Auntie Gayle Cookbook

When my parents got married, some 33 ½ years ago, my aunt gave my mom an amazing gift. It was a cookbook, filled with my dad’s favorite recipes. To this day it is the most used cookbook in the kitchen. It’s falling apart, pages are ripped and dirty and possibly missing, but I use it every time I go home to make my dad shortbread cookies for Christmas.

Having used this cookbook all my life, and knowing what an amazing cook and baker my aunt is, I wanted my own Auntie Gayle cookbook. I told her this a few years ago and she told me that when I got married, I could have a cookbook too. I responded laughingly with, “That’s great, but I still have to eat until then.” I knew she’d been working on putting something together, setting aside recipes since we’d had the discussion, but I had no idea when this cookbook would make its way to my kitchen.

Much to my surprise, when I arrived at my aunt’s house for Thanksgiving, a cookbook was sitting on my bed! Instead of a wedding gift, it turned into a 30th birthday present. What an amazing present! It has all my favorite recipes and some new ones and I can’t wait to use it. I’m so excited to have my very own Auntie Gayle cookbook!

Thanksgiving Memories

With the scent of turkey and fresh baked buns in the air, I decided to reminisce about my favorite Thanksgiving memories. And then I realized I didn't have any. I have memories of doing things on Thanksgiving weekends, like my dad inviting me to go hunting for the first time or going shopping with my mom or playing games at my aunt and uncles house. Nothing about the day stands out except general memories of being well fed and loved.

What I realized is that while I don’t have a favorite memory, I do vividly remember the worst ones. So I’m counting down my top three worst thanksgiving memories.

#3) I was in college and instead of going home to Montana for turkey, I was spending it with my aunt and uncle who live south of Seattle. This was the first time I've ever tried to drive anywhere the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Not being one to skip classes (yeah, I was one of those), I got a late start.out of McMinnville. Previously my experience with traffic was getting stuck behind the school bus or our grandma-like driver neighbor, Ben. This kind of “traffic” does not prepare a person for Portland and Seattle holiday traffic. Traffic turned what should have been no more than a 4 hour drive into almost an 8 hour drive. Nothing quite like driving up I-5 at walking speed to start off the holiday!

#2) The year my mom decided I needed to learn how to cook a turkey. She thought that I needed to learn how so someday I could cook a turkey for my own family. Here is what I learned: raw poultry (chicken, etc.) is gross. Raw turkeys are disgusting because they still have their innards. Who on earth decided it was a good idea to take the turkey apart and get it ready to cook, then stuff some innards back in? Gross, gross, gross. She hasn't made me help cook the turkey since.

#1) My worst Thanksgiving ever. I was young, maybe fourth grade. My mother decided that this was the year we were going to eat all the most disgusting vegetables available in one sitting. Admittedly, I was a picky eater then (and now), but there are a lot of things that I didn't eat as a kid that I eat now. But I still do not eat any of those repulsive vegetables to this day. Squash and brussel sprouts and yams, oh ewwww. I thought I was going to be sick. Apparently so did the 'rents because I was sent to sit in the bathroom while everyone else finished dinner. Nary a squash or brussel sprout has touched these lips since.

May your turkey be moist, your potatoes un-lumpy, and dessert plentiful. Happy Thanksgiving!

Being Thankful

Each year around (American) Thanksgiving time, I like to join in the tradition of pausing to actually think about what I am thankful for. The short list follows:

While it seems obvious to be thankful that I have a warm place to sleep and don’t need to worry about where my next meal comes from, I am thankful for these things. On my walk to and from work, I have to go through the section of town that houses the majority of the homeless. There are lines of people coming out of the soup kitchens and missions. There are times I literally have to walk in the street because so many homeless are crowding under a single canopy of a building to avoid the rain that the sidewalk is full. And yet the people never cease to be friendly. I am constantly met with a smile and “Good morning!” And even the occasional, “You look beautiful.” (I’m pretty sure its because I have all my teeth.) So not only am I thankful that I do not have to live on the street, I’m grateful that somehow the people who do are friendly and kind and remind me that where you sleep doesn’t define you as a person.

I’m thankful that my mom forced me to learn how to cook as a kid. My parents suffered through many meals of hamburger helper while trying to teach me to follow a recipe. It’s because of them that when a guy asks if I can cook, I can answer in the affirmative. And if they inquire further as to if my definition of cooking means more than boiling water, I can deck them.

I am thankful for my friends. It never ceases to amaze me how I ended up with such great friends. Friends to spend Saturday’s tailgating with, to go camping with, to complain and gossip with and to do craft nights with. Friends who love it when you invite yourself to visit just because. And friends who will answer the phone with, “Where are you? I’m grabbing my keys and am on my way to get you,” because you don’t normally talk on the phone so it must be an emergency. Friends that love you for who you are. Even if you’re cynical and stubborn.

I’m thankful that my parents never told me there was an option not to go to college. And that my parents strongly encouraged education. I’m also thankful that with a MBA behind me, I never have to go back to school if I don’t want to.

I am thankful for my family. I have the most incredible immediate and extended family. We are a family that supports each other with out question. We like to spend time together and do it as often as possible. We are a family that will travel hundreds of miles to be there for a special occasion. A family that is always happy to see or hear from each other. Enough amazing things cannot be said about my family. It was something I took for granted as a kid. It’s something I treasure and am proud of as an adult.

In addition to all that serious stuff, I’m truly thankful for two days off from work. November is brutal in my office and I am looking forward to some rest, relaxation, delicious food and football. And that all I have to do is bring the wine.

Hmmm . . .perhaps I’m most thankful that my dear friends and family actually read my blog! Happy Thanksgiving!

Dads & Daughters

I wonder what other girls talk about with their dads. This question has been nagging at me since I got off the phone with my dad last night. I know one dad who talks to his grown daughters every single day. My dad and I are more on the once a month schedule. And it usually happens because my mom isn’t home.

A couple years ago my parents finally got caller ID, so at least now my dad will answer the phone when he hears the computer generated voice echoing through the house with “Heidi’s cell.” He’ll pick up, ask me how I’m doing and what’s the weather like in Portland? After discussing the weather, the next thing he says is usually “Well, good talking to you. I’ll go find your mom so you can talk to her.” For some reason, the two minute conversation never ceases to amuse me. Mostly because it always seems like the phone is a hot potato and he’s got to get rid of it. To be fair, most of the time I call home, I am calling to talk to my mom.

While my dad and I get along and like each other, we are very different people with different interests. One thing we have in common is being absurdly stubborn. Ask any of my friends, they’ll confirm this. I’m stubborn, and don’t really care to do something I’m not interested in. It turns out that I come by this honestly, as my dad is the exact same way. When you have two people who are stubborn, someone has to bend if you hope to have any sort of relationship. Having decided that I wanted a relationship with both my parents, in the past it’s usually been me that has bent. I’ve watched countless hours of James Bond movies with my dad and brother, just to be part of the camaraderie. After ten or so, you start to enjoy them and now I look forward to the Christmas Day James Bond marathon. I also kept shooting guns. Not because it was of particular interest to me at the time, although I do enjoy it now, but because it was a way to spend time with my dad. To my dads utter disappointment, I was not a hunter. This was one thing I refused to bend on. Hiking through the dark and snow only to have to drag hundreds of pounds of meat out of the woods if you’re successful is not my idea of fun.

All of this to lead back to the phone conversation I had with my dad last night. After exchanging the usual pleasantries and weather talk, my dad and I had a very long conversation about college football. I know he finds it amusing/bewildering that his kids enjoy being sports spectators, but it’s nice that he asks about the team I follow. I’m not sure if he doesn’t enjoy sports or just doesn’t follow them, but I appreciate that he’s made an effort to talk about something that I really enjoy. And that he pays enough attention to college football to be able to have a conversation with me.

So after at least a 10-minute conversation about college football with my dad, I found myself sitting there wondering what on earth do other girls talk about their dads with? I talked to a friend at work about it and wondered out loud if it was weird that college football was our conversation topic. My guy friend informed me, “That’s not weird, that’s awesome.” And so it is.

Playing Dress Up

Today for work, I’m wearing a cardigan that I picked up off the floor. This is not the first time I’ve done this. It is however the first time I’ve realized just how lazy I’ve gotten about dressing for work.

In college, I used to dress up about once a week and wear business casual type clothes. Nothing fancy, just fancier than the jeans and a hoodie that I wore every other day. I remember telling my mom that I wanted to work in an office where you had to dress nice every day. Due to this thought, I wasn’t too disappointed to not get a job in an office where the person interviewing me had holes in his decades old sweatshirt and cargo shorts.

Seven plus years into this working full time gig, I’m over the dressing up every day thing. Although not quite to the point of wanting to wear clothes with holes in them to work. I’ve gotten increasingly lazy as time goes by. It started with the shoe drawer. I have a drawer of a filing cabinet dedicated to shoes simply so I don’t have to drag them back and forth with me every day. Next came the realization that you can wear just about anything under a cardigan or suit jacket. Not too long ago one of the guys I work with asked me “are you wearing a north face shirt to work?” In fact I was. But worn under a cardigan, it was almost unnoticeable.

But picking clothes up off the floor is relatively new for work wear. In my defense, I work with mostly guys and they never notice that type of thing. In fact, one day I wore my Chaco’s all day instead of changing into work shoes just to see if anyone would notice. No one did.

Now it’s become almost a game of seeing what I can get away and still be presentable for work. Today I had to figure out what I could wear to a client meeting in the morning and happy hour after work. Again, this is where the realization that you can wear anything under a cardigan or suit jacket is key. Throw on a jacket for the meeting. Take it off for the bar.

While wearing something off the floor may not be the classiest thing in the world, it sure does make it easier to get dressed in the morning.

Run Like Hell, Rain Like Hell

This past weekend I did something not only out of my normal routine, but out of my comfort zone. I ran a half marathon. And you know what may have surprised me the most? I didn’t hate it.

