is worth a thousand words:

Falling for You

2009-09-17T21:01:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I was down. Work, the weather, a dull dinner of tuna melts on the menu (not to dis tuna melts - after all, it's cheese that puts the "melt" in them); I felt a vague dissatisfaction, not to mention a little restless. The fact is, this is the fourth night in a row I have spent at home doing nothing in particular, and it wears on me.

But! (Yes, there is a but!) This evening left me feeling right as rain, which is an admittedly odd turn of phrase considering the fact that the sun has reappeared has not a little to do with my change of heart. After work, the Lake City farmer's market was abuzz with people out enjoying the golden glow of an Indian summer. Unexpectedly, I happened upon Dimitris, our former Fred Meyer fishmonger. Years ago I told him of my dream to some day go to Greece (his home country), and now that I'm heading there in less than three weeks, I lamented the fact that I wouldn't be able to tell him. And there he was at the market! Coincidence?

The "seconds" at my favorite tomato stand had the perfect heirloom specimens for tonight's pizza, and after getting such a good deal, I was inspired to pick up a hunk of Mount Townsend cheese and a loaf of rustic Italian bread to take to my parents this weekend. Heading to the car, I ran across another friend, out enjoying the park with her kids. The Lake City Market, being adjacent to a small park and offering homemade ice cream, crepes, and Czech pastries, is a popular spot for families.

Arriving home, I found Michael parked on a blanket in the front lawn, taking a break from studying in a valient attempt to keep Lucy from lunging straight for me. In the mind of our dog, seeing someone in an surprising situation is cause to bring out the crazy. This was no exception.

With Lucy safely back inside the house, I joined Michael on the lawn to see what the mail had brought. Michael's passport! A belated birthday card! A Pottery Barn catalog! OK, so that last one just went in the recycling, but still. I then dumped out the "goodies" I'd brought for Michael from work - new moneybelts, Greece guidebooks, and other trip related swag.

Heck, even hanging out the laundry felt good. I pulled down a load of freshly dry whites, so different from the still-damp jeans I'd come home to last night, and reloaded the lines with the next batch. Mmm, clean laundry!

And here I am, still home, and not going to the John Vanderslice concert tonight after all. But I'm OK with it. Maybe all I needed was a little bit more summer to help ease me into fall.

The Sunday Scramble

2009-09-14T18:44:00.000-07:00

In this modern life, it is inevitable that schedules must sometimes collide. Michael and I had grown spoiled and accustomed to his having weekends off over that past several months, so much so that I took it for granted that our weekend plans were set - until last Tuesday night, when it suddenly dawned on us that he was scheduled to work twelve hour shifts on both the following Saturday and Sunday.

"You can't!" I cried. "The Pink Martini concert is Saturday, and we've had those tickets for months!"

A last minute decision to work a twelve, rather than eight, hour shift on Wednesday gave Michael the freedom to leave work in time for Saturday's concert (although this turned out to be unnecessary since he stayed home sick on Saturday - yes, sick again - still sick, in fact, although he made it to the concert and to work for the past couple of days). Sunday was another story. Just because Michael was at the VA for the day didn't mean my plans were in any way altered. Well, except for the fact that I needed the car. For the first time, I rose at 6:30 on a Sunday morning so I could drive Michael in to work and keep the car to myself for the day. For a Sunday, that's early. Very early.

Somehow Sunday had morphed into a day crowded with church-related events. I'd planned a hike for the "young adults" in the afternoon, it was the first day of Sunday School for the year, someone else had planned a walk at Volunteer Park, there was a meeting for Elizabeth Gregory home, a fundraising dinner for Elizabeth Gregory home, and I was counting the offering money with Erv. Not that all of these events affected me, mind you, but it seemed everyone in the congregation was busy in some way or another. Hey, at least the church felt alive, right?

Well, I'd planned the hike, so I was going hiking, no matter what. Four others crowded into my Pontiac Vibe, with Lucy huddled in the very back, and we headed out of town for Little Si. Not nearly as famous (or infamous) as Mount Si itself, Little Si offers a more gentle hiking option within 45 minutes of the city. Sure, there are some switchbacks and rugged, rocky steps and serpentine roots to navigate, but there is also a long, lovely level stretch through the woods, surrounded by alders and firs, ferns and snowberry bushes. After a final climb, we were rewarded with views across the valley, including a less-than-awe-inspiring peek at Issaquah's suburban sprawl, and a shady place on the rocks to relax over lunch. Out of all of us, Lucy seemed the least relaxed, having wedged herself into a fissure in the rock that was perhaps a little too tight for comfort.

Back at the trailhead we were happy and a little weary, and more than a little dirty. Two of us were attending the Elizabeth Gregory benefit dinner that evening at Portage Bay Cafe in South Lake Union, and time was running short. I pulled into the ULC parking lot around ten after five, sped home, fed the dog, took a shower, got dressed, and made it to the cafe promptly at six. Truly, that was miraculous timing. I also discovered the benefits of rolling down the windows to dry one's hair while cruising down Lake City Way. God bless multi-tasking!

Dinner seating was family style, with a wonderful buffet of salad, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, and stuffed chicken breasts. My friend Stephanie joined me as my guest to take Michael's place, although I'm afraid I lost her for a while when another friend, David, and I started up a conversation about rowing, inspired by the racing shell hanging from the Cafe's ceiling.

The best thing about the dinner, however, aside from great food and company, was the fact that every single cent from the very reasonable ticket price of $30 per person is going to Elizabeth Gregory Home. This is the women's transitional housing shelter instigated and brought to fruition through our church, a shelter that has now been helping women in need for three years. The fact that the owners of Portage Bay Cafe were willing to donate this entire meal to the cause, and provide us with a wonderful community night out while doing it was inspiring.

After dinner, I headed back to the VA to pick up Michael after his shift. Tired and coughing, he was eager to be home, sipping a tall mug of tea before bed. I felt a twinge of guilt at having been the one to get the long end of the stick, so to speak. Even if I had to rise at 6:30, going hiking on a sunny day and feasting with friends can hardly be considered hardships, while working at the VA... well, that's another story entirely. The man deserved a back scratch, and after he'd had his tea, I was happy to oblige.

In the Pink

2009-09-13T07:53:00.000-07:00

On Labor Day weekend it appeared that fall had arrived with a vengeance. No sooner had we noticed that the leaves were beginning to turn a suspicious shade of yellow than we were suddenly whipped by angry winds and accosted by weather that went from party sunny to completely rainy in 60 seconds. Thankfully, this weekend summer came back for a final showing, which worked perfectly for us, as last night was the long-awaited Pink Martini show at Chateau Ste. Michelle Winery.

The Chateau does a concert series every summer, although I'd never been before. After encountering the stop and go single lane traffic jam to get to the event and carrying our cooler from where we parked half a mile down the road (at least we managed to avoid the $10 parking lots), I began to see the wisdom in avoiding the scene. After spending fifteen minutes roaming among the picnickers spread out across the grass, searching for our friends Heather and Satoshi, I questioned further the fact that I had left our cell phone in the car... now half a mile away.

But finally Heather spotted me and flagged me down, and the four of us, including Michael, set up our picnic far from the stage, but with plenty of room to take off our shoes and wiggle our toes. Out came antipasto pasta salad, pesto foccacia, deviled eggs, and Jones soda, with almond cookies and Lu biscuits for dessert. This being a winery, I was happy to take advantage of a bottle of red for $13, an unheard of price at any other local events or restaurants, which I found went especially well with Lu biscuits. Who knew?

