Maple Chipotle Pork on Smoked Gouda Grits

Everything that Dad makes is good but few recipes make it to the All-Stars. This is one of them. I can't remember when he started making it but I have an email to Dad from 2014 asking Dad for the recipe so I know that it was sometime before that. Finally made it to the blog for easy finding.

Pork Tenderloin with Maple Chipotle Sauce

Maple Chipotle Pork Tenderloin on Smoked Gouda Grits

Ingredients

1/2 cup barbecue sauce

1/2 cup maple syrup

2 chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, seeded and minced

1 teaspoon adobo sauce from can

1 pork tenderloin (plus salt and pepper)

Adapted from MyRecipes. 

How-to

1. Preheat oven to 425 F. Season pork tenderloin with salt and pepper and let rest.

2. Whisk together first 4 ingredients, and set aside.

3. Pan roast tenderloin on medium to high heat to brown the outside.

4. Place tenderloin in ovenproof skilled and roast for 15 to 20 minutes until internal temperature reaches 145 F.

5. Once tenderloin has been removed from oven, let it rest for 5-10 minutes.

Smoked Gouda Grits

Ingredients

3 cups low-sodium chicken broth

1 cups milk

1 teaspoons salt

Dash pepper

1 cups uncooked quick-cooking grits

4 ounces smoked Gouda cheese, shredded

1.5 tablespoons butter

How-to

Bring chicken broth, milk, salt, and pepper to a boil in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat; gradually whisk in grits. Cover, reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer, whisking occasionally, 5 minutes or until thickened. Stir in cheese and butter until melted.

Poppy Seed Chicken Casserole

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Good morning, family.

I thought it was time to add this recipe. I make this casserole when I want to eat something that feels like home. It's also a crowd pleaser for even the pickiest of eaters.

From what I recall, Mom says that this was the first meal that she made for Dad when they started dating. So, maybe this casserole leads to many years of happy marriage!

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POPPY SEED CHICKEN CASSEROLE

INGREDIENTS

• 1 1/2 lbs boneless skinless chicken
• 2 (10 3/4 ounce) cans cream of chicken soup
• 16 ounces sour cream
• 60 Ritz crackers, crushed
• 1 tablespoon poppy seed
• 1/2 cup butter, melted

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 350°F.
2. Place chicken in a pan and cover with water and bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer until tender and no longer pink(about 10 minutes). Once cool enough cut into bite size pieces(I use my electric knife).
3. Mix two cans of soup with sour cream in a 13X9 inch rectangular pan. Sprinkle the chicken over the soup mixture.
4. Place Ritz crackers in a plastic bag and gently crush them. Add poppy seeds and shake to combine and then pour melted butter over the crackers and shake again. Sprinkle cracker mixture over the chicken.
5. Bake for 30-40 minutes until it begins to bubble around edges and the crackers are golden brown.

Dad's Stories about his Dad

Since you kids grew up in Alabama and Texas well within the embrace of the Vedel family, the only grandfather that you really had a lot of exposure to was Granddad, George Vedel.  So my father, Emmett Darr Macrander is someone that you have known mostly from conversations between mom and me. 

Adding to the relative mystery of Emmett as a person is also the influence that my mother had in the family.  While it is not fair to say that Mom's (Betty) personality was bigger than Dad's, there was seldom any doubt as to who shaped the family, who commanded the ship of state Macrander, and who you had to keep an eye on from a discipline stand point.  Whereas Mom was quick and vigorous in her disciplinary actions, the, "wait till your Dad gets home," threat carried little weight with my sisters and me.  In fact, that was considered a reprieve, as dad feared that he would hurt us, and generally punished us reluctantly out a sense of duty, more than a quick emotional reaction. 

Even as adults, telephone conversations with my family, were principally a conversation with Mom, with Dad's participation being listening in and commenting sparingly.  Dad also died, when you all were pretty young, so, I suspect that he is largely unknown to you.  So, on Father's day, here are a few daddy stories about my Dad. 

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Dad was generally a pretty gentle soul, but, like anyone, had a temper that could flare on occasion, mostly with cussed farm animals.  He used to tell the story of trying to milk a cow that  was a habitual kicker.  After taking several kicks from her during a bad attitude milking session, he apparently lost it, and hit her over the head with the milking stool, knocking her out cold, collapsing right there in the stanchions.  He thought he had killed her, a sobering thought with a valuable milk cow, but after a few minutes she staggered back to her feet and never kicked again. 