At the end of August, a good friend brought up the idea of doing a half marathon before we turned 30. She was thinking she needed to do something significant before moving on to the next decade. I decided I could support a friend and check something off my bucket list. Come mid-September, I found myself the only one of the original group of girls who was going to run signed up. One signed up for a different race and the friend turning 30 ended up dropping the idea all together. I found myself slightly annoyed, since this was not my idea and wasn’t something I really wanted to do, and now I was doing it alone.

Once my original friends dropped out of the race, I convinced two other girls at work to do the race with me. One did the half marathon as well and the other did the 10K. Come race day, all three of us set personal records for distance run. We bribed ourselves with breakfast out after the race.

Throughout September and October I found myself logging miles either on the treadmill at the gym or in the park on weekends for my long runs. Before I knew it, a Saturday morning 8-miler would be done almost before I’d fully woken up. Once a week I was supposed to run 3 miles at race pace. Supposedly it makes you faster over time. After a few weeks of doing this, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself increasing the speed on the treadmill, even for a warm up! Not only was I running longer, I was running faster. What a pleasant surprise that was!

I realized some things along the way in training for this race. One, life gets in the way. No matter how perfect I thought I had my training schedule figured out, I was constantly switching days and distances based on what I had going on that week. The second thing I learned was that it’s dumb to sign up for a race at the end of October in Oregon. Because in addition to life, weather also gets in the way.

On the morning of the race, I had a game plan, but I didn’t feel 100% prepared. I hadn’t gotten as many long runs in as I would have liked and was a little nervous. My theory with races though, is that if you’re 85-90% of the way there, adrenaline and guts will make up for the rest.

All week I’d been praying that the nice fall weather we’d been having would hold throughout the weekend. Or at least until after my race was done. Instead, the first big fall storm was predicted for that Sunday. So I dressed expecting to get wet. I did get my wish of starting out dry. The first mile or two it was dark and gray but nothing was leaking out of the sky yet. Then a light drizzle started. That wasn’t so bad, I’ve run in drizzles lots of times. Miles four and five it really started to pour. Big thick drops that almost hurt when they hit. Mile six it started to monsoon. Just when you thought it couldn’t rain any harder, it did. And the wind started howling.

At this point, you’re so wet that you don’t even notice it anymore. You’re just praying that your iPod keeps working (both my friends’ ended up dying). My feet were sloshing in my shoes and I’d given up trying to avoid puddles or rivers of water in the road. Lightweight running shoes start to feel like cement slippers. And then the course started to go uphill. And not just any hill, up Terwilliger. I often run hills when training, but no sane person willingly chooses to run up Terwilliger. But here I was, eight miles in and starting the uphill climb. I was soaked beyond head to toe, running in a monsoon, running uphill and with a cold. Add in the exercise induced asthma and I could hear myself wheezing over my iPod. Just when I thought I’d have to walk, we hit a level spot. For the next big uphill climb, I was smarter and slipped behind and old man and paced off of him for the bulk of the hill.

Around mile nine, this bright thing appeared in the sky. I hadn’t even noticed that it had stopped raining. I choked down one more Gu for energy and picked up the pace. I knew that the last three miles were downhill and I was still in position to meet my secondary goal of finishing in less than two hours. Being a Goertzen, and slightly competitive, it wasn’t enough to just finish. Well, it was, but I really wanted to do my first half marathon sub-two.

Finishing down hill in the sunshine was a nice way to cap off the run. Even better was when my exhausted body crossed the finish line in one hour, fifty-nine minutes, thirty-five seconds. My knees hurt, my hips were sore, my feet were pruny and I could wring water out of my dry fit clothing, but I was done. Goals accomplished.

The last time I did a race, with the exception of Hood to Coast, I kept wondering why I was doing it because I wasn’t having any fun. I vividly remember hating running miles three to five of that race. That was an 8K, so I was a little nervous for busting out a 13-miler. Maybe I wasn’t as physically prepared as I would have liked, but I was mentally prepared for what it would take for me to run this. I knew I couldn’t start thinking, okay, only 13 miles to go, and count down from there. That’s too overwhelming. So I broke it into three different races. I had to run five miles. Then I had to run five more miles (I didn’t let myself think about the fact that most of this five miles was uphill). And then all I had to run was a 5K and I could do that in my sleep.

My first half marathon is in the books, with a decent time and I even enjoyed myself. I’m not saying I’d want to run one every day, but I’m not opposed to doing another one in the future. Next time though, I’m signing up for a race where or when the weather is better. I’ve run a half through a monsoon. Next time I’d just like the half.

Duel Dieting

About a month ago, I decided that I needed to lose some weight and stop spending so much money. In a moment of perceived brilliance, I decided to go on a food diet and a spending diet simultaneously. This turned out to be one of my dumber ideas. And led me to the theory that you can only be on one diet at a time.

A month later, I weigh the same, but the money in my bank account is definitely less. While I didn’t buy anything extravagant, like a diamond tiara (but man that would have been awesome!), all those little purchases add up. The knives I’ve been wanting went on sale so I bought them. More than 50% off, I might add. Then I wanted some new shirts for work. You’d think you wouldn’t want to buy clothes when feeling chubby, but unfortunately life doesn’t work that way. Perhaps the only thing I bought that I really truly did not need was a down vest. But in my defense, while I may already have about 8 of them in my closet, I didn’t have one in this amazing shade of blue!

Having determined my spending diet a complete bust, I reaffirmed myself to the food diet. After getting rid of anything in my kitchen that could possibly be turned into a dessert, at least my pants are fitting better. That being said, I may have had a cookie with lunch today. Okay fine, I might have had two.

The problem with trying to do two diets at once was I did them both half assed. I determined that I could either have a skinny waist or a fat checking account, but it was unlikely that I’d have both at the same time. Somehow when you’re sacrificing in one area of life, you feel the need to splurge in the area. And for some reason, exercise just doesn’t work for me as a splurge.

Having decided that I don’t want to be fat (yeah, yeah, I know I’m not technically fat but “pleasantly plump” isn’t super motivating for weight loss) for my upcoming birthday, I’m recommitting myself to the food diet. I may be cash poor come December, but no amount of money is equal to the feeling of fitting into those skinny jeans.

The Dreaded Hug

For the last year or two, I’ve been practicing hugging. That might seem like an odd thing to need to practice, but somewhere along the way, I lost the initiative to hug. I’ve always hugged family, but somehow missed the memo about hugging being the proper greeting as long as you weren’t at work. And if you’re not a natural hugger, trust me, getting used to all that hugging takes practice.

My good friends that I’d met prior to a few years ago all knew that I lacked the natural ability to hug. I’d hug back when pressed, but I’m awkward at the hug initiative. Hell, I used to not even touch people so I consider the fact that the hug seems to one of the last road blocks a good sign. Then I met my friend Megan, who would and does hug everybody she knows or meets. It turns out when you just get hugged all the time, it starts to seem less awkward. And while it still seems a little weird, I have good friends that I now hug whenever I see them. Sometimes I even initiate the hug. Feel free to send my “most improved” award to my home address.

Somewhere along the line, I started meeting people who didn’t know that I wasn’t a hugger. And for my self imposed hug therapy I decided to just go with it. And it turns out that everybody out there is a freaking hugger! I know this couple through another good friend of mine, and I end up running into them all over Portland in the most random places. On the Max, in Nordstrom, at Hood to Coast, etc. From about the second time we met, they started hugging me. For a person who typically only hugs family, hugging acquaintances is a big step.

The hugging of non-family and non-best friends has gotten so out of control that even my masseuse hugs me. But she gives the awkward extra long hug. As a new member of this hugging society, I’m not really sure what to do about that. I’m sure if she were a yummy smelling amazingly good looking guy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

While I still wouldn’t call myself a hugger, I now hug. And while I enjoy being my own island, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that a hug just makes you feel good. One small hug for mankind, one giant step for Heidi.

Run Like Hell

If pushed, I would agree that I am a runner. I run on a regular basis year round, but am not super speedy nor do I run marathons. On average I run one “race” a year – Hood to Coast. At the risk of sounding too much like my father, most races have too many damn people. I just like to run.

For the past year or two I’ve tossed around the idea of doing a longer race. I’ve run an 8K which is about 5 miles, but nothing longer. This year I have a friend who is turning 30, actually the majority of my friends are turning 30, however this friend was entering 30 in panic mode. As we’re both single and childless, she wondered if I didn’t feel pressure to accomplish something significant before turning 30. I really didn’t. None the less, she put this bug into my head that we should run a half marathon. Since I was coming off Hood to Coast and already had my mileage up, I somehow found myself agreeing. I could run 13.1 miles with girl friends and live to tell the tale.

I mentioned to a friend at work that I was thinking about running a half. Ten minutes later he had a training schedule for me. Things were starting to look serious. To date I have yet to follow the training schedule perfectly, but I’m getting the bulk of miles in. Last Saturday I found myself on a 10-mile run through Forest Park. Who would have thought I’d ever be running that far?

Around the time that I made a decision and paid the entry fee, my girl friends all decided to do a different race. I am maintaining my commitment to the “Run Like Hell.” Supposedly it’s a great half for a first timer. Plus its in my backyard. The course goes through my neighborhood and through my work neighborhood. And up one of the biggest hills in Portland, but I’m blocking that out for now.

Here I am, about four weeks out from the race, and am still optimistic and positive about it. New shoes, a new iPod and a new mileage tracker to motivate me help with the optimism. Having a few long runs under my belt also certainly helps. Even the fact that my girl friends have deserted hasn’t distracted me. I am after all, my own best competitor. I’ve already gone from a goal of just finishing the race to finishing in less than 2 hours. A goal that is ambitious but do-able.

While I don’t feel like I need to “accomplish” anything before turning 30, I do believe in pushing myself out of my comfort zone whenever possible. If running for 13.1 miles isn’t uncomfortable, I don’t know what is.