As for the music, when China Forbes' voice rang out across the amphitheater clear and pure, Michael simply turned to me and said, "They're good!"

Well, yeah. That's why we came, after all. This being Michael's first live Pink Martini show, I guess he didn't realize the caliber of musicianship he was in for. The band played through old songs and new, and by the final song, Brazil, many in the audience were up and dancing. I was, too. And the fact that we were able to drive home from our parking spot and avoid all the bad traffic? That was just icing on the cake.

A Little Bit of Paris in My Life

2009-09-11T20:47:00.000-07:00

"When a girl is tired of Paris, she is tired of Life." I found this aphorism quoted on a notepad some years back, and at the time it seemed the perfect gift for the secret Santa gift exchange at work - the recipient was, in fact, a girl who now lives in Paris.

Lately, though, I felt that I was craving a little Paris in my own life. Daily I would walk - or run, on those days I was afraid of missing my bus - past Edmonds own little mini-Paris, the charming Daphne's. About the size of a decent walk-in closet, Daphne's spills out onto the sidewalk in the summer, with two marble-topped tables tucked behind a wrought iron fence to create a cozy space amid the pedestrian traffic. Daphne's is basically a one man show, but that man is dressed in a white dinner jacket and tie, suavely offering wine, beer, and nibbles in his cozy shop.

Charming as Daphne's may be, I've rarely been; aside from work I just don't hand around in Edmonds. But I had fond memories of my first, and, until yesterday, only visit there a couple of years ago with Amy V, so when I realized Amy would be winding up a class in Edmonds around six o' clock last evening, I asked if she'd like to meet for some wine and conversation. She happily obliged.

Now Edmonds is a far, far cry from Paris, and sitting outside with a view down Main Street doesn't exactly make the U.S.A. melt away. But it did feel rather chic, sitting at a sidewalk cafe nursing a glass of vinho verde and snacking on olives. And who knows how many more chances there will be to enjoy such an evening outdoors this season? It may not be Paris, but Daphne's has just enough je ne sais quoi to make any evening feel a little bit special.

Laboring the Day Away

2009-09-07T09:42:00.000-07:00

"Ruth," a small voice croaked as I got out of bed this morning and headed to the door. "I need more sleep. I'm sick."

The missing word that hung in the air at the end of that last sentence would be "again". This is at least the third time in about one month that Michael has been sick, although thankfully this time it appears that no vomiting is involved. There have been some miserable days for my husband of late. It's a good thing we're headed to Greece for a vacation in four weeks - he really needs one! I'll cross my fingers that any sickness will stay at bay during our travels.

In the meantime, we have been preparing for our departure by using Labor Day Weekend as a Weekend of Labor. During my spring Europe trip, work on the bathroom cabinet doors that we were preparing to paint ground to a halt. Not surprisingly so; wood cabinet doors, especially those with beveled fronts and deeply grained wood are a real pain to clean. The process starts with stripping, a messy, foul-smelling task wherein you apply orange goo to the wood and allow it to dry before scraping it off in dirty, rubbery ribbons. Then follow hours of sanding, working your way from 80 to 220 grade sandpaper, going crazy trying to sand those hard to reach beveled corners by hand. Next, the first coat of primer, followed by a layer of spackle that must be laboriously sanded down after hardening, all for the purpose of filling in the wood grain that would otherwise show through the many layers of paint. Now it's time for a second coat of primer, followed by a light sanding and four coats of white paint, a light sanding between each coat.

At this point, after more than twelve hours of actual labor each, including the stripping that was completed in the spring (oh wait, let me amend that - twelve hours of work for me, probably more like 20 for Michael; I should give him credit where credit is due), we are ready for the first coat of paint! Woohoo! Except now that Michael is sick, the project may have ground to a halt for the day. Sure, I could do it on my own, but because of all the crazy beveling (I'm not sure what else to call it, but you can see what I'm talking about in the photo above), it's probably not a good idea. Michael, in all seriousness, is a better painter than I, and trying manage all the picky little corners and then get everything with the sponge roller before the brushwork dries could lead to disaster. I can only hope that Michael will feel well soon, not due so much to the painting project, but just to be able to see him well and healthy for more than one week at a stretch would be wonderful.

And lest you think the weekend was nothing but work for us (no wonder Michael got sick!), we did manage a few enjoyable breaks, including having friends over for dinner last night, when I witnessed this amazing sunset from our porch, and I made it out Saturday night for the Mighty Shiny show with a friend. But don't think I'll be taking a break all day now that Michael's down; I'll fill the time with my own errands, from baking cookies to going to Costco. Labor Day, indeed!

Getting the Kinks Out

2009-09-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

I had sensed that my back has been a bit sore of late, although I hadn't given it much notice until last night, when I found myself looking squarely across the room at my friend Lewissa's place, staring straight at her red microfiber massage chair.

"Can I use the massage chair?" I asked, already knowing what the answer would be and moving up from the dining chair I'd been occupying.

Ahhh! Who doesn't love a little massage now and then? I settled in while continuing my conversation with Lewissa, with Michael playing with Diego, Lewissa's unusually energetic pug, on the sofa. It's a good thing to be among friends when using a massage chair, I noted, as they can lead to a lot of jiggling. On the Turkey tours we offer at Europe Through the Back Door, our bus frequently stops at service stations offering ten minute mechanical massages for a small fee in giant, overstuffed black leather chairs. Watching people in the chairs is almost as good as getting to be in one yourself, and after hours on the road people find their inhibitions sufficiently lowered for this sort of thing, and simply sigh contendedly while their torsos are kneaded and prodded regardless of who might be looking on.

So it was that I was able to remain dignified (at least, from my perspective) while being treated like a snare drum by the little red chair. But honestly, while the rolling action was quite nice, the snare drum effect left something to be desired. Next time, I know what option not to pick.

This morning I found that my lower back and neck felt nice and relaxed. The area around my shoulder blades, not so much. Oh, massage chair, you sneaky devil, I'm going to need another massage to undo your work! Now I just need to figure out how to convince Michael to take on the job himself... Hmm... perhaps this was my brilliant plan all along.

Fair Food and Fainting Goats

2009-08-30T16:36:00.000-07:00

"I wish we lived in Wallingford," Michael mused.

"Yeah, but if we lived here we'd probably get fat," was my response.

Case in point: We had just bought a chocolate mint cupcake at Trophy - for later, naturally, because we'd just shared three scoops of gelato from the Fainting Goat, a new gelateria that has joined the conspiracy to make Wallingford a center for sweetness. The verdict on the Fainting Goat: the mango sorbetto is excellent, the peanut butter (yes, peanut butter gelato) and the coconut very good, but perhaps not the best we'd ever had.

"It's hard," said Michael. "I really judge a gelato place by their coconut; it's my favorite."

"Yes, but you can't beat that mango!"

"True, that was amazing."

At least we'd been responsible adults and eaten our lunch before our dessert. Joule was having the last of their "urban barbecue" Sundays for the summer, so we stopped in to try their take on fair food. As always, food at Joule comes with a twist. Michael tried a homemade hot dog topped artfully with shoestrings of pickled white cabbage, while I went the healthy route with "Farmers Market in a Cone", which turned out to be a paper cone stuffed with a variety of heirloom veggies served alongside a tasty dipping sauce. Maybe it seems silly, but I don't know when I've had so much fun eating a salad. Pulling out mustard greens, a skinny radish, an albino carrot, and an Anaheim pepper and dipping them in the mystery sauce allowed me to snack on my salad the way I always secretly want to - with my hands rather than a fork. Actually, in the privacy of my own home I will often roll up salad leaves and pop them straight into my mouth; it seems much less fussy than stabbing them with a utensil, only to find that half of what you wanted didn't even end up on the fork.