Between my sisters and me, I probably have the sole memory of actually being afraid of Dad.  It was during the time that we lived away from the farm in St. Joseph, MO. I think of those years as my sports crazed years when I just knew that I would one day be a professional athlete, most likely a shortstop for the Kansas City A's.   Not the Oakland A's, or the Kansas City Royals.  That all happened years later.  I lived and breathed baseball and spent untold hours in the front yard fielding grounders from the backstop, or learning how to place hits around the yard.  Dad was, mostly, my partner in this, playing catch and pitching for countless precious hours.   On my own, though, I came up with the idea of gathering small rocks from the yard and throwing them up and hitting them with a bat, trying to get them to go precisely where I wanted them to go.  I had been told not to do this, a number of times, as there were neighbor's windows and cars at risk.  Being 10 and reckless, though, I knew best that I could control where the rocks went, so there was no reason to worry.  One day, Dad was out in the yard while I was hitting rocks.  He told me to stop it, but, of course, I had to hit just one more.  After all, I already had it in my hand.  I tossed it in the air and, WHACK, really connected solidly with the rock just as Dad turned to look at me.  In my mind it was headed straight over the pitcher's head and out into center field for a solid base hit.  In reality, though, the rock hit Dad squarely in the forehead just above his left eye and at a distance of about 15 feet from the bat.  In today's movies of action heroes, it is common for super men and women to levitate and zip from place to place in a blur.  One moment Dad was 15 feet away.  Whoosh, the next moment, he had snatched the bat from my hands and was standing over me with the bat raised and quivering.  Visions of the milk cow passed through my head until he lowered the bat and said in a strained voice, "I told you to quit that," then walked into the garage placing my bat in the corner where it belonged.  I think that it scared him more than it did me and I escaped any real punishment for nearly maiming my father.  I won't say that I was as smart as the cow, but I eased off on the rock hitting for a while. 

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Dad was a gregarious man who loved joshing and practical jokes, like hiding in the corn and howling like a wolf to scare my sisters and me as we were bringing the cows in from the pasture for the evening milking.  He was popular in the coffee gatherings of winter leisure farmers at the local restaurants and truly died with many friends and no enemies. 

He could outwork three other, larger, men and would simply not be outdone.  I remember a friend speaking in awe of Dad, that he could drive a 10 penny nail straight and true in three hammer strikes, when his own father would take 5-10 and likely have to straighten a crooked nail a couple of times before getting it down. 

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For all the hard work,though, he could be guilty of a lack attention to detail, or, as I have said, not putting the period at the end of the sentence.   The greatest story I have of that comes from my senior year in high school.  It was a beautiful breezy April day that was just cool enough to be fantastic if you were working, but, a bit cool if you were standing still.  It was Sunday, mostly a day of rest or small chores. We knew that Mom wanted to go to town for lunch, then on to her part time job at a local hospital.  Dad and I decided to get a head start on the spring cleaning and burn off the dead vegetation in the fence rows.  This would reduce the need for mowing and spraying and keep the weeds down.  To keep the fire from getting too hot and burning out the fence posts, we used a couple of wet burlap sacks to beat it back when it started to flare.  Initially, we were just going to do a bit, but, the day was nice, the fire was burning and we were really making some progress.  We had worked our way to about half a mile from the house making it necessary for my sister to drive out in the car to bring us in to get ready to go to town.  We quickly beat out the fire and threw the wet sacks in the trunk of the car. 

A quick shower, nine-mile drive to town, and Sunday dinner (lunch) at the hotel later, mom went on to Fairfax, while Dad, my sister and I headed home in our 1962 Ford Falcon.  The day had warmed up just enough to encourage us to roll down our windows and let the wind blow in. 

Now, the town of Tarkio is adjacent to the Tarkio River, a small river that you can wade across most days in 10 steps and not get your knees wet.  It did have a broad flat river bottom, though, that was about a mile wide and just right for the small municipal airport that was home to the local agricultural spray plane and a few private planes belonging to local pilots.  The road next to the airport was elevated above the low river bottom and lined with deep drainage ditches to keep it above the periodic floods when spring rains overflowed the "Tark Crick," as we used to say (and we thought southerners talked funny). 

Suddenly the car filled with smoke and we realized that we had not removed the burlap sacks from the trunk.  They had been smoldering back there and the fresh air flowing into the windows had fanned the coals to a near blaze.  If you know anything about the way cars are built, you know that the gas tank is generally right below, or in close proximity to, the trunk, so not the greatest place to have a fire. 