Fall = Football

I love fall. The leaves turning beautiful shades of red and gold . . . falling to the earth and getting stuck in my windshield wipers, along the seams of my car doors and trunk and the fact that they manage to all find their way into my nice clean car. In all seriousness, I do enjoy fall. The temperatures are perfect for running and best of all . . . football season.

A few years ago, I met some guys at work who were huge Oregon State football fans. More often than not, we had a conversation on Friday where upon learning that my only plans for the weekend were studying (I was in grad school at the time), they imparted upon me notice that they would pick me up at some ungodly hour of the morning and were taking me to the football game. Now I find myself writing a check each spring for season tickets.

Like most sports I’ve never played, I’m familiar enough to understand the basic rules but am far from an expert. Each fall I try and learn a new rule or play, last year I learned about the blitz. I have a theory that someday I’m going to meet some cute football fan and he’s going to want to teach me something, so it wouldn’t be prudent to any future relationship to learn everything on my own. Besides, I currently know enough to sound mostly intelligent while getting away with some ignorance because I’m a girl. A perfect combination if you ask me.

Last weekend was an away game that was shown on a TV channel that I actually get. So my Saturday night was spent yelling at my TV in the privacy of my own home, hoping that my apartment neighbors didn’t think I was too crazy. Around the second quarter I realized that not only was I yelling the standard “Run, Quizz, Run!” but off sides, false start and pass interference were making an appearance in my ranting at the TV. Even more amazing, I had the uses of off sides and false start correct!

Why do I love fall? Yes, the leaves are pretty, but nothing brings my group of close friends together like college football. When else do you have six full Saturdays designated for doing nothing other than hanging out, eating and drinking, watching football and cheering for your team? Go Beavs.

Program Kids

One of the best things I ever did was ignore my mom when she told me to stay away from a certain group of kids in my high school. These kids were . . . . Program Kids (insert evil music here). Hmmm . . . . it sounds much less terrifying than it did as I was being warned away as a freshman in high school. I vividly remember my mom telling me to not hang out with any program kids because they were trouble. That lasted maybe a week. What can I say? Those program boys were cute!

And it turned out that those kids were some of the most interesting I’d meet in Thompson Falls. They had traveled, had fancy clothes, took week long ski trips, had great stories from various adventures, and taught me the very important lesson that money is not everything. Money does not buy you love or your parent’s attention. It can however buy you trouble and a one way ticket to the middle of no where Montana to rehabilitate.

I ended up being friends with a fair number of the program kids over the years. I found it ironic that my mother was concerned about me spending time with these kids when they were under tighter rules than the strictest parents could come up with. They were genuinely nice and interesting kids though, with the common denominator of wealthy absent parents. And by the time they were rehabilitated enough to attend my high school, they were back to being “normal” kids. With less privileges and more rules than the rest of us.

A few years ago, in the MySpace hay day, one of them tracked me down to thank me for always helping him with his math. I of course sat next to him in math because he was cute and funny. He apparently sat next to me to get help with his homework. The MySpace note was so sweet and thoughtful that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hardly knew what I was doing in math. It definitely made it worth ignoring my mom all those years ago.

The program kids, even if they were trouble, taught me that there was a whole wide world out there. Not just in places to see but in people to meet. More importantly, they taught me that friends can come from anywhere and come from a variety of backgrounds. And for this I thank them.

Hood to Coast is like a Beauty Pageant . . .

Hood to Coast is a mere three days away. With my playlists built and customized for each leg and new batteries in the headlamp, it’s time to focus my attention on my outfits.

Picking out what I’m going to wear for HTC is what I imagine it’s like to pick outfits for a beauty pageant. The first leg is like the eveningwear competition. You haven’t run yet so you still look good and smell good. You’re also likely to run into a lot of people you know, so you want to look good. The overall theory being that if you look good, you run good.

The second leg is like the swim suit competition. Only instead of sporting swim suits, you sport every piece of reflective gear you own so you (hopefully) don’t get hit by a car. It’s also colder so a swim suit would not be advisable. Things that are advisable . . . bright colors, reflective vest, headlamp or flashlight, etc.

The last leg is like that opening segment of the beauty pageant where every one is dressed the same. In reality, at this stage in HTC we aren’t dressed the same, but we all look the same. Exhausted. This is where my looking good is equal to running good theory really comes into play. I tend to save my favorite color shirt for this last leg. I know it’s going to hurt, my shins will be killing me, I won’t have slept in 24 plus hours . . . but looking good always makes you feel better. It’s why we put on mascara to go to the grocery store while hung-over.

Hmmm . . . decisions, decisions. Luckily this is the easy part of HTC. It’s the actual running of it that is brutal. And awesome.

A Dating Conversation

With 30 rapidly approaching, and not a date in sight, friends and family and everyone else I meet tend to try and conjure up a great guy for me. Knowing that they mean well, and taking into account that I clearly don’t know any single, dateable guys, I try and give them the benefit of the doubt.

Most of these conversations are unremarkable, and once the person determines they don’t know any single, dateable guys either, tend to ask whether or not I’ve thought about trying online dating. Because they have a friend of a friend of a friend who it worked great for. But I digress. This blog isn’t to complain about how everyone tells me I should try online dating, but to recount a conversation I had with a friend.

My friend Ben is recently married and would like for us all to be as happy and domesticated as he is. The conversation started out normal, with the usual question of whether or not I was seeing anyone. Upon my typical response of, “no, do you know anyone?” here is the hilarity that ensued:

B: Heids, I have a single co-worker.
H: Tell me about him.
B: I'll start with the positives. He's a great guy, made a ton of money in the internet boom in the late 90's
H: Awesome. Wait . . . in the late 90's I was still trying to make the varsity basketball team. How old is this guy?
B: Let's focus on the positives. He's a great guy, funny, has money.
H: So what are the negatives, besides the fact that he's old.
B: Well, he's 40ish.
H: (eyebrow raise)
B: Okay, so he's mid to late 40's. He's a little shorter than me. He's never been married.
H: How high of heels can I wear?
B: What are those short ones called? Kitten heels? I'd stick with those as the max.
H: The only bonus of being short is that I never have to worry about how high my heels are.
B: So, no?
H: Thanks for thinking of me. Let's try and keep them under 40 and above 5'8.

Long Beach

A few weeks ago I got a call from a friend. Her husband was going to be gone for a weekend so I should come and visit. Not that her husband dislikes me, just that she wanted some company. After locating a cheap plane ticket, and making a rare spontaneous decision in my well planned out life, I found myself spending last weekend in Long Beach, CA.

The traveling portion was far more eventful than it should have been. I hopped on the Max to head to the airport with a friend from work, who was also PDX bound. He was going to run a marathon, I was going for a girls weekend where we did nothing but eat carbs and chocolate. Amazingly enough, of all the Max trains headed to PDX, I found myself also riding to the airport with a couple who I’d met a few times previously through the friend I was going to visit. This turned out to be quite significant; as it was at this point I realized I had no cell phone. I still can’t find my cell phone and have dug one out of my junk drawer from a few years ago since returning. Again, it was amazing that these people were on my same train, because as my work friend was calling people at work asking people there to look for my phone, these friends could call our mutual friend and explain that I didn’t have a phone. It was also at this time that I realized the only phone number I knew by heart anymore is my parent’s home phone. Which wasn’t going to help at all.

Thankfully, after receiving a weird message from me, via this other couples phone, and them also saying hi on the message, I made it to Long Beach and found Robyn and the kidlets waiting for me. Upon entering the car, after a chorus of “Hi Auntie Heidi!” Laina hollered for her mom to turn the CD to #10. Which happens to be my favorite Lady Gaga song, “Boys, Boys, Boys.” She’d remembered from the last time I’d seen her. That is one of those nice surprises from kids that make you feel special.

The next morning, promptly at 7am, the kids sprinted into the room I was sleeping in. After a brief conversation, they got to the heart of the matter, “Auntie Heidi, can we please play your iPod?” They then proceeded to take turns playing nicely on the foot of my bed while I went back to sleep. To be clear, they aren’t technically a niece and nephew, but my brother isn’t in any hurry to give me any so I had to adopt some. For breakfast we had my favorite treat when visiting this family . . . sticky buns. Apparently earlier in the week Caden had been quite concerned that I was coming and they didn’t have the ingredients for sticky buns. As always they were a delicious treat. Both mornings.

We spent the morning puttering around a crazy cheap fabric shop that had almost no fabric but lots of crafts in a scary section of Long Beach. Laina and I found matching tiara’s. And proceeded to wear them for the rest of the morning, including during a trip to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. I felt a little self conscious about running around So Cal with a tiara on my head, but half the workers at the restaurant told me how they liked my tiara and how cute it was that we matched. Note to self, if I’m ever feeling like I need a tiara day, do it with a kid. Apparently that makes it un-weird.

At every possible opportunity, Laina wants to play cars. She treats them like other little girls treat barbies. They go places, have conversations, etc. I always get to be the little green VW bug. It’s super cute and apparently the prized car, as no one else but me ever gets to be the green bug. If only showing someone you heart them was as simple for the rest of life as it is when you’re four.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of playing, reading books, playing cars, singing along to Lada Gaga in the car, being crafty, riding bikes and eating junk. It was as mellow and relaxing as being at home, minus the part where the kids pounced on me every time I had to rest my eyes for a few minutes. Kids are exhausting! It was a short, but fun and productive trip. Next time, I’m staying long enough to hit Disneyland.

The "Mournal"

In history classes from junior high, I remember learning about Native American boys who would go on a vision quest as part of their turning into a man. I have a guy friend who is currently doing the same thing. Only instead of walking into the wilderness and starving until he starts to hallucinate, his learning about his inner self is coming in the form of journaling. Or as I like to call it, “The Mournal.” It’s like a journal, but for men.