We also split an order of cheese curds, a collection of precious cubes of fluffy farm cheese lightly battered and appetizingly golden, scented with truffle oil. Rather than the heavy, tastes-so-good-but-you-know-they've-got-to-be-so-bad cheese curds I've had before, these ones tasted suspiciously... healthful. OK, healthful would be an exaggeration, but they had none of the oozy melting qualities of the typical fried curd. I can't say I really minded once I dug in, however. Cheese is cheese, after all, and I am a fan of all kinds.

And yet, I am already feeling a little hungry again. And that cupcake is just sitting upstairs.... so lonely. Yes, I think a little snack may be in order. We may not live there, but at least we can bring a little Wallingford home when we want it.

A Golden Afternoon

2009-08-24T14:11:00.000-07:00

This year's barbecue at Golden Gardens was, like last year, a small gathering. Still, we managed to light the charcoal grill without the use of lighter fluid or a chimney starter, and the evening bonfire provided a good opportunity for s'mores. All in all, it was a pleasant afternoon on the beach, but a sad reminder that summer will soon end.

Discovering Magnolia

2009-08-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

It's funny how you can live some place for ten years, and yet still find a part of town that feels wholly new and undiscovered. On Saturday, inspired by the chance to try what Seattle Weekly recently claimed was the best malted milkshake in town, combined with the opportunity to take Lucy out on a much needed walk through the woods, Michael and I headed to Magnolia for the first time in years. How many years? There is no conclusive evidence, but I'm going to guess it's been seven or eight.

After surviving grueling traffic on Denny (I will not take that route again if I can help it), we headed over the bridge and wound our way into "downtown" Magnolia, when I realized... I'd never been here before. At least, as far as I could remember. It was as though I'd left Seattle behind and stumbled upon some idyllic little town with classic car shows (there actually was one going on), Snoqualmie ice cream instead of Molly Moon, and tree lined streets with little traffic. Welcome to Our Town! Really, it was unexpectedly charming. Michael and I split a luscious "Mukilteo Mud" malted shake from Cocoa & Cream, which I thought was perfect, but he declared needed more malt.

We then headed to Discovery Park, which, although we had been before, still felt like a discovery after so many years away. On the 2.8 mile loop trail we walked through dark maple forests and sun bleached meadows, finding new views across the Puget Sound and even stumbling across a string quintet playing Appalachian style folk music in the grass.

"This is like a mini-vacation," I told Michael. "And in our own city!"

Heading home, we were back in familiar territory before long, heading across the Ballard Bridge and then Holman Road. It had been a nice break while it lasted. But I don't know if I'll go back soon; sometimes, a little distance makes it that much more special.

Music at the Mural

2009-08-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

Seattle Center's Mural Amphitheater is misnamed - behind the stage, you'll find a large mosaic, not a mural. But, as my friend and I agreed, "Mosaic Amphitheater" sounds kind of pretentious. Mural Amphitheater somehow doesn't, which is fitting for a stage that has hosted the likes of Mudhoney and other Seattle bands over the years. Once upon a time these free summer concerts were called the "Pain in the Grass" shows. Now, as local radio station KEXP is trying to revive them, they're simply called "Concerts at the Mural".

It's a great setting for an outdoor show. A grassy lawn slopes down towards the stage, behind which the Space Needle towers, offering the chance to watch the elevators glide up and down its spine like golden beetles. That is, if you can take your eyes off the people - an outdoor concert is prime people watching territory, ranging from kids chasing after soap bubbles to the guy in the blue shirt who never sits down or stops hammering his fist to the music, even during the slow songs. Most of the crowd sits nowadays, which I initially find pleasant, but after a few hours, you do feel kind of a pain in your, well, you know.

Last night Johnny and the Moon, the Moondoggies, and the Fruit Bats took to the stage. Liz took a liking to Johnny and the Moon, and everyone seemed to get just a little more into the Fruit Bats (you can tell when a few more heads pick up that slight nod to the beat, and when a small crowd actually gathers in front of the stage - a very small crowd in this case, but still). As the evening grew to a close and the sun began to set, the Fruit Bats played the best known of their old songs, "When You Love Somebody", with many in the audience happily humming along. Happy to listen to the music, happy for the sunshine, and happy that the weekend was just beginning.

Pizza on the Grill - It's What's for Dinner!

2009-08-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

Once the Cook's Illustrated Guide to Grilling and Barbecue arrived last week - only about five weeks after I placed my order directly with the company, mind you; let this be a lesson that amazon.com can be a beautiful thing - the first recipe that really caught Michael's and my eye was that of grilled pizza. We had first attempted grilled pizza the night before the book arrived, a spur of the moment decision using pre-made dough from Trader Joe's (something I had never, ever done before). But sliding the pizzas off of the peel and onto the grill proved a definite challenge, and the pizzas were a bit soppy.

According to Cook's Illustrated, you can fix both of these problems by grilling one side of the dough before topping the pizzas. This allows you to flip the pizzas onto the grill using your hands rather than the ineffective peel, and you simply put your toppings on the grilled side before placing the pizzas back over the coals to grill the underside of the dough (this time homemade)and heat up the toppings.

Ahhh, heating up the toppings! Since there were six adults at dinner, I had the brilliant idea that we should grill one side of all the pizzas first, then we could each load up some tomatoes, cheese, and such and toss (or rather, gently place) them back on the grill and be done with it. The catch? Since by this time the pizza rounds were already cold from having been off the heat so long, we had a hard time heating the toppings thoroughly. When topped immediately after coming off the flame, the toppings have the advantage of warm bread to start the cooking before they even hit the grill. But we're learning! This is why you experiment; next time, it will be better.

But even now, these pizzas were pretty darn good. Grilled pizza should be a summer staple.

Washington Whirlwind

2009-08-17T20:17:00.000-07:00

A month or so ago, I got the inspired idea that we should visit Washington State's two most famous national parks - that would be Mount Rainier and Olympic - while Leonie, our German "exchange student" (actually a seventeen-year-old friend of a friend from Wiesbaden who stayed with us for ten days during her summer vacation) was visiting. After all, no visit to Washington would be complete without taking in some of the natural beauty and grandeur of our mountains, forests, beaches, and lakes. The catch was that we really only had two days in which to do this.

Now, I am here today to tell you that this can be done. With better planning, in fact, it could be done much more efficiently than our two day road trip bonanza turned out. This is not to say that we didn't enjoy ourselves, but after getting a late start and not leaving the house until 11am on Saturday morning, due partly to the fact that our entire household stayed up until 12:30 the night before locked into a game of Settlers that Michael had gleefully instigated, we were pretty much two hours behind schedule for the next two days.

First up: Mount Rainier. What better time than August, right? The wildflowers are in bloom, and the meadows at Paradise live up to their name. But as we left Seattle the blue sky turned to mostly cloudy, and the fog started in earnest right around the elevation of Paradise. After a four mile round trip hike to view Comet Falls looking mysteriously disembodied in the mist, we made our way up the road, where Leonie commented that it was hard to see even the trees ahead of us, let alone the giant mountain that was supposedly just beyond.

A late trip to Rainier led to a late arrival in Shelton, where I whipped up dinner for six at my friend Rebecca and her husband Chris's place in town rather than meet up with everyone at the Hartstine Island cabin as was the original plan. Heading out late once again, Michael, Leonie, and I made it to the cabin in time for a slightly earlier bedtime than the previous night, but not by much. At 10am the next morning, with just enough time for Leonie to observe the emaciated starfish that crowd the waterline at low tide, we were back on the road.

