Blog

What’s Up?

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It’s been a while. It’s a challenge to write when the stories aren’t only your own to tell. So I will do my best to do the dance of sharing without oversharing. For the last few months, my house has been full. Two adult nephews have been here, living in the extra rooms, while working and settling into a now familiar rhythm. Plus I’ve gotten a new kitten. Things are lively, to say the least. It’s remarkable to have constant conversation and activity again. And it’s hard to get wrapped up in my own ruminations when I have people to cook with and for. I’m learning new recipes, vocabularly, memes, music, generational and cultural differences. It’s fascinating, hilarious, exhausting, and fun. Some evenings, I can almost hear my big brothers chatting animatedly. And yet these two are very much their own men with their own experiences and stories. It’s quite marvellous.

I can say unreservedly this holiday season is less heavy in that I’m not wallowing in my own sadness and anger. I’m looking forward to baking sugar cookies and jolabokaflod and creating art and spending time with people I love. Being able to provide a haven and support while also being wildly entertained is a measure of good fortune that gobsmacks me all over again.

Now it’s not all beer and skittles. I’m one who loves to bake and one nephew cannot eat gluten. But every challenge is an opportunity to be creative. We’re finding our way. I also know that every season has its end and this one will too. I’m just glad it’s not quite yet. My heart is full. My gratitude cup, my joy nugget basket, my thankful tank, whatever you want to call it–full to the brim and overflowing.

Progress vs Perfection

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Tonight I’m writing myself a little pep-talk. If that’s not something you need or want, feel free to forego this little missive.

Progress is more important than perfection, friend. Say it with me again, but with enthusiasm (and jazz hands if you must)…progress is more important than perfection.

Now say it like you mean it.

PROGRESS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN PERFECTION!

No one is expected to do it all. It’s not reasonable or rational so why do we hold ourselves to this absurd standard? Progress is more important than perfection. The days when we only have 20% to give and still move forward are still wins. Progress is more important than perfection. Measuring against one’s own track record is fine. Measuring against a contrived ideal that is harmful or against someone else’s highlight reels, not so much. Progress is more important than perfection.

Progress means you keep moving forward. Perfection means you have no where new to go. It’s boring and there’s no growth. Progress is more important than perfection.

I’m going to type it a few more times just to help it stick.

Progress is more important than perfection. Progress is more important than perfection. Progress is more important than perfection.

Progress is what?

MORE IMPORTANT THAN PERFECTION.

Okay, now don’t you forget it!

The Magic of Puttering

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The amount of work I can get done around the house with a little music and permission to go slow, to get distracted, to play in the midst of it, is pretty incredible. I seriously think I’m undiagnosed ADD. The way my mind works, it’s hard to settle, I’m bouncing from idea and topic like the pollinators in my backyard garden. Now, I can dig down and find the places to do the gritty, hard work when necessary, but that’s not where I normally live. Don’t get me wrong, I get stuff done, but it’s ANYTHING BUT LINEAR.

This morning, for example, I’ve bounced from laundry to dishes to communication with friends and family to getting things ready to bake cookies and now writing a blog post. To me this is ease. To me this is natural. I build in the ability to get distracted from one task to work on another and not be ashamed because the results speak for themselves–the projects get done and I have a fine time at it. It would probably make any type A personality start to get an eye twitch.

I think so often it’s easy to get trapped into thinking there’s the right way of doing things. There’s only one, idealized way. I know I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in my life thinking I’m not good enough and finally, I’m starting to give myself a little grace. I’m not going to get on my hands and knees and scrub my floor every Friday at 5:30pm. Not gonna. Won’t. Refuse. I’ll clean it when it needs it. Or inspiration strikes. Or I have company coming. It’s remarkable when we give ourselves permission to be ourselves and then with a quirky twist begin to realize that person is likable.

I like that I spend a Sunday morning doing five different chores with a sense of whimsy and the randomness of my mood. The dishes are done, the oven is preheated, the laundry is getting taken care of, I’m writing. I’ll bake some epic cookies, too. I write all this as an invitation–an invitation to give yourself grace, to think about your way of doing things as neither right or wrong, just unique, and that maybe in the noise of everything around us, it’s okay to like the quiet rhythms of living and being authentically ourselves.

To Be Present

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August is on the downward slope and September will be here before we know it. I’ve seen any number of memes about the pull to the coziness of fall–hoodies, warm beverages, nestling under blankets amidst the soft glow of low lamps when darker evenings appear. Kids are going back to school; parents are mixed with relief and grief. It’s such a challenge not to plan, be forward thinking, eye always on the future, but every season is rich unto itself.

Last night I took the fixings for a tarte a la moutarde to my cousin’s and her family. Now don’t tune out yet. Yes a “mustard tart” sounds kind of gross and a little insane, but it is probably one of the most exquisite summer dishes I have ever made. Dijon, gruyere, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and fresh garden tomatoes sliced up all on a crust with the edges rolled up. The combination of flavors is heady. As my good friend Holly would say–“restaurant quality.” The time at table with their family, my family, was so good.