This guy friend thought he had found the girl he was going to marry. After a period of dating with enough drama to be worthy of a soap opera storyline, they split up. Breakups usually take two people, and he admits to his part in it, but months later he finds out she was a terrible person (I’m passing judgment because I’m friends with him, not her). More so than originally thought and definitely more so than he was. Since then, he’s been trying to find himself. I’m not sure he’d use those exact words, but he’s taking to carrying around a journal to jot down his thoughts and posting supposedly enlightening quotes on his Facebook page.

A couple girl friends and I were talking about men journaling. Apparently one friend’s husband also journals. Since I know now two men, and zero women, who journal, I’ve officially coined the phrase “mournal.” I wasn’t so surprised at the fact that men wanted to write down their thoughts as the idea that they had thoughts to begin with. And ones that were worth writing down.

I’m listening to a book on tape right now by Dave Barry, who I think is hilarious. The book is “The Complete Guide to Guys.” For clarification, I downloaded it onto my iPod because it was the only interesting one that was available for checkout. According to Dave Barry, and most of my guy friends, the bulk of their thoughts are comprised about sports and sex. I’m curious if I was to open a mournal, is it just pages of thoughts about sports and sex? Or would there actually be profound thoughts in there? Do their entries start with “Dear Diary,” the way a 10-year old girls would? The mournal is shrouded in mystery.

As my girl friends and I were laughing about the men journaling, I had a sudden thought. Does a blog count as a journal? Had I succumbed to this journaling trend without realizing it? I didn’t want to be known as a journaler. I couldn’t even keep a diary at the age of 10. My friend’s husband who journals said this totally counts as journaling. His wife disagreed for the following reasons a) my blogs apparently tend to tell stories and not my innermost thoughts and b) apparently they’re funny. My blogs do to tend to stray towards the more obscure thoughts running through my head and rarely dig into anything too serious. Plus, I put it out there for everyone to read. That has to be the complete opposite of journaling.

Are there more guys out there who mournal? I find myself intrigued. Not only by the concept of mournaling, but what can possibly be written in those things? Someday I really hope to find out. I think.

Where Is The Line?

My brother is what I like to refer to as “charmingly cocky.” He’s pretty self assured about his place in life and not afraid to tell you how awesome (he thinks) he is. For the most part, I find him amusing, or charmingly cocky if you will. Maybe because I do the same thing but to a lesser degree. Anyway, having known a few people who have transitioned from charming, to cocky, to arrogant to arrogant prick, every so often I warn him that there is a fine line between charmingly cocky and arrogant. And girls are less inclined to put up with the arrogant. His response was “Heidi, there is a fine line between arrogance and excellence . . . and I walk it every day.”

While I was running the other day, trying to increase my mileage and speed in hotter weather, I was thinking about lines. Mostly because around mile 4, I was starting to feel like I was going to throw up. Turns out, there is a fine line between pushing yourself and throwing up. I’ve always managed to stay on the pushing yourself side of the line, but I never feel well after.

Why bother to push myself so much? Besides the fact that I’m most competitive when competing against myself? Because Hood to Coast, the 197 mile relay race that I always talk myself into doing, is a mere five weeks away. And I just found out that I have legs longer than I normally run. Which means its time to start gutting out some more painful distances.

Don’t get me wrong, I love HTC. It’s an amazing experience, the people involved are fantastic and its interesting to see what your body can do under unusual conditions. Like running on no sleep after being crammed into a van with five other sweaty people for thirty hours. None the less, I’m starting to feel a bit of panic as I have to eek out a few extra miles than my normal runs. It’ll come together, it always does, but a little fear or panic should go a long way in motivating me to train harder.

And the training isn’t too bad. I enjoy running. It’s me out there with only my iPod and my own thoughts for company. Actually, I come up with my best ideas for blogs while running. While worrying about whether or not I’m going to be ill because I’m pushing myself too much. Here’s hoping that in the next five weeks I stay on the pushing myself side of the line.

Generosity

Is generosity something that you just have or is it something that can be learned? I’ve been pondering this question and all I’ve come up with is another question. How many ways are there to be generous? Time, money, skills?

I started thinking about this last Friday at happy hour. My brother was in town so I was meeting up with him and his girlfriend. When the bill came, Rob and I both grabbed for it. Courtney tried, but she was too far away. It was only after I reminded my brother that he had bought the movie tickets that he let go of the check. Neither one of use were considering letting Courtney pay. Next time perhaps.

But it got me thinking, is willingness to pick up the check a form of generosity? I know people who would split the check down to the penny to only pay what they ordered. Then there are people I work with who pay for the first $100-$200 of the bar tab when work people go out, which I consider pretty generous. Then there are the people in the middle, like my close friends, who just split the check X amount of ways. Does willingness to part with more money than you are required to make you generous? Does it matter if you do it willingly or begrudgingly?

I ask if it’s something that can be learned because generous is not an adjective I would use to describe myself. It is one that I would use to describe my mother however. And as I get older, I find myself working towards being more generous to the people in my life. And money aside, there are other ways to be generous.

While I’m slightly more willing to part with my money, despite my frugal nature, I’m less likely to part with my time. In fact, if I can buy my way out of something I don’t want to do, I’ll do it. There are certain circumstances where you suck it up and do something you don’t want to do (i.e. wedding showers, baby showers, bachelorette parties) because the other person matters. And that is one way to show them that they matter to you. But this isn’t generosity; I’m doing these things begrudgingly to show my friends that they, and the events in their life, are important. And because all these things usually have cake.

I would consider people who donate their time to be very generous. Rather than work in a soup kitchen, I’d rather throw some money at it. I do donate to select organizations that I feel strongly about, but I’m not entirely sure this is generous either. According to the dictionary, because now that I’ve thought this out to hell and back I lost track of the actual definition, generous is liberal in giving or sharing, being unselfish.

Now selfish is an adjective I would use to describe myself. Does this mean that I’m destined to be ungenerous? Or is generosity like sports? There are the kids that were born natural athletes and had the perfect jump shot in the 5th grade. Then there were the kids who received the “Ms. Hustle” awards (it’s a real thing, I swear, and have the certificate to prove it). The sport didn’t necessarily come naturally or easily but it was something they worked at. Hopefully being generous is like becoming a good free throw shooter – it just takes practice.

Eenie Meenie Miney Mo

I recently had a conversation with a friend about relationships. It was her birthday and she was turning 25. What was a wonderful and fun year for me was starting off a little rough for her as she was talking about her current dilemma. How do you know which guy to choose?

Now never having been in the position of having to choose between two guys, I don’t know what the answer is, but she brought up some very interesting points. Do you go with the guy that has the spark and you’re totally in love with, but that will lead to a lifestyle you don’t want (i.e. rural living)? Or do you pick the guy that you love (but aren’t in love with), who enjoys doing the same things you do, who you have tons in common with and who wants the same kind of life style? Granted neither guy is perfect, I’ve met both and am friends with one so I can say that for certain, but it’s hard not to see the appeal of both options.

When you’re a kid, you have this vision of meeting some guy, falling madly in love, and living happily ever after. Than you, Disney, for that unrealistic expectation. To the best of my knowledge, the only time that happens is in the movies or in a romance novel. And even in those instances, I’m so much of a cynic that I tell the characters of the book or movie that they’re being totally ridiculous. You don’t spend two days in the wilderness running from killers, fall in love and decide to get married as soon as the killers have been captured by the police. Those are crazy circumstances, who in their right mind wouldn’t think that maybe you should go on a date first before deciding to get married? I always want an epilogue that talks about the couple six months or a year later and what they’ve overcome and compromised on to make things work. But that would take some of the romance out of the romance novel. And clearly I’m still a sucker for the falling in love crap or I wouldn’t keep reading the darn things.

To date, I haven’t had that head over heels in love experience. Maybe it’s like that religious ah-ha moment that seems to elude me as well. It’s out there for some, but not all people. So based on that, the idea of picking a person based on compatibility and love, but not necessarily fireworks, makes sense to me. Or maybe I’m just too cynical for my own good.

The conversation with my friend was followed up by a conversation between my female relatives. They were talking about how they didn’t know where they were going to end up living when they picked the guy. This coming mostly from the rural people. They picked the guy and then made everything else work. Years ago I asked my aunt how she knew that my uncle was the right person to marry. I’m paraphrasing here, but she essentially said that what she knew was she wanted him. So she made it happen and made it work. All these women who married the guy they wanted have all been married a long time, the aunties and my mom for over 30 years. Were there ups and downs over the years? Absolutely. But years later, they’re still making it work for them.

So apparently you can make marriage work if you choose the guy with spark, even if that means you might end up living somewhere less than ideal. So are you settling if you marry someone who comes with a sparkler instead of one of those giant mortars that light up the night sky? As someone who can easily see herself not getting married until the age of 40, there is some appeal to the sparkler that can give you life style you want and who enjoys the same activities.

From what I hear, marriage tends to be a lot of work whether you go for the big bang or compatibility. Does one make it easier than the other? I have no idea. Which means this whole blog and thought process still didn’t enlighten me with any pertinent advice for my friend. I’d like to think that a person can find both fireworks and compatibility. I’d like to think that at some point in life, we all get to experience fireworks. Or maybe I just think too much.

Smith Inlet - Part VII

6:50 am Saturday morning. True to form, Rob and I have all our gear and suitcases lined up at the end of the driveway, waiting for the parents to pick us up at 7. 6:55 am the parents arrive, also true to form. Meanwhile, poor cousin Jason is looking on with annoyance while he tries to figure out how to squeeze nine people and all their crap into a Dodge Caravan. As we pulled away from the curb, it looked like the latest attempt was to tie things to the roof.

Since we were in good shape to make the ferry, and had a reservation, I managed to talk my dad into stopping for coffee. We ended stopping at a gas station, because coffee shops along side the road on the upper island are few and far between. Cousin Anje was riding back to Seattle with us and in addition to coffee, we picked up our favorite Canadian candy bars too. I went with a Coffee Crisp, having already tried my childhood favorite, Smarties, earlier in the week (which was sadly disappointing, I think they’ve changed the recipe).