Just before two, we made it to our first official destination, Ruby Beach. Incredibly, the weather at Ruby made up for the disappointment at Rainier, with warm sun shining down above the trees that clung for dear life on the cliffs edging the shore, and piles of driftwood creating the perfect picnic spot from which to sit and watch the waves. We could have spent all afternoon exploring the nooks and crannies of the windswept rock formations, but after an hour we were on our way again, with so much more to see ahead.

Or so we thought. After making a decision to bypass the rain forest due to time constraints ("On a day like this, we can't miss Hurricane Ridge," I asserted. "It'll be more than worth it."), we drove on to Lake Crescent, stopping to marvel at the clear blue water and forested hills that plunged straight to the shore. It was also at Lake Crescent that we learned the fateful news: the road to Hurricane Ridge was closed, owing to an unforeseen landslide. Oh. Well, there's the rub. I guess we could have stopped by the rain forest after all.

But all was not lost. We decided to do a quick stop in Port Angeles, which gave Michael enough time to sneak away and buy a Butterfinger blizzard ("We don't have Dairy Queen in Seattle!" was his not unreasonable excuse). Driving into Kingston at about 7:15, we were making pretty good time, when I saw the sign; there was a two hour wait for the ferry to Edmonds, and we were stuck in line on the highway. Perfect.

But, as it turns out, it was perfect. After about fifteen minutes, the line moved and we were able to park the car in the ferry lanes at the port, get out, and treat ourselves to ice cream cones. Not only that, but we even made it on the ferry in only an hour, not the dreaded two hours as had been warned, and for the first time in her ten day visit Leonie was able to see not only the elusive Mount Rainier, but the stunning silhouette of the Olympic Range, back lit by a sunset that filled the sky with bands of pink that deepened and grew as the ferry sped across the Puget Sound. No trip across the water could have hoped for a more amazing display.

Not much later we were sitting, exhausted, back in Lake City, poring over the menu at Thai One On. A little Thai food hit the spot before going home to unpack and say our goodbyes to Leonie, who took the Greyhound back to Vancouver today before her flight back to Germany tomorrow. We hope she enjoyed her time in Seattle, and maybe even the whirlwind Washington tour despite the lengthy time in the car. And hey, now she can tell her friends, who've all seen Twilight, that she's seen Forks and it really is as boring as anything. But hopefully Seattle was a little more fun, and the bright spots in our weekend getaway made all the driving worth it.

Little Blog Lost

2009-08-13T22:49:00.000-07:00

Poor, poor Rutabagastories, I have been neglecting you so. Which is why I've decided to write a short, yet hopefully sweet, post, just to keep my blog from feeling like such a little lost lamb.

As usual, a lack of writing means I've been rather busy. And perhaps just a little lazy. What with many house guests, including the lovely Leonie from Germany, and adjusting to Michael's new daytime work schedule (yes! the husband has joined the ranks of the living and now sleeps at night, everyone!), I've managed to stay fairly active. And some may know how I love to play tour guide, especially when food is involved. Getting to introduce a German girl to her first taste of Japanese food tonight at Toyoda Sushi was quite a treat. A great sushi chef with a sense of humor and a habit of throwing us little treats on the house makes for a fun night out, indeed.

Sadly, it's past time for bed, now that I rise at 6:30am, an hour later than previously. So long, farewell, I promise not to forget you, my little Rutabagastories.

Summer Sun and Summer Sniffles

2009-08-01T11:59:00.000-07:00

This last week did not go exactly as planned. After a busy weekend that began with very little sleep on Friday night (not for any wild and crazy reason - I was simply volunteering overnight at the young adult shelter), I found myself with a sore throat on Monday, and more or less fully sick on Tuesday. Ah, colds! Isn't winter supposed to be the season for them? I must say I'd rather that were the case, as staying home with a cold, yet without air conditioning, during Seattle's hottest heat wave ever was not particularly pleasant. It was nice to be back at work in the land of AC on Thursday, but unfortunately my stuffy sinuses and cough still linger.

Still, we managed a little fun in the sun before the my being confined to the cooler climes of our basement for the week. On Sunday, some of our loosely named "young adults" group from church biked out to the Redhook Brewery in Woodinville, while on Monday evening Michael, Leslie, Amy V, and I enjoyed the substantially less sweaty activity of lying on the grass at Lakeside School, listening to the sounds of Haydn, Brahms, and Bartok as the Seattle Chamber Music Society broadcast their live performance for the benefit of listeners on the lawn.

And now July has ended. August begins in full force with an outdoor wedding tonight, and in the meantime I struggle to find the energy to take Lucy on a walk this afternoon. A little summer sun, I can handle, but summer sniffles, well, that's one thing I won't miss when fall comes around.

Click Happy

2009-07-25T18:34:00.000-07:00

Some may have noticed the return of photos to Rutabagastories, which can only mean - drum roll, please - I have a new camera! The good news is, I think I've found a keeper (although Costco does have a 90 day return policy, so I'm not locked in yet). The not so good news... it didn't come cheap. After playing around with a few point and shoot models, I came to realize that what I really wanted, what I've in fact wanted since I bought my original digital camera about six and a half years ago, was an SLR.

The fact is, I love setting up a shot the old fashioned way, looking through a viewfinder. And I love the option of a true manual focus. But on a typical point and shoot model the viewfinder is woefully inaccurate, and the manual focus, if it exists, is a joke. A DSLR, I figured, would give me the control I craved, and allow me room to grow as a photographer. The only downside, really, is that a DSLR is much larger than a point and shoot, making it too unwieldly for certain situations. We may just buy an ultra compact, inexpensive point and shoot to have on hand for such occasions.

I haven't had much of a chance to play with my Nikon D5000 (the model I chose after extensive online research) yet, but managed to bring it along while walking Lucy this afternoon. Initially Lucy wasn't too keen on stopping for what was, to her mind, no reason whatsoever, but overall she was extremely patient with her dog mommy's strange behaviour. While the lighting wasn't always great and our neighborhood isn't the most thrilling place for photography, I did get a few nice shots. Here's a sampling:

Olivar

2009-07-21T08:19:00.001-07:00

While Michael continued his quest for a Capitol Hill parking spot, I took my place at a charming table decoratively turned out from ribbons of corkwood. Scenes of long ago Russia filled the walls, despite the fact that in its current incarnation this spot, now called Olivar, is a Spanish restaurant. I perused the menu and the specials listed on the blackboard, thinking that I could at least steer us in the right direction once Michael arrived.

First up was sangria, quickly followed by a tray of sliced baguette served with green olives in a pool of seasoned oil, just waiting to be mopped up by the bread. Bright an peppery, the olive oil really hit the spot. Out simple salad of greens, lightly roasted tomatoes, and shards of fresh garlic croutons was also pleasantly spicy and perfectly dressed.

The next dish provided the only disappointment. Don't get me wrong, the sauteed mix of mushrooms was excellent, again just a little spicy and perfectly cooked. The oversized gougere they were served in , however, cleverly appearing on the plate like a carefully mussed burger, was lacking in flavor and just too dry. We ate up the mushrooms eagerly, thinking they would have been better served alongside a few simple slices of fresh bread or toast.