In conversation with my cousin, we discussed “being present” versus “flow.” As introverts who value solitude, I could relate to her struggle with longing for flow–that place where we step outside of chronic consciousness into body, creation, and spirit (best I can do) and be physically, mentally, emotionally attuned to this moment in time. Many of these moments in time are brutal for reasons stemming from the personal to the collective. Some of them are boring and tedious. Some of them break our hearts. Bryan talked a lot about the importance of “being here now.” It takes discipline and effort. I find all the easily available tools of dissociation right at my fingertips. I’m not immune. But dissociation is neither presence nor flow.

What can I conclude? To continue to hunt for the joy nuggets of the moment and savor them in real time like we did those tarts last night–ripening tomatoes, produce to share, flowers in glorious reveal, eye contact with a friend over a bawdy joke, phone calls and texts from nieces and nephews, puppies, saying I love you–these help keep us grounded in the right now in ways that comfort our hearts.

Pumpkin spice, cozy blankets, and dark evenings will come soon enough and they will be worthy of savoring, too. Right now, every hot, dusty moment of August and the bucketloads of tomatoes will be plenty of joy unto itself.

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Blackberry Picking

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It’s August in Southeastern Washington and that means one thing–blackberries! Last weekend, I had to pivot to a new weekend plan. I had every intention of going to Portland to visit my cousin when my mechanic friend and co-worker recommended I’d better put that plan on pause until I get a few repairs done (another story for another time). Disappointed barely scratches the surface. I’d already missed out on a fun scheduled weekend with Mary, her Mom, and her godmother–the infamous “Moms Weekend”–to Portland a few weeks prior due to a savage bout of Covid. Ugh. Thwarted. Twice. Talk about bummed. In an effort to rebound, and redirect, I went for a walk at Mill Creek Friday evening–always a recentering. Saturday morning I enjoyed some coffee and classical music on my back patio. Then I decided to do something outside my more normal routine. Was it a fun trip to Portland? No. But it was good.

Years ago, Bryan took me to a place just past Waitsburg on the way to Dayton, up in the hills on an old gravel road near wheat farms. On a bend in the the road up a ways there’s a great place to park and a whole swath of blackberry bushes fairly easy to access and not terribly picked over. He had told me, Sara, Mary’s mom had shown him this place years ago. I made sure to wear a long sleeve flannel button-up, jeans, and socks and tennis shoes (in August!), giving the brambles less of a chance to tear into me. Anyone eavesdropping might have heard a rainbow of colorful expletives worthy of a sailor’s blush combined with an updated version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” There might have been some prayers and minor begging for snakes not to find their way to me as well. As you can see from the photo above, my quest was successful. Later that day, I turned these berries into two pies. The next day I took one to my dear cousin and her family who live in town (yes, I have a LOT of cousins.)

I often think about solitude, loneliness, rugged individualism, and all that jazz. It occurred to me on a day where I was very much alone physically that I was in reality surrounded by people, by memories, by love. I started with a phone consultation to my baking mentor, my big sister. When it comes to pie, I’m going to refer to her expertise before the internet, before Betty, before anyone or anything else. She makes more pies in one session than I might for a couple of years. She doesn’t mess around and she’s honed her recipes and technique. Add fresh lemon zest and juice, you don’t need more than 3 1/2 to 4 cups of berries for an 8-inch pie. A pinch of cayenne will enhance the flavor. While she wasn’t in the kitchen with me, she was very much present.

The entire drive to the berry thicket, Bryan was with me in my heart and memories, journeying over roads we’d been on so many times, laughing, reminiscing. Sara was there too in a place she had shown him so many years before–a gift given to him then given to me. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled down my Betty Crocker cookbook with the broken spine. It’s one I found at a thrift store or yard sale. It had reminded me of my Mom’s and I had to have it. My Mama used to quote my great Auntie Iris when someone would compliment a baked dish or some culinary delight “Just Betty and me.” There was my Mom, my auntie, and Betty. The crust I make is one passed down from my sister’s mother-in-law, Erma Torretta. She worked in the kitchen of the old Walla Walla General Hospital. Her oil crust recipe was designed to make a large number of pies at once. Cut down to it’s smallest iteration I still end up with one 10-inch and one 8-inch pie. So there was Erma in my kitchen, too.

I can get so wound up in my pity parties of how alone I am without Bryan. And you know what, it’s a worthy thing to be sad about. I miss him. I miss the spirit of fun and teamwork and humor we shared. He was so interesting and smart and full of life. Kind. Good. Loving. The house is quiet without his presence and I often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of all that has to be done. But this past weekend was a good reminder that I’m not truly alone and that even when things don’t go exactly as I planned or hoped, there is joy to be found and connections to be made.

Sunday, laden with garden tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, blackberry pie, and vanilla ice cream, I headed to my cousin and her family’s house on the Old Milton Highway to enjoy the consummate Walla Walla brunch in August–caprese and blackberry pie a la mode. It was bliss.

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