We made the ferry with an hour to spare. After having already been in the truck for about five hours and still having hours to go, I walked up and down the ferry terminal to kill time. I was also keeping an eye out to see if the cousins made this ferry. A couple of them needed to be in Vancouver that afternoon and the way the packing situation looked when we left, making this ferry would be iffy.

Finally, with about 20 minutes to spare, I saw a van drive in with stuff tied to the roof. Obviously the relatives had made it. Which was great because the ferry ride is always much more fun with cousins to hang out with for the two hour crossing. First things first once we boarded the ferry . . . fries with vinegar and gravy. I really don’t understand why I can’t order this in the States. This time, Dad had promised to buy everyone who made the ferry a Nanaimo Bar, so I got to keep my $2.29. Which yes, is overpriced because I can make an entire pan of them for less than $10. But a Nanaimo Bar on the ferry is tradition.

My favorite moment on the ferry was when the little cousins were using Rob and I’s iPods to play games. Here is how the funniest conversation of the entire trip went:
Ocean: Heidi, may I play your iPod with Joeleigh?
Heidi: Are your hands clean?
Ocean: Yup, I licked ‘em! (while holding them up for inspection)
Hard to argue with that logic.

Once off the ferry, and a brief stop at the duty free store to stock up on cheap booze, we made it across the border with a short wait and minimal hassle. The Americans are always slightly tougher. And after a few more hours, we had reached the end of our destination, and were safely back in Seattle. I was sitting on the couch with Anje, waiting for her hubby to come pick her up and all the sudden I felt like I was moving again. “Are you still rocking?” I asked her? “Oh good, I was afraid it was just me and I didn’t want to say anything!” she responded. Turns out Rob’s house really rocks like a boat when doing the dishes. So I only did that once. The rocking was completely gone by Monday.

Perhaps the most amazing part about this trip was the fact that there aren’t a lot of other families that could have done this. My family is incredibly unique in that we not only all get along, but we enjoy spending time together and do is as frequently as possible. Even in very small spaces with large numbers of us. Also nice is the fact that we all realize how special what we have is. My cousin’s wife jokes that she didn’t necessarily want to marry him, she just wanted into the family. Since I see her much more frequently than I see him, I think she’s only mostly joking.

I still can’t believe that after years of talking about doing this trip and after about a year of getting organized, it is already over. We would all do it again in a heart beat, but it’s likely that this was a once in a lifetime adventure. I’m so glad that I had the opportunity to see where my dad and aunties grew up, to walk where they walked (or boated) as children, and to spend time where my grandparents did. I loved hearing the stories about my Grandma Hazel, who I never had the opportunity to know. To see pictures of the old GMG camp and then to be looking out over the water where it used to be was incredible. Listening to the stories about camp and their parents from the siblings. Listening to the letters that my grandpa wrote to my grandma, asking her to marry him. It’s one thing to know your history and understand where you came from. It’s entirely different to get to experience it first hand. Smith Inlet was quite an epic adventure . . . one I’ll never forget.

Smith Inlet - Part VI (Day 5)

Friday morning I woke up early due to the sunshine streaming in through the wheelhouse windows. And since no one else was up yet, I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to take my one allotted shower.

We were limited to one shower per person, until we were sure we had enough water for the trip. I held out until Friday. Baby wipes for the body and baby powder and a hat for the hair can do wonders on a camping trip. I thought that I had the water temperature adjusted perfectly . . . until I got in. At which point the water decided to come out boiling hot. Note to self, the boat does not have a temperature control on it that most home water heaters do. I almost broke down the shower door trying to get out of the thing . . . and likely managed to wake anyone on the boat who was still asleep. Despite the mild burn I managed to give the front half of me, the feeling of having clean hair was worth it.

Breakfast was made on the beach using up whatever breakfast items we had remaining. Today we also had a special treat . . . evaporated milk as creamer in our coffee. Apparently this was a throw back to living at camp. There was also a can of condensed sweetened milk that was a big treat for my dad and aunties. They used to get a spoonful as a treat. I put some in my coffee and oatmeal and it tasted delicious.

Since it was sunny and mostly warm, we decided to hang at the Big Sand Beach for the morning. Calvin, Jeff and my dad all decided they should go swimming in the ocean one last time. After a lot of talking about it and then standing around waiting for the sun to come out from behind a cloud, they finally made it into the water. My dad tried to say it was warmer than when they jumped off the boat at Boswell, but I saw the goose bumps that had goose bumps and wasn’t convinced.

Eventually we all started heading back to the KJ to head to Port Hardy. This time I was smart and took some medicine before crossing the sound. I was still a bit worried about being sick though so after we ran out of whales to watch, I went and sat outside with mom and Rae-Leigh, the known sickies. I was actually feeling pretty good so to entertain them and take their mind off the eternal rolling of the boat, Greg and I sang/rapped “I’m On A Boat,” for them. They said they didn’t mind the F-bombs in the song, since it was still cleaner than what was going through their heads.

Just as I was starting to think about how I was starving (a clear sign that you’re not going to be sick, apparently), we got another amazing show from the marine life. Porpoises started playing in the wake! My dad came upstairs to make sure we’d seen them and here is how the conversation went:
Heidi: Dad, there are orcas swimming with the boat!
Dad: Heidi Marie, an orca would be as big as the boat. Why on earth would you think that is an orca? Obviously it’s a type of dolphin or porpoise.
Heidi: Because the black and white coloring and designs are the same. Maybe it’s a baby orca. Besides, all the dolphins I’ve ever seen are gray.
Dad: There are lots of kinds and colors of dolphins. Where did you see these gray dolphins?
Heidi: Seaworld. Duh.

Despite my father thinking I’m terribly inept at determining what kind of marine life is swimming along side the boat, the porpoises were pretty amazing. It was fun to watch them zoom in and out of the wake. After maybe 10 minutes, they got bored and left. Now if only we had seen real orca’s, we would have seen it all.

We made one last stop on the way back to Port Hardy. There was another midden where an old Indian (aka First Nations in Canada) village had been. Back in the day, they traded in beads, so this midden was known to have lots of Indian beads that could be found if you dug in the right place. So about half of us took the skiff to shore to look for ancient (okay, like 200 year old) beads. My aunt found one in about thirty seconds so I was pretty optimistic. Eventually I got over optimistic and got desperate. I hate the feeling of dirt on my hands and under my fingernails. At first I started digging and sifting dirt with a stick. Before I knew it I had dirt up to my elbows trying to find a damn bead. Alas, all I managed to find were some stinging nettles. I found myself oddly disappointed that I did not find a bead. Luckily, I am my father’s favorite daughter and he gave me his bead. Now I need to figure out how to make some cool piece of jewelry with it.

From the Indian bead midden, we still had a bit of a trek back to Port Hardy. The sun was out and the water was smooth so it was a nice and mellow ride in. About an hour out, it was funny to watch people starting to watch for their cell phones to have a signal. We’d been completely unplugged for five days and didn’t think about it once, until we were almost back to civilization.

We arrived back in Port Hardy and while the men unloaded the crap, I mean gear, the women cleaned up the boat. At about 10, we finally were able to head to our sleeping arrangements for the night. I opted to spend the last night where all the cousins were sleeping since I get to see them all so rarely. Plus that house had three showers. A non-boat shower after a week was amazing. And I was finally able to determine that I did in fact have tan lines on my feet, despite all the rain and clouds. For a while there, I wasn’t sure if it was actually a tan or just dirt.

The funniest part about getting off a boat after some time is that you still feel like you’re rocking. We were all holding on to counters and furniture trying to navigate the house. It took about three days for the rocking to go away. We tried to stay up and chat but we were exhausted and had to get up early in the morning to race for a ferry. It turned out to be pretty easy to fall asleep when you feel like you’re being rocked in a baby cradle.

Smith Inlet - Part V (Day 4)

Waking up on Thursday on the Big Sand Beach, anticipation for the day radiated off people like the sun on the water. Okay, not really. It wasn’t even sunny. But I couldn’t think of a good way to open this section. It was destined to be a fun day though because it was Calvin and Tamara’s anniversary, Canada Day and last but certainly not least . . . Pirate Day!

Throughout the trip my mom had been keeping the younger cousins entertained on the boat with preparations for pirate day. They colored in pirate scarves with fabric markers one day and spent a rainy afternoon bedazzling swords and hats. Since we were staying put on the Big Sand Beach for the day, today was the day of the much anticipated treasure hunt. Somehow it was determined that the big cousins without offspring would be in charge of the hunt. We spent the morning picking out the perfect hiding places and then retired back to the KJ to be creative with our clues. The clues were amazing, for which Greg gets all the credit. Our family is gifted with natural writing ability anyway, but this was a work of art.

Not only did the kids have to run up and down the beach to find clues, they had to take a ride in the skiff to another secret beach to get a clue. There was a plank to walk, which I made Rob and Greg haul onto the beach from a cliff, and treasure marked with an X. Actually there were three X’s. One had treasure . . . the others had two day old herring we found in the skiff that were supposed to be used for bait. Not my idea, but since I’d gotten my plank, I let the guys have their dead fish. Even the adults got into it, donning hooks, hats and swords, following the kids and grandkids up and down the beach watching them find the clues. Definitely one of the highlights of the trip for the kids. Where else do you have your own private beach to have a treasure hunt?

After the hunt, some of us went back to the KJ to make lunch. While we were waiting for the beans to warm up for our Haystacks, mom decided to go fishing. Apparently she forgot about the lack of a male presence on the boat when she actually caught one and realized she’d have to get it off the hook on her own. I was laughing at her while she shrieked at the idea of unhooking her fish and she suggested that I do it for her. I don’t do fish . . . so I got her a paper towel. She wrapped the fish in a paper towel and managed to get the hook out. I didn’t see her fishing solo again on the trip.