For my main dish, I chose the herby risotto, a bright jewel green pool that came topped with a poached egg just waiting to be poked so it could ooze into the rice below, a dollop of cool, rich tomato quenelle (and honestly, I have no idea what "quenelle" means, but it was tasty) to be stirred into the warm dish, and a lacy Parmesan crisp. Mmm... I didn't miss seafood, my typical restaurant choice, at all with this dish, although by the end of it I was more than full. Michael, on the other hand, enjoyed one of the evening's specials: ribbons of fresh fettuccine with oregano, served with a sort of Spanish take on cordon bleu made of thin pork cutlets with Serrano ham and manchego cheese, breaded and fried.

Full we were, but since this was actually my birthday meal (yes, I am loathe to admit to turning a year older), dessert seemed in order. A lovely warm semolina lemon cake served with sour rhubarb compote and some sort of unidentifiable sorbet that brought it all together made for a sweet end to the meal.

King of Crab

2009-07-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

Third time's the charm - for our third night at the grill this weekend, Alaskan king crab legs were the star, brought to us by Michael's grandfather, Chad. After a change of plans this afternoon, we convinced that family they should come to our place for dinner - bringing the crab legs with them, of course - offering us an opportunity to show off our house and our Lucy dog to Michael's Aunt Robin and Chad's son, Scott.

Precooked crab legs are the epitome of simplicity when it comes to preparation: simply thaw and serve, or throw onto the grill to warm them up before eating. But it's in the eating, you see, that crab becomes messy, and I admit to squirting my tablemates once or twice in my effort to pull out every last piece of succulent crab meat. Fortunately they were good sports about it. And seeing as we were all in the same boat, passing around kitchen shears and digging into the flesh with our forks, it really could have been any one of us. Due to its size, however, king crab does have one advantage over Dungeness. It may be messy, but you get to your reward much faster than with the smaller Dungeness, and with legs the size of Lucy's , you do reap a substantial reward.

Some enjoyed their crab in salad, while I reveled in simply pouring melted butter over the exposed flesh. OK, that came out sounding a little cruder than I intended, but crab brings out my gluttonous side. Perhaps that's why God made eating crab such a chore - it keeps us from overindulging, unless you pay the high price for prepared lump crabmeat. But there's a certain satisfaction in working for your supper, at least when that supper happens to be crab.

The Bessings of Barbecue

2009-07-19T12:14:00.000-07:00

The barbecue got a workout on Friday night, when our house made room for about a dozen guests - nurses, their families, and friends, everybody glad to get together away from the VA Hospital (and who could blame them?). Michael was proud to grill up racks of baby back ribs, glazed with a sweet balsamic sauce from the pages of Gourmet's July issue. The July issue of Gourmet is always a hit - is there a better time of year to enjoy cooking and eating than this very month? I'd say not, although I admit to being prejudiced.

The ribs were eaten clean, only a pile of bones left in a bowl by the time the evening was over. Supplemented with sangria, salads (we must make an effort to be healthful - while still enjoying good eats), bourbon mint tea, chips, beer, ice cream treats, and the burgers that Michael couldn't resist picking up at Whole Foods, I don't think anyone left hungry. I, for one, ate far too many Tim's Cascade Jalapeno chips. They put something addictive in that flavor, I'm sure of it.

And even though I abstained from the ribs myself, being generally a non-eater of mammal meat, I have to admit they looked very, very tasty. How could one resist? But even a turkey burger cooked over mesquite charcoal and topped with a slice of Tillamook vintage white can taste like heaven on a sunny summer night. With that in mind, I wasn't too disappointed when we fired up the grill again last night for a fresh batch of burgers. In Seattle, you have to enjoy it when you can.

San Sebastian, Seattle-Style

2009-07-13T23:07:00.001-07:00

One rather unfortunate fact about urban restaurants is that they can often be "trendy". This is not to say that the trends themselves are bad - after all the recent emergence of Capitol Hill as a homemade ice cream hot spot (can you reasonably call anything related to ice cream a "hot spot"?) is nothing to complain about. The unfortunate thing is that trends come and go, they can be exclusive and uppity, and they can put a false focus on food as a hip lifestyle accessory, as opposed to, well, simply good food.

Take small plates: it's only logical that this trend should lend itself well to tapas bars, and even, in the case of Txori, a real San Sebastian style pintxos bar in Seattle's Belltown. Along with fellow foodie John, we visited Txori for the first time tonight, and had a wonderful meal of pintxos, those little bites I have been craving since I left Spain in May. Owned by a Basque, the food at Txori (meaning "bird" in Euskera, the Basque language) really captured the spirit of Donostia (aka San Sebastian). The atmosphere, on the other hand, was typical Seattle: spare walls, people casually sitting at postage stamp-sized tables with cocktails and ordering off a chicly minimalist menu.

Of course, I knew this would be the case. It's impossible to transport an entire culture of evening pub crawls, with hundreds wandering the narrow pedestrian avenues, filling the streets with chatter and stopping in at their favorite haunts to reach through the crowds and pluck their pintxos of choice from the platters laid out in all their glory across a hundred year old bar. That this is not what Txori is is hardly Txori's fault, and no reason to avoid the place. I'm just saying that if you ever have the chance, go to San Sebastian, because nowhere else in the world can recreate that scene.

But, as noted above, Txori does an excellent job recreating the food, and our smiling waitress, although not herself Basque, made me fondly recall the gracious Maria and Anna, desk clerks at the Hotel Parma in San Sebastian, who always greeted me with a smile and pleasant conversation. The mushrooms were outstanding, the squid in its own ink was unbelievably tender (How do they do that?! Is the ink the secret?), and they even had txakoli, a barely bubbly Basque wine, although it wasn't quite as tasty as what I remembered from my travels.

Definitely, I want to go back. But I couldn't help but feel a little wistful for the pintxo bars of San Sebastian, where some bars are high end and some bars are divey, and while they are always competing for what's new and novel, the concept of pintxos themselves will never go out of style and are enjoyed by all. How many people are going to enjoy Txori, and how many would look at the fact that it serves blood sausage and octopus and $10 cocktails and never set foot inside? If Txori is still here ten years from now, will it be out of fashion, the hipsters and foodies having moved on to the latest craze, or will it grow comfortably into someplace that everyone knows, where everyone goes to get an evening bite with friends both young and old, foodie or not?

I hope it stays. I hope it continues to delight people with unexpected tastes, while keeping old favorites, and proves that so-called small plates are more than just a trend here. Because ultimately, it should be about good food and good company, and taking a little time out of the day to slow down and savor the good things in life.

So Txori, stick around. And hey, homemade ice cream, you can stay, too. Good food is good food, no matter what.

Play Days

2009-07-12T16:32:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about Seattle in the summer is that there are so many free events happening. It's as though, since we spend more than half the year under cloud cover, apprehensive of grey skies that could suddenly morph into rain, we have no choice but to take advantage of even the possibility of sun by spending as much time outdoors as possible.

This weekend, Seattle outdid itself with the free events - the Chinatown Street Fair, Green Lake Milk Carton Derby, the Outdoor Theater Festival at Volunteer Park, concerts at the Locks, and West Seattle Summerfest, just to name a few. Waking up to gloriously sunny skies, and shirking our household responsibilities, Michael and I packed a picnic lunch into the car yesterday morning, picked up David, Joan, and Hazel from their current house-sit, and headed to Green Lake with Lucy nervously digging in to Michael's lap in the front seat.

Starting with the milk carton derby, we watched as boats ranging in design from viking ships to clownfish to a human powered "hamster wheel" took to the water with only milk cartons (and the occasional orange juice carton, I noted) as flotation. Leslie met up with us in time for lunch, before we headed to the other side of the lake for a free (donations accepted, of course) performance of Noel Coward's "Hay Fever".