For dinner we cooked up the prawns and the remaining fish. I was delighted to find some rice to eat instead of another hot dog. I did try a bit of the prawn . . . and decided I’d rather keep eating hot dogs. Once again, my dad did his magic and cooked dinner for 22 over a camp fire. Even more incredible, in honor of the anniversary and Canada Day, he, with Joeleigh acting as sous chef, made two pineapple upside down cakes in a dutch oven heated by coals. The cakes turned out perfect. Pretty impressive when you consider that there are many people who can’t bake a cake in an oven. Dinner time was the only time that day I actually saw Uncle Don awake. Covered in ash from the fire, he slept in his chair all day long. At one point he poked a hole in his arm, after falling asleep with a knife in the other hand. He was up and at ‘em for those prawns though.

The weather decided to cooperate with our celebrations and we had a beautiful pink sunset that gave us a great natural light show. And of course all of us automatically repeated, “Red sky at night, sailors delight.” We had glow bracelets and mini Canadian flags to celebrate Canada Day and sang the national anthem. Well, the Canadians did anyway. Mom, Rob and I got through “Oh Canada, our home and native land,” before switching to humming. Then on to wine and toasts to celebrate the anniversary and the amazingness that is our family. Because how many families do you know that could do a trip like this and still like each other at the end?

Since it wasn’t raining, I had planned on sleeping in my tent that night on the beach. But by this time I couldn’t even find my tent. It was somewhere on the top deck with all the gear I was pretty sure, but after searching for it a few times, I gave up and decided sleeping on the boat was meant to be. Greg eventually drove us back to the KJ in the skiff . . . after having to row back to shore to get help getting the motor back in the water.

Smith Inlet - Part IV (Day 3)

My dad kept telling me how stunning (my adjective, not his) Smith Inlet was when the sun shined and how you can’t imagine wanting to be any place else when it was like that. On Wednesday I finally understood what he’d been talking about. I awoke due to this bright light shining in my eye through the wheelhouse windows. It took me a few minutes to realize it was sunshine! I rapidly packed up my gear and headed outside to enjoy it.

With blue sky and the sun shining down into the bay where camp used to be, I could picture what it must have been like to live there back in the day. It was easy to image the kids hoping in their rowboats to go explore the little island or playing with their pet seal or learning to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed without ceremony into the chuck.

While the boy cousins were making breakfast, I sat on the upper deck basking in the sun and alternately watching the fishermen below and reading my book. This was when Uncle Jeff decided jumping in sounded like a good idea. With his glasses. Half-way down he realized he’d forgotten to take his glasses off and had to dive in after them. He found them, but they were all bent out of shape. Luckily we’ve acquired an eye guy in the family and Calvin was able to make them mostly useable again.

Once one person had jumped in, a trend was started. Dad and Jason both went in and before I knew it all the little cousins were lined up on the back of the boat waiting their turns to hop in. They were bribed with a warm shower afterwards, and all but one ended up going in. Little kid blood is thicker I think, since I was still wearing 4 shirts at the time and was the perfect temperature. No way was I going in there.

About the time swimming was over and breakfast was being cleaned up, Greg and I discovered part of a lemon pie left over from the evening before. Obviously we took care of that. Nothing like pie for breakfast to know you’re on vacation.

So far on this trip, the only people we’d run into were people we expected to see. Other GMGers or old fishing buddies that were out and stopped to say hi and show us where to catch the big halibut. So you can imagine our surprise when a motor boat pulled around the corner and stopped to say hi. Two crusty, backwoods Canucks who were working as shake blockers a few inlets away (ironically in another previous GMG camp location) stopped to talk on their way to pick up their prawn traps. On their way back by, they gave us all the prawns from their traps! Huge score if you eat things that come from the sea. These things were huge and ugly and tentaclely. The shake blockers left with some lemon pie in exchange, despite their request for beer.

Eventually it started to sprinkle and we motored away from camp. On our way to see where the men used to go to work every day, a short boat ride away, we saw a baby whale. Then we headed for Olive Point, which is used primarily as a graveyard. Olive Point is a midden and one of the few places where it is easy to dig, hence it being turned into a graveyard. There are likely lots of unmarked graves, but there were also some old Goertzen’s who have been buried there. Chief George and his wife Lucy, of the Tukush, were also buried here. As far as graveyards go, this one was pretty spectacular. There was an amazing view from all angles and it was interesting to see the different generations of markers. This is also where the McGills (the M in GMG) had chosen to rest.

After Olive Point we headed to the Big Beach in Smith Inlet. When my dad and aunties were kids, their mom would bring them here to camp for a week at a time. Grandpa would drop them off one Sabbath and come back on the next to get them. What a brave women! Going camping alone with four kids on a deserted beach? Deserted with the exception of bears and wolves of course, both of which prints were noticeable in the sand. After hearing stories of Grandma Hazel on this trip, I’m fairly certain that a good amount of my fearlessness or courage came from her.

Speaking of bears . . . Whenever we were traveling throughout the inlet, a close eye was kept on the water to see what animals and marine life we could see. I noticed something bobbing in the water and at first thought it was a seal, only he never went under. By this point someone else had noticed this oddity in the water and the skipper informed us it was just a log. Turns out he was wrong. It was a grizzly bear swimming across the inlet! I actually jumped out of a window to get on the bow to watch him better. I’ve never seen a grizzly in person or a bear swimming. The combination was pretty amazing. We followed him to shore, from a respectable distance of course, and man could that bear swim. He’d already made it about half way across when we found him and then he practically sprinted once we began tailing him. To be fair, I get freaked out too when someone/thing is following me, even from a long way back. It was pretty amazing to watch him run out of the water, up the bank and into the woods. Talk about an incredible wildlife viewing opportunity. I’m betting there aren’t a lot of people who get to see that in their lifetime.

The big beach had beautiful sand, crazy amounts of driftwood and creeks for the kids to play in and keep them entertained for hours. Dinner that night was the giant ling cod that Uncle Don had caught on a hand line, cooked over the coals from the fire. I had another Loma Linda Stinky (vegetarian hot dog). The little girl cousins also decided that this would be a good time to build their own fire. Some adults were concerned at first, until my parents told them that we had always had a kid fire growing up. I had completely forgotten about that until they mentioned it. Big cousin Rob somehow got roped into helping the girls with their fire. He’s a sucker for their giant blue eyes and can’t say no to them, regardless of if they’re asking for help with a fire or if he’ll please bake them some cookies.

Since it had started to sprinkle a bit, I was quite happy with my decision to forego the leaky tent and sleep on the boat once again. There is so much daylight up there, we ended up going to bed late all the time, not realizing that it didn’t get dark until about 11. I snuggled into my sleeping bag with the boat rocking me to sleep like I was in a baby cradle.

Smith Inlet - Part III (Day 2)

After sleeping in a swimming pool for the night, I’ve never seen such a welcome sight as my uncle and cousin driving the skiff to shore with a pot of coffee in hand. Add a splash of Bailey’s and life was good again.

Tuesday was supposed to be spent exploring the areas that the siblings remembered best. It was going to be a long day on the boat to see everything on the list, so we all packed up and headed to the boat for breakfast. Only to find out that while the tide had gone out, the boat had become stuck on the bottom. Sigh. So after breakfast I crawled into the fo’c’sle for a mid-morning nap. A couple hours later I found myself peering over the back of the boat with my aunt, trying to estimate how many more inches of water we needed to get unstuck. Meanwhile people went fishing or kayaking, napped or found a spot to bask in the sun when it came out intermittently.

Finally, around noon, we were able to get on our way. I was a little worried about getting seasick again, although the water in the inlet was considerably smoother, the memory of hanging off the side of the boat was fresh in my memory. As it turns out, nature took pity on me and provided a distraction. Whales! And lots of them. We had so much fun chugging down the inlet watching the whales. Not only did we see the mist from the blowholes, we saw their noses and backs and their tales. No breeching, but this was still pretty amazing. Since it was raining again at this point, the majority of us were crowded inside. One cousin woke up her sleeping baby when she hopped up out of her seat to yell “Whale!” At one point I shouted, “Whale, one o’clock!” And my youngest cousin, who is 8, says in response, “but I don’t know what that means,” with dramatic despair. This turned out to be one of the best quotes of the trip.

After the whales, we motored to the old Tukush settlement. After having been on the boat for hours, while stuck to the bottom and traveling, we were anxious to get off and look for artifacts. In my mind I was picturing us finding ancient pottery and arrowheads. What we found was crap. Old soles of shoes, metal and glass was everywhere. It was so overgrown it was hard to explore too far. It’s amazing how the government can decide that a tribe will be better off somewhere else and just move an entire settlement of people. And leave behind nothing but junk.

Since the old Tukush settlement didn’t hold much excitement, and it had started pouring again, we motored further up the inlet towards Boswell, which was the last place the logging camp was stationed and where it was for the longest period of time. Boswell is completely abandoned now, but you can still see the pilings from and old cannery and fuel station. As we turned a corner, almost in unison, the siblings said “there’s the island!” Clearly we were almost there. Camp had been settled in a naturally protected inlet. There was a long peninsula jutting out from the land that acted as a natural breakwater. With log booms on the back side of the camp to keep it from bashing into the shore, this looked like a pretty good place to homestead.

Since we were back at camp we had retro dinner night, which was something familiar to the siblings from their childhood and has since turned into many of the kids’ and grandkids’ favorite meals. We had gluten with mashed potatoes and gravy with home made lemon meringue pie for dessert. Best meal ever. Serious props to my cousin the baker who made not one, but six, lemon pies from scratch in the boat oven.

That night we all had to sleep on the boat since there was no beach to camp on. I’m not sure how big the KJ is, but it gets considerably smaller when you have people laying down on every available inch of floor space. And I mean every inch – one little cousin slept under a table. We ended up being two spaces short, so being the tough guys that they are, my dad and brother slept outside on the boat. Where it was cold. And raining, again. Serious kudos to them. Ironically, not one person was fighting over getting to sleep in the fo’c’sle. It had five bunks in there . . . . but the catch was it was housing the snorers. I opted for floor space and had the best sleep in my cozy little corner.

Smith Inlet - Part II (Day 1)

Monday dawned sunny and clear. I may have done a happy dance when I opened the blinds. Between the sun and the many eagles soaring overhead, I figured this had to be a good omen for the trip.

We arrived at the boat dock to load our remaining gear. Some of the other families were also loading gear. Based on the amount of crap on the dock, I was starting to wonder how much weight the boat could hold and where on earth were we going to put it all. Instead of having to help load the boat, I lucked out and pulled baby holding duty. It seemed like it took forever to load the boat, get the last minute things like gas for the skiff and fishing licenses, and get going. Instead of pulling out of the harbor at eight like we were supposed to, it ended up being closer to ten. On the way across the bay to get water, we realized that we were missing three people. After some confusion, they met us at the water dock, and had to climb down a giant ladder to meet us on the boat. Ironically my mother, who is terribly afraid of heights, was part of the missing party. And as her luck would have it, it was low tide so the ladder was extra long. After climbing down a barnacle and muscle infested ladder, we finally had everyone on board and set out for the Queen Charlotte Sound.

The big question at this point is who gets seasick. Some were known were already known for their dislike of rough water and some having been on the sea a large portion of their life knew they would be fine. Did I get seasick? We were about to find out. I decided not to take any medicine because I wanted to know for future reference. Besides, I’m tough as nails, how bad could some waves be? This turned out to be a poor idea as about half way across the sound I found myself headed outside for fresh air. Before I knew it, I was breaking out in a cold sweat and heading for the side of the boat as quickly as I could maneuver the various steps and ladders in the rain. I spent the remainder of the trip across the sound totally in a zen like state, staring intently at the horizon and repeating the fifty states in alphabetical order while willing the boat to go faster. Finally we turned the corner and I dragged my exhausted self into the fo’c’sle (short for forecastle) for a nap. It was pouring rain and I had no desire to be the first person to the beach.

We spent Monday afternoon and night at Indian Cove, on Cape Caution. We quickly found our rain gear and set up our tents in the rain. I’ve never been so happy to own a pair of rain pants. With my Chaco’s on instead of close toed shoes and rain pants rolled up so they didn’t drag in the mud, I made quite the fashion statement. I discovered what makes camping in the rain more tolerable . . . alcohol. A swig or two of Maker’s Mark went a long way in improving my attitude about the weather. And some Bailey’s. And some Goldschlagger.

The beach here was awesome. Enclosed in a little bay the water was nice and gentle. A short walk through the forest led you to the other side of the cape and another awesome, bigger beach. People have found glass floats on this beach before, so I kept my eyes open but all I got was wet. Eventually it was time for some hot dogs over the fire and then low and behold it stopped raining!

Since it had stopped raining, I decided that this would be a good time to air out my tent. What I discovered wasn’t a stale tent, but a wet one. The sideways blowing rain and the slope of the beach had created a small puddle in the tent and gotten my sleeping bag wet. Annoying, but not a biggie since the sun was out now and I could set it outside to dry.

While my sleeping bag was drying, we took another trip over to the big beach to see it in the sun. The little cousins didn’t think twice about running into the waves and getting even wetter than they already were. One of them would go in far enough that the waves would splash into her rain boots. At which point she tricked one of the guys into emptying her boots out for her every time the ocean got in them. Easy to do when you’re a beautiful and precocious nine-year old.

As I was wiggling around in my tent that night, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, I heard the rain start up again. My dad had informed me not 15 minutes before that he was pretty sure it wouldn’t rain again that night. He should be a weatherman. After silently cursing the rain, I finally made it to sleep. Only to wake up in the middle of the night needing to use the facilities. And since the facility was on the boat, anchored offshore, I mean a bush. Somehow my shoes had gotten wet. I didn’t think much about it until I looked back into the tent and saw that it had turned into a swimming pool during the past hours of rain. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped quite so many swear words as I did when I discovered how badly my tent was leaking. Nor have I ever prayed for daylight to come so fast. Despite having a rain fly on, I now had water dripping through the rain fly and the tent. Seriously? Talk about bad camping karma. As soon as the sun was up, I was out of my tent packing up the wet gear. After using my beach towel to sop up the water, and wringing it out no less than three times, I finally had the floor of the tent mostly dry.

I awoke soggy in a flooded tent, but when I stepped outside, the sun was trying to break through the clouds and a perfect rainbow was hanging over the Kristin Joye. I think the universe was trying to apologize for my soggy night. I needed some coffee before all would be forgiven and this turned into a funny story.

Smith Inlet - Part I

Throughout my life, I heard tales of this mysterious place called Smith Inlet. It is an inlet about halfway up the coast of British Columbia where my grandfather ran his logging operation and my dad and aunts were born and raised. This wasn’t just any logging operation; it was a floating logging camp. GMG (Goertzen, McGill, Gildersleve) Logging would move their camp throughout Smith Inlet to where they happened to be logging. The camp had houses, a church and even a school. Instead of bikes, kids had boats. They had pet deer and seals in addition to the more traditional dog. They learned to swim by having a rope tied around them and being tossed into the chuck (aka the ocean). Smith Inlet is only accessible by boat or float plane. So after hearing about this place all our lives, when the opportunity arose to see it first hand, the entire family jumped at the chance to visit.

For the past few years, the family has talked about how amazing it would be for the siblings to go back and visit where they grew up and how they would like to show it to their kids and grandkids. The first task was to find a boat. The bulk of my relatives were commercial fisherman at some point in their lives and had all worked on seine boats at some point. My uncle was a skipper, others ran drum and cooked, and others did whatever one does on a fishing boat (commercial fishing died about the time I was old enough to work so I never had the opportunity). We had a crew, we just needed a boat. My uncle talked to his old boss, James, who owned a whole fleet of boats in the fishing heyday. He asked if it would be possible for our family to rent one of his boats for him to take this adventure. James’ response was “for Louis Goertzen’s kids, you can take the boat for free, just pay for the fuel.” My grandfather was an amazing person.

James met my grandfather when GMG was logging in Smith Inlet. James was part of the Tukush Indian Tribe that was at that time located in the Inlet as well (they were later relocated to Port Hardy by the government). Unlike anyone else in his tribe at the time, he had a burning desire to get an education. So much in fact, that he rowed at least two miles each direction to attend school at the GMG logging camp. Through sun or storms, James rowed to school. Today he is likely the most successful of his tribe. Going to school at GMG was how he met my grandfather. While I’m unsure what kind of impact my grandfather had on James, it must have been significant, since he was willing to lend our family his million dollar boat without thinking twice.

After working around twenty-some odd vacation schedules, we were finally able to set a time to take a trip to Smith Inlet. Many of the siblings hadn’t been there in years, with many of their offspring having never been at all. Amazingly, only one cousin (and a couple of spouses) was unable to make it.

The first leg of the trip was getting to Port Hardy, BC, which as far north as you can drive on Vancouver Island. I met up with the family in Seattle, my parents having already driven over from Montana. The ‘rents told my brother and I that they would pick us up at 530 am. True to Goertzen form, Rob and I had our gear lined up on the sidewalk by 520. We are very much our father’s children.

The next trick was going to be getting across the border, while hopefully not getting searched. We were driving in the big Dodge, with a boatload of gear and miscellaneous crap in the back of the truck, tarped down to avoid getting wet. Amazingly, after asking us if we had any weapons or pepper spray (in a fun French accent), the border person’s main objective was to let us know that my brother and I were Canadian and we could have used a Canadian passport, instead of our American ones. Typically my Canadian passport stays at home when I go to Canada since it’s usually more hassle than its worth to explain you’re a duely.

With the border crossing behind us, the next stop was the Tsawassen ferry terminal. We and a van full of other relatives traveling up from Seattle made the ferry with no problems. It’s always more fun to take the ferry with your cousins. And in my typical ferry tradition, I headed straight to the cafeteria to get my fix of Canadian delicacies that you can’t get in the states. Namely fries with vinegar and gravy, yummmmm, and a Nanaimo Bar for dessert.

We made it to the Nanaimo Costco in time to watch the last half of the US soccer game. The moms went shopping and the rest of us slackers hung out in the TV section of Costco. Then it was time to repack the truck because where in the hell was this food all going to fit with all the crap already in the truck? Finally, after 5 more hours of driving up the Island, we made it to Port Hardy. Even I got to take a turn driving my dad’s new truck! First time in the 15 years I’ve been driving that he’s let me drive his rig. It has adjustable pedals so I can reach important things, like the brake.

After making it to Port Hardy, we unloaded everything in the truck on to the boat. The boat had gotten a really ugly paint job since the last time I was on it around the age or 11 or 12. But she was sea worthy and free, which trumps ugly every time. With eagles soaring overhead and a mixture of diesel and seaweed in the air, you could tell the folks who grew up on the water were happy to be back.

Sunday was spent cleaning and organizing the boat and cooking for the next day, since you can’t cook going over the sound. We ran around picking up relatives, last minute trips to the grocery store, and borrowing wetsuits and surfboards from Port Hardy folks. That night, we had a bonfire and bbq on Storey Beach and invited those Port Hardy people who knew the Goertzen family, some of whom had also grown up on the floating logging camp. This was the start of my many, many hot dogs to be consumed over the week.

Before I knew it, Monday morning had dawned bright and beautiful and it was time to head to the boat. Where experiences unlike any other awaited . . . . starting with how the hell do you fit 22 people, an infant, and all their crap onto a fishing boat.

Soccer Mania

I am not a soccer fan. Never have been. I appreciate the athleticism required to play, but I’ve had limited exposure to the sport and like most sports where scoring in minimal, I find it a tad boring.