"I don't think we'll be able to get seats," Michael was pessimistic when we found ourselves getting to the playhouse later than planned. "There are too many people here."

"Yes, but on a day like today, people are here for the park - not an indoor play," I responded. Sure enough, the playhouse was nearly empty, and we enjoyed front row seats. My theory proved correct.

But what if you could enjoy a play and the outdoors together? That, doubtlessly, was one of the inspirations behind the popular "Shakespeare in the Park" performances that pop up every year. Even after one play, Michael, Leslie, and our friends Stephanie and Sandy decided they were still up for a performance of The Comedy of Errors at Volunteer Park. Heading to Capitol Hill also gave us the chance to try Bluebird, the newest of the popular homemade ice cream shops that have been multiplying this summer. Michael and I split a cone with a deliciously creamy scoop each of northwest strawberry and peanut butter.

One things about plays, however, is that they don't afford much opportunity to visit with your friends, unless you arrive early. And not all of our friends (ahem) are known for punctuality. Fortunately, a trip to B&O after the show, where they open the windows on the north end of the cafe to the sidewalk in good weather, gave us a chance to chat.

It turns out the timing for the day's events was perfect, as storm clouds rolled in overnight, leaving me rushing to take the laundry down from the porch in the morning rain. Still, a little spot of rain should never stop a true northwesterner from enjoying their summer. After an indoor brunch this morning at Curio Confections (which I highly recommend), my friend, Lewissa, and I braved possible showers and headed out to the West Seattle Summerfest to explore more bakeries, drink a little booze, do a little shopping, and listen to Kim Virant perform. And the rain? After a few noncommittal drops, it disappeared, leaving us with familiar grey skies and pleasantly temperate temperatures.

Tomorrow it is back to work - and supposedly sunnier skies. How I wish summer weekends in Seattle could last all week long. But perhaps it's better this way - after all, I need some time to plan and prepare for the next one!

A Very Vaughn Fourth

2009-07-05T17:14:00.000-07:00

A narrow inlet off of the Puget Sound, Vaughn Bay seems the perfect place for family picnics come the Fourth of July. Having lived there her entire life, Michael's grandmother is one of the lucky ones, with a house overlooking a small bay of her own that fills with salt water as the tide comes in and leaves behind a tidal flat perfect for clam digging when the tide is out. In the early afternoon as the floating dock began to rise with the incoming tide, Uncle Ronnie was ready at the boat launch, prepared to join the other Bayliners that zipped down the length of the bay towing waterskiers and innertubers. His grandchildren, a gaggle of boys aged six and under, along with one lone curly-headed girl, were perhaps the most enthusiastic of the boaters.

Lucy the dog had her own fun with the help of a stick found on the rocky beach. Throw it out into the sound, and Lucy would fearlessly bound after it, dog-paddling determinedly back to shore in hopes of more. The weather was even hot enough that few people seemed to mind when she shook out her saltwater-logged fur in close range.

The weather, in fact, couldn't have been better, especially in a region famed for sometimes dreary Independence Days. In the shade on the lawn, looking out across the deep blue bay under a baby blue sky, the ridge of fir trees changing from evergreen to golden as the sun sank towards the horizon, it was difficult - no, impossible - to imagine any setting more beautiful.

As twilight came and the bay turned from brilliant blue to a silvery shimmer, more and more firecrackers could be heard echoing across the water. After nightfall, a call and response of elaborate (not to mention illegal) pyrothechnics vied for attention as house after house set off mortor shells and Roman candles, with some displays so elaborate that there was talk that at least one of the neighbors must have hired a professional. Down by the dock at Grandma Dulcie's, the blast of a mortor shell would cause everyone to look up in time to catch a brilliant shower of gold or crimson, raining down over our heads. Only Lucy missed out on the show - she lay quivering in the backseat of the car, too frightened to even chew her favorite bone.

For hours the fireworks continued, while some of us headed back to the house to roast marshmallows over the fire for s'mores, still with a view of the shells bursting in air, but without quite as much noise and smoke. By now the sheen of the pale golden moon appeared as if behind a thin, gauzy curtain, as the smoke from the night's celebrations floated lazily by.

It was time to head home, or rather, head back to the cabin on Hartstene Island for the night. As a few final firecrackers signaled an end to the festivities around midnight, we drifted off to sleep, closing our eyes to the beautiful view of the Sound lapping peacefully, framed by the Douglas firs and madronas that line the shore.

It had been a good day in Vaughn Bay.

Breaking in the Barbecue

2009-06-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

"We have fire!" Michael announced with triumph after checking on our new charcoal grill ten minutes following ignition. We are fans of the hardwood charcoal, so knew our interests in grilling did not lie on the gas side of the spectrum, but we were also wary of the fact that charcoal takes effort. Our new Weber grill successfully eliminated much of this effort: with a propane ignition, you need only arrange your coals and punch a button, then give it a quick check in five or ten minutes to make sure the coals are lit.

Friends joined us for a late lunch that stretched through the afternoon, sharing buffalo shrimp, herb bread sticks, and a mix of salads that included grilled mushrooms and chicken tossed with pesto.

"You're breaking in the barbecue with shrimp!" I told Michael as I put the first course on, knowing that shellfish would not be his choice for the best that grilled cuisine has to offer.

"Well, when Michael tells the story of how he broke in the grill, it'll be with prime rib instead of shrimp," Doug asserted. But we all know the truth - and today was all about the shrimp, chicken, and mushrooms - although I think Michael would happily forgo prime rib to eat grilled mushrooms.

Still, he couldn't resist throwing on a couple of burgers after we sat down to eat. "Are you sure this is enough?" he asked while eyeing the beautifully charred chicken thighs I was slicing.

Well, Michael did have his burger, but he was the only one - and there was still some chicken left over, so I can safely say there was enough. For now. On the menu for tomorrow night: buffalo chicken burgers! The grilling, it has just begun.

Signs of Summer

2009-06-26T22:13:00.000-07:00

It's summer in Seattle! How do I know?

We can make sun tea on the porch - most days, at least.
I can hang the laundry to dry on the porch - again, on most days.
Michael even cleaned the porch to get it ready for summer shindigs (Hmm, many of these reasons seem to focus on the porch...)
We have a new barbeque (also located on the porch)! In fact, it arrived today, and I, with some help from our summer housemate, David, who moved in today with his wife, Joan, and daughter, Hazel, put it together tonight.
David, Joan, and Hazel have moved in for the summer!
I can leave my heavy coat behind and go in to work with my jean jacket instead.
The dog has new red toenails! No more of those winter booties in the house, she can now come straight in from the outside in her little plastic red nail caps (chosen because it would be difficult to easily notice should she lose a black nail cap) with no fear of scratching the floors (this, not the weather, was the real reason behind the house booties). Doesn't it just say summer when you see a dog out for an evening walk with crimson toes? Doesn't it? Anybody?

Well, red toenails or not, summer is here and we - including Lucy - are loving it.

Pie Crust Perfection

2009-06-21T17:22:00.000-07:00

This Father's Day, I am thinking about one trait that I inherited from my father: a love of crust. Put just about anything edible in a good, flaky pastry crust, and we will eat it. Does it really get much better than golden, buttery layers that shatter under the gentle pressure of one's fork? I have my own definition of crazy: people who eat the pie, and then LEAVE THE CRUST BEHIND. When it's a truly good crust, this is nothing short of a travesty.