I think my dislike of the sport started in 6th grade. In small town, MT, we didn’t have rec soccer for kids, so any soccer experience I had came from PE or the playground. In 6th grade, I was the goal. Didn’t matter where I was on the playground, the ball was kicked at me. 12 year olds are lovely people, aren’t they? Needless to say, my first experience with soccer was not a positive one. A few years later we had to play soccer for 10th grade PE. This girl and I went to kick the ball, missed the ball, kicked each others foot, and had to have our ankles taped up for the rest of basketball season. Again, not an awesome experience.

All of this led to my surprise that I was actually interested in the World Cup this year. Perhaps it was because it’s in South Africa and I’ve been there, or perhaps it’s just because I appreciate athleticism and dedication to sport in almost any form. Somehow, I’ve gotten sucked in to being a soccer fan during the next month.

I blame the guy who sits next to me. He invited me to participate in a pool, similar to how we do March Madness. Being the only girl that was invited to participate, I felt obligated to accept. Plus it’s always more fun to have a horse in the race. I found myself filling out a bracket (is it even called a bracket?!), picking my winners based on nothing that had to do with soccer. Currently I’m only 4 points out of the lead. I’m sure that will drop considerably, but I’m enjoying this moment.

Not only did I fill out a bracket, I started reading articles about soccer. I’ll admit, I started with the “5 Hottest Guys of the World Cup,” and “Extravagant ‘WAGS’ of Soccer,” but just now I clicked on an article reporting on the status of the US’ goalie, or “keeper.” See how I’m already picking up the lingo!? I even watched the game against England, surprising myself considerably when I jumped off the couch to celebrate the US goal, pitiful as it was.

I’m unlikely to become a full-time soccer fan anytime soon, but with the World Cup only every four years, it’s something I feel I could enjoy without having to become too die hard. Or even understand the game. Who knows, with PTown getting and MLS team next year, maybe I’ll be turned into a real fan yet.

The Intimacy of Running

I get a running quote emailed to me every morning. I signed up for this distribution list mostly because I love quotes. The secondary factor is the reality that more often than not, I could use a little motivation to get my running shoes on and out the door on a regular basis. One of my favorite quotes to come across my inbox thus far is one by Kristin Armstrong, “Do not underestimate the intimacy of running, and the people with whom you share your miles.”

I love to run, but over time it has become a very solitary thing for me. I have friends who run in pairs or groups and use that as their socializing time, but for me, I prefer to be on the road or treadmill alone. I set my own pace and am responsible for pushing myself. Running for miles on end with only an iPod for company not only gives you time to, but forces you to think and evaluate life. Running is my time, even if I’m on a treadmill surrounded by people at the gym. No phone, nobody to talk to, just me and the steady thump of my feet hitting the ground. The occasional person to pick off and pass is a welcome event as well.

This quote got me thinking though, about how intimate sharing that running time can be for someone who prefers to run alone. I never go out of my way to run with people, friends, coworkers or strangers in running groups. I actually prefer relay races because I’m part of a team, but still running alone.

Oddly enough, there is one person I actually enjoy running with. Maybe it’s because we have a route that we always run, or the fact that I typically get to set the pace. Or maybe it’s the fact that there is no pressure to chat or be social, just to run. As surprised as I was to discover I liked my brother as a person (and not just because I had to since we were related), I find myself even more surprised that I enjoy running with him. We are two very different personalities who despite our differences enjoy many of the same activities. So it’s not necessarily shocking that we both run, but that it’s something we can do together. Without being competitive (which is rare in our family).

For me, running is a private thing. Some people meditate, I run. It’s my time and I enjoy using it to get into my own head. However I found myself smiling when reading a recent email from my brother. I’m using his couch as a free place to sleep in a couple weeks and we were coordinating schedules when he told me that if I get there early enough, we can go for a run. Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to share the miles with.

Is Choosing Not to Have Children Selfish?

In the new Sex and the City movie, there is a scene where a couple questions Carrie and Big in regards to their plans to procreate. Upon hearing that it’s going to be “just us two,” the other couple is quite appalled at the lack of potential children and visibly shirks away. SATC 2 was far from the first place this issue has cropped up, but it raises an interesting question . . . is the decision not to have children selfish?

I borrowed the question from an article I read recently, partly because I was so appalled at the thought. When a couple decides not to have children, for any multitude of reasons, who exactly are they supposedly acting selfish towards? If I’m eating a big fat piece of delicious cake, I am unlikely to willingly offer to share it with even the best of friends. That is selfish. Or when I wouldn’t share my toys with my little brother, that is selfish. I’m very confused as to how people making life decisions that impact only themselves can be possibly construed as a selfish act?

For example, if I opt not to have children, how does that impact you? By my calculations, I’m actually doing you a favor. There is one less baby shower you have to go to. One less gift you have to purchase. So far I’m just helping you keep money in your wallet. Now let’s think about how difficult it is to get together with people who have children. The childless person or couple is one less participant that has to find/schedule/afford a babysitter. Now not only am I saving you money, I’m easing the stress of trying to coordinate schedules. And as my Jetta was not built for a carseat, I’m saving the world from a bigger, less fuel efficient rig on the road. I say all this only partially jokingly. In an already overpopulated world, it’s difficult to make the argument that it is your duty to procreate to continue the human race.

I know a couple who has no plans to ever have children. And their lifestyle is one of the few I actually envy and aspire to. They are completely unapologetic about the fact that they have no desire to have kids, as they should be. This doesn’t make them bad people or child haters. It simply makes them honest.

One of the things that my childless male friend mentioned above always says is that other people want you to do the same things they did, have a huge wedding, have children, etc., because it justifies the decisions they made in their own life. It’s something I repeat as a mantra to myself on occasions when people start asking me why I’m not married and have I thought about freezing my eggs, because I’m not getting any younger. Having kids isn’t something you have to do. It’s not something you should feel pressured about, unless it is something that you deeply and truly want to do.

There is a scene in the movie Elizabethtown, where two people are talking on the phone, trying to figure out who “they” are. You know, the “they” that comes up with all the rules of society that we’re supposed to follow. This elusive “they” that dictates what we’re supposed to do and how we should conform, but no one actually know who “they” are. I’m pretty sure that “they” are the ones telling society that we’re all supposed to procreate and that we’re selfish if we choose not to. Most people I know barely listen to their friends and family, why on earth would we listen to some elusive “they” when it comes to a decision as big as having a family? I’ve had friends or family tell me I have to have kids. My response is typically, “says who?” I have to pay taxes. I don’t have to eat things from the sea, watch reality television or have kids.

In a country where we’re all about having the freedom to choose to live our lives how we see fit, why do we judge others so harshly for not making the same decisions that we did? We have fast food menus with hundreds of available times because everyone wants something different. Doesn’t it make sense that if we want something as simple as to eat the food we want, that we also want to make the best choice for ourselves regarding much bigger decisions? But for some reason when people actively choose not to have children of their own, it makes many people uncomfortable. Not having kids doesn’t mean you don’t like them or think they should be banished from the earth. It simply means that you don’t care to or cannot have any of your own.

I think we need to give those childless people a break. They’re required to support other couples decisions to procreate – there is no check box on our taxes saying we don’t want our tax money to go to public schools, city playgrounds, or anything else tax related that supports kids. Childless people and couples don’t even want your tax money, just a little respect on the decisions they’ve made for their personal life. And for crying out loud, stop calling them selfish!

Baking Blogs

Lately I’ve gotten into following a few blogs about baking. They all tend to take a recipe and adjust it based on healthiness, ability or what ingredients they have on hand. To be completely honest, I look at the healthy one, but I never actually make anything from her blog since she uses a lot of ingredients I’ve never heard of. There is one that I enjoy looking at simply because the things she does are so complex. For at least half her recipes, I start to lose interest as soon as I see that the list of ingredients is as tall as I am. The third one does a lot of baking, nothing too complicated, and takes it into work. That’s my kind of baking/cooking.

What I originally thought was so interesting about these blogs is that these girls weren’t afraid to experiment with their baking or cooking. I kept thinking that I wished I was gusty enough to try that. And then I realized I already did to some extent.

In general, I am a rule follower. But there are a number of things in life that I don’t necessarily care for and so I change them to suit me. Piano music for example. I used to drive one piano teacher nuts because I’d always deviate from the music and change it so that I liked the ending better than the way it was written. Another one I discovered is recipes.

I enjoy cooking and baking, but I am also a picky eater so I frequently find myself substituting things I will eat for whatever the recipe actually calls for. I made a chicken casserole that was supposed to have mushrooms in it. I used peppers and onions instead. Or sometimes I’m supposed to use one kind of seasoning, only I don’t have any in the cupboard. So then I just throw something similar in. And in my eyes, all kinds of chips be them chocolate, butterscotch, peanut butter, etc. are all interchangeable in almost every recipe there is.

It didn’t hit me that I did this until this weekend when I was cooking and baking for some friends who have a brand new baby. I really wanted to go visit Ruby Rae, but didn’t want to show up empty handed. Especially since these friends feed me fairly often. I already knew I was terrible about properly measuring things, but then I started adding or changing the ingredients based on what I had on hand. And it all ended up tasting delicious. (Eating the cookies, aka quality control, is a necessity when baking.) Ruby’s parents were quite pleased, which is what really mattered.

I’ve given some thought to blogging about the recipes I try, but then I remembered I’m not good about keeping up with the blog I already have. Instead I’ve opted for making notes on the recipes so I know whether or not it’s worth making again. The cookies I made this weekend were good but not great. The casserole called for twice as much butter as was actually needed.

The great thing about baking blogs is not only do they have the recipes, they tend to include step by step pictures and discuss what worked and what didn’t. So much more useful than a plain old cookbook. Thank you baking bloggers for sharing your experiences. Your recipes and notes make my own kitchen much more approachable!