I experienced crust perfection today at the Volunteer Park Cafe. Stopping in for a late lunch, Michael ordered a chicken salad baguette, while I decided on the quiche of the day. Hey, it was salmon - salmon and crust! - how could I resist? The first bite was a mixture of silky smooth egg filling that melted in the mouth, a little salty tang from the salmon (my one complaint would be that the quiche could have used more salmon, but perhaps they kept it a little sparse to keep the price at the regular daily quiche level), and tender, flaky crust. I couldn't resist breaking off a piece of the extra thick edge of the crust, savoring a bite of pure buttery goodness.

But how does Volunteer Park Cafe do it? Crust is notoriously finicky, and while I would say that my mom is a masterful pie baker, I have to admit that the Cafe's crust beats hers, hands down (sorry, Mums). At home, I've managed to turn out some fabulous pie crusts, and some not so fabulous ones, but none quite compare with this.

I guess I'll just have to go back to Volunteer Park for more.

Talk Talk

2009-06-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

It's Friday night, and here I am, sitting in front of the computer. Because I am BEAT. Huh. Who knew having house guests for weeks while also preparing for my first ever music history lecture at Europe Through the Back Door could be so exhausting and wonderful at the same time?

I was a little concerned about the lecture. What with being preoccupied with Ryan and company (after all, the guy was having open heart surgery, no small ordeal), I wondered if I hadn't put enough time into preparing my talk.

"I've never given a speech for a full hour! What if I don't have enough material?"

"What if someone asks me some semi-obscure question I don't know the answer to, like, 'When was Chopin born?' or 'What's the plot for Rigoletto?'"

"Was it really a good idea not to actually give a practice talk out loud? Can I really just stand up there and expect to wing it, just going off a brief outline?"

As it turns out, I could have talked for well over an hour, no one asked any obscure questions (or cared about any dates or opera plots), and I think I only looked at my outline once during the entire class. It's true: when you're passionate about a subject, getting to share that passion with a room full of strangers is actually quite exhilarating.

Now I'm already scheduled to give a talk about the Basque region in early August. Do I have a passion for pintxos, the Guggenheim, and beautiful beaches? Hmm... yeah, I think I can pull it off.

Life and How to Live It

2009-06-15T20:32:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile. I'm back home, and have spent the past week back at work and dealing with my brother-in-law Ryan's open heart surgery. Last Wednesday he went in to receive a heart valve, and Michael, Ryan's wife, Lyndsay, and his mother-in-law, Devra, spent their days with him at the hospital, while I provided everyone with late dinners when they came back home each evening. Ryan was discharged from the hospital yesterday evening and is doing wonderfully, and Lyndsay and Devra are on their way back to Las Vegas, so we're moving on to a new stage in this process, and looking forward to a few more friends moving in with us for the summer soon.

In the meantime, I'm trying to prepare for my first class at Europe Through the Back Door this Thursday. Titled "Europe's Musical History Tour", it's free and open to the public. Sorry to shill for myself, but you can find more information online at: http://www.ricksteves.com/news/classes/class_menu.htm (Really, more than anything I think I need prayer that the class will go well - I've felt so distracted lately that I haven't done as much prep work as I would like.)

And that's about it for now. I've come to realize that even though I haven't been overwhelmingly busy since coming back home, just taking care of guests and having a loved one's surgery on the mind (even if it did go well) can wear one out a little bit. I still haven't gotten to look at my Europe photos! Soon, I promise. Well, after next weekend (yep, I'm busy till then). Watch for the new, photo-enhanced Europe blog posts to come!

Lange Nacht der Kirchen

2009-06-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

It's my last night in Vienna, a night which happily coincides withe Lange Nacht der Kirchen - the Long Night of the Churches - which means that around 190 churches in Vienna alone are open until 1am tonight, offering ecumenical services, concerts of all kinds, and more. Before using up the last of the internet time I purchased earlier this week, I spent a few hours in Stephansdom, Vienna's great gothic cathedral, listening to a beautiful liturgical service followed by a full orchestra and choir performing a Haydn mass.

The church was packed, both with those searching for a spiritual experience and those simply wandering in to see what was happening. The wonder of sitting in a 500 year old church, surrounded by people of all walks of life, listening to the music reverberate through the cathedral, knowing that this was just one of many such gatherings throughout the city, was awe-inspiring. Europe is famed for its amazing, yet empty, churches, and this was a reminder that the church is not a building, but rather people. I don't know how many of the people out tonight come with any regularity to a church of any kind, but I hoped that everyone would walk away from tonight's experience with a feeling of peace and unity.

When I stepped outside Stephansdom, the streets were bustling. It's Friday night, and both young and old are out for dinner, drinks, or just a nighttime stroll. Across from the internet cafe, I could hear a rock band performing along the Danube Canal below. It's a different experience, but if I close my eyes I still find myself back in the cathedral while a man and woman sing a simple prayer to the accompaniment of a single guitar.

Breakfast of Dreams

2009-06-04T13:28:00.000-07:00

In fewer than 34 hours I will be on a plane, probably eating bad airline food for breakfast. Fortunately, at this point in time, I still have one more Austrian breakfast to look forward to.

I love the breakfasts in German and Austrian hotels. Nutty whole grain rolls, rye bread, cheeses, yogurt, and eggs are always available, and any meal that features good bread and cheese prominently is fine by me. The Schweitzerhof, where we are staying in Vienna, offers the best breakfasts I have had during this entire trip, including fresh strawberries (mmm!), a basket of warm rolls on the table (outstanding!), and, rather than the typical pre-sliced cheese squares, a large selection of whole cheeses accompanied by a knife allowing one to slice off as much of any wedge as one would like. As is standard for such places, they bring the coffee in individual pots to each guest upon request, rather than using the automatic coffee machines that have unfortunately become common in many European countries.

Now, to some such a a breakfast may not sound like all that. But keep in mind that I have only listed my personal favorites. You will also find at the Schweitzerhof a variety of cold meats, muesli, cornflakes, Caprese salad, more fruit, scrambled eggs, assorted jams and honeys, and numerous spreads for topping a slice of bread, among other things. True, it doesn't have the same decadence as an American breakfast of pancakes, waffles, or sauage and bacon, but for a hotel buffet it far surpasses the sad continental breakfast of a packaged roll and bad coffee.

Hmm, I must admit my mouth is beginning to water. It's a good thing I'm still full from an excellent dinner, otherwise I think I'd have a hard time waiting until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I'll dream of one last breakfast in Vienna. I hope they still have strawberries!

On the Beautiful... Green Danube?

2009-06-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

Austria is an interesting mix of modern and traditional. Were the Captain and Maria still alive and living in their homeland, they would simply be Georg and Maria Trapp, minus the von. Noble titles, as I learned from our local guide on this morning's walking tour, are verboten in modern day Austria.

But despite losing two world wars and the Hapsburg Empire, tradition thrives in the form of such institutions as the Vienna Boys Choir and the Lipizzaner Stallions, both of which were begun by the Hapsburgs (whose descendants, by the way, are only welcome to live in Austria if they agree to stay out of politics). Were these brought back to bring in tourist money, or are they truly important to the Austrian identity? Today, along with two other guides, I watched the Lipizzaners at their morning exercises. The graceful horses cantered in time to the strains of the Blue Danube Waltz, a piece so strongly associated with Vienna it's practically a cliche.

This evening I took a long walk along the Danube Canal, which is, in fact, anything but blue at this moment in time. Murky green would be a more apt description, although the Danube itself can be blue on certain sunny summer days. Such days are not, however, typical for today's river.

But blue or not, the Danube makes a great backdrop for an evening outing. On a warm night like tonight, the Viennese are out walking, rollerblading, biking, playing soccer, and eating ice cream throughout their many parks. In fact, about half of the city consists of green spaces (and I'm not referring to the Danube this time), which doubtlessly played a large role in Vienna's being chosen as the world's most livable city last year.

And the clever Viennese have even found a way - almost - to go swimming in that murky Canal. How? Watch for a photo here when I return.

They Say That All Good Things Must End Someday

2009-06-02T12:56:00.000-07:00

The bus dropped us off in our final destination today: Vienna (aka Wien), where our hotel is only a five minute walk from Stephansplatz, the central square around Vienna's gothic cathedral. While waiting at a traffic light, I looked down from my window seat to the cars below, just in time to see the woman in the passenger's side light a cigarette while two children, presumably her own, sat in the back seat. Behind her, the man in the passenger seat of the next car was also enjoying a smoke, which apparently was all the encouragement the car's driver needed to pull out a cigarette of her own and use the pause in traffic to light up. Austria, I think you're still a long ways from the non-smoking laws that have been passed in Italy, Germany, and Paris in recent years.

But thankfully I usually manage to avoid the heavy smoke here, and today's arrival felt a little like a homecoming to me. Last May I spent two weeks in Vienna, studying German at a small institution for foreign students of all nationalities, ages, and abilities. It wasn't long enough, but even after only two weeks my German, which had steadily declined since college with a couple of brief upswings due to later trips back to Germany, had improved significantly. Two weeks is enough, however, to get a good feel for a city, and I definitely feel more at ease now.

Sadly, I only have three days left here before I fly back home to Seattle. While I can't wait to see Michael, I don't feel quite so enthusiastic about heading back to office on Monday, preparing for a house full of people (no joke - there may be as many as eight adults, one child, and one dog, staying at our place over one weekend), and leaving the traveling lifestyle behind. I could happily do this for months - something I can say honestly, as last year I did it for almost seven weeks without tiring.

In the meantime, though, I plan to enjoy these last few days in Vienna. I'll sip coffee at a cafe, admire how much work they done on cleaning the Stephansdom since last spring, eat some more chicken döners, and go walking in the gardens around the Belvedere Palace. On Friday I will even have the luxury of an entire day to myself, as the tour will have ended that morning (frankly, I doubt I'd have the time to make it out to Belvedere otherwise), before heading out for a night at the airport and a 7am Saturday flight.

It's been a good trip, overall. And Vienna, it's good to see you again.

The Zen of Tea and Cesky Krumlov

2009-06-01T13:57:00.000-07:00

On the tour evaluations we send to tour members after they return home, one of the questions we pose is, "Are there any 'wow' moments you'd like to tell us about?" I've noticed that those who travel more frequently are less likely to say they experienced a true "wow" moment, but rather talk about places or aspects of the tour that they particularly enjoyed.

Well, for me, today was a genuine "wow". Maybe it was the fact that the sun finally came out again after about a three day absence, maybe it was the fact that I had almost an entire afternoon free to do whatever I liked, or maybe it was just the stunning scenery, but Cesky Krumlov, a small Czech town not far from the Austrian border, really wowed me.

The day was picture perfect, and everyone was drinking it in. While Krumlov is definitely a tourist town, on a day like today how could anyone feel anything but happy and lighthearted? Even the woman slaving over a hot open flame wrapping pastry dough around metal rollers to cook and create tasty snacks for a never ending crowd was in good spirits. This was no day for museums, so I spent hours wandering the town streets, the riverbank, and the castle and gardens.

After all that walking, I was ready for a little break, so I stepped into Dobra Cajovna, the Good Tea House, where they offer both an amazing selection of loose leaf teas and water pipes. In the garden out back, tiny weathered crate tables with wire framed chairs sat at the edge of a quiet grassy courtyard.

Having leafed through the extensive menu of teas on offer, I chose a sampler of three Chinese varieties. Arriving together on wooden tray, my server explained how each tea should be correctly brewed using the clever little pots provided to steep the tea before tipping them sideways into the shallow teacups, thereby allowing the tea to drain into the cups while leaving the leaves behind for future use. With the large pot of water I was given, I was able to brew about ten cups of tea for myself.

I held a cup of tea between both hands and surveyed my surroundings and realized I felt supremely happy. Every so often, I have the feeling that I am living exactly in the moment, and I was struck by that sensation this afternoon. I sipped tea and read a page or two at a time from a German translation of an Agatha Christie novel, while overhead the birds sang and the occasional whiff of the sweet smoke from a single water pipe reached me. Heaven on earth, indeed.

Jazz A La Czech

2009-05-31T05:39:00.000-07:00

This contraction free post is brought to you by the Czech keyboard (and yeah, I am sure I could just ask, but where is the fun in that?)

Prague, as many know, is famed for music. Mozart was probably more popular here than in Vienna during his own time, and today there are nightly concerts put on largely for the tourist crowds at various historical churches and concert halls through the historical center.

But in addition to classical music, there is a smaller jazz scene, so I decided last night to deviate from the expected and give one of the most popular local jazz clubs, Agharta, a try. After surviving the rainburst that opened up no the crowds as I was crossing the Charles Bridge into Old Town, and reviving myself with a pizza for dinner, I wandered over to the Old Town Square, where the recent rain left the paving stones glistening in the lamplight as the unseen sun went down. Agharta was only a quick walk from from the square, down the stairs to a cozy cellar where local jazz groups perform.

Popular with locals and tourists, the club filled up as the evening wore on, with those who had reserved seating grouped around tiny tables and the rest of us packed in along the walls, and even sitting on the stairs leading up to the balcony outside the main room. For the equivalent of two bucks, I got a half pint of dark Czech beer to sip slowly during the first set.

The group of the night was a quartet featuring electric bass and guitar, piano, and drums. While I am generally not as into jazz that features electric guitars (I like the old school jazz trumpet players most of all), they were pretty good, and got more and more into it as the night wore on, to the enthusiastic cheers of the audience. The piano blew me away, though, with his flawless playing and utter immersion into the music as he bobbed to the beat, alternating between looks of intense pain and sheer joy. When he gave an impromptu solo performance after the guitarist broke a spring, the audience was completely taken in.

I left after the second break, an Agharta compilation CD in hand (the one the clerk at their shop claimed was his favorite). For many, I am sure the night was just getting started, but I while on tour I try to make sleep something of a priority. It was just a taste, but if I come back to Prague, I will be ready for more.

When the Rain Comes

2009-05-30T05:14:00.000-07:00

I have not been able to figure out how to use the apostrophe on a Czech computer. Because of this, I am going to attempt a blog post with not contractions! Yippee!

Our group arrived in Prague yesterday afternoon and made the nearly half mile walk to the hotel from the bus just as the rain started to pour. Typical for central Europe (and for Seattle, really), the weather this time of year is unpredictable. In the lovingly rebuilt baroque city of Dresden, where we spent one night before our trip to Prague, the weather changed from rainy to sunny to rainy to sunny all in the course of about six hours. And I do not mean light rain. When it rained, it truly poured.

Prague is lovely, however, in any weather (although I am sure the group would say they prefer the sun, and, well, I cannot say I do not agree). But the stained glass in St Vitus Cathedral is still breathtaking, the Charles bridge still feels like a walk into fairyland, and, of course, the crystal shops will never, ever disappear. And if I am not mistaken, I think I notice a little more sunlight creeping across the leaves of the trees outside this shop window. Now might be the perfect time to explore more of the Prague Castle. I can write more later, but I cannot let a possible sun break go to waste!