We quickly pulled over, grabbed the smoking sacks, and threw them to the bottom of the ditch where there was about a foot of standing water.  Unfortunately, the wind caught mine and it landed not in the water, but next to it.  I started to climb down into the ditch to put the sack directly into the water, but, Dad stopped me and said, "It's okay, let's go." 

The next morning my sister and I were driving to school, the smell of smoke still detectable in the upholstery of the car.  When we topped the hill and descended down onto the river bottom, we saw nearly a mile of charred vegetation in the roadside ditch and out onto the airport apron, nearly to the runway.  Apparently, the fire department had been called out to keep the whole airport from burning. 

When he came home from work that evening, Dad looked at me and said, "did you see?"  "Yes."  That was all that was ever said in the Macrander household until my sisters and I were swapping Dad stories after he died and trying to communicate who he was to the new minister who had the task of speaking at his funeral.  We ended up laughing until our sides ached.  At the end of the usual funeral assurances of "a better place and watching over us," the minister said that, through talking to his family, he had come to understand that Dad was quite a character and asked that those attending share their favorite Emmett story.  At the cemetery we were treated to a series of aging farmers dropping by to tell stories of shared shenanigans, 'oh shit' escapades, and warm memories of pranks pulled.   We came to know that he walked tall in the community of his peers. 

To this day I am constantly reminded of some of the things he taught me.  I can throw a shovel full of mulch (corn or snow) 20 feet and have it land in a compact pile precisely where I want it.   I try to mow the lawn in precise straight lines remembering that a farmer is judged from the road by how straight his rows are.  Unfortunately, I cannot drive a 10 penny nail in three hammer blows, or, without bending every 3rd nail.  These may not be skills that are highly valued in the academic or professional world that I have inhabited, but, in a world where men of all walks are still expected to have skills, I am thankful.  And even the shortcomings taught me by example, to put that damned fire out. 

Swordfish with Puttanesca Sauce

In our attempts to up our game in the healthy eating department we are expanding our horizons in terms of both the types of seafood that we eat and the ways that we prepare it.  Swordfish is one of those things that we have eaten occasionally over the years, but not really ranked as one of our regular favorites.  They had some nice looking steaks at Metropolitan Market in Tacoma a few months ago and we tried it with a spicy puttanesca sauce.  We both liked it a lot and have had it now a couple of additional times. 

I did check on it and swordfish is now listed as one of the most sustainable fisheries, so no guilt there.  Swordfish also got a bad rap for mercury contamination.  While swordfish and tuna are both longer living top predator fishes, somehow people focus on swordfish as the no go species.  As with most things, people eating a diverse diet are not likely to ingest enough of this one species to have an effect. 

This recipe serves two, so adjust according to the number of people being served.

Ingredients

6-8 oz of swordfish per person, so .8 to 1 lb for two.  About 1 inch thick. 

Salt and pepper to taste

Olive oil

Puttanesca Sauce

1 Tbs olive oil

1/4 cup chopped onion ( this is optional as most recipes I find do not include onion, but I like adding it)

1 - 2 garlic cloves chopped

1/2 - 1 tsp red pepper flakes

1 15 oz can of fire roasted tomatoes

1/2 - 3/4 cup of fresh green olives sliced (I get these off of the olive bar at our local upscale market.  Sometimes these are not pitted, so you have to extract the pit as part of the process.  Definitely, pitted works best.  I would not use the jarred green olives with pimentos.  Some recipes call for black olives, do go with what you like.)

2 tsp of capers

2 Tbs chopped fresh parsley

Salt and pepper to taste (I would start with about 1/2 tsp of salt and 1/4 tsp of pepper.  Remember though that both the capers and olives are salty, so don't overdue.  It is far easier to add salt than to take it out.   

Preparation

Heat a non-stick skillet over medium heat.  Add 1 Tbs of olive oil.  Saute onions until they are translucent (3 minutes) then add garlic and pepper flakes swirling or stirring to infuse the oil with these flavors (1-2 minutes).  Do not overcook the garlic, as it will become bitter.   

Add tomatoes plus about 1/2 can of water.  I use the water to get the extra bits of tomato out of the can and to give the mixture some liquid to extract flavors and cook off as the sauce thickens.  As with most sauces, simmering on low heat allows the flavors to combine and interact.  I keep the can nearby with a bit of water and add it as it is needed to keep the sauce from becoming too thick. 

Cook this tomato, garlic, pepper, & onion mixture on low heat for 15-20 minutes.  Add the olives, capers, and1 tbs parsley cooking an additional 10-15 minutes allowing the sauce to thicken at the end of the process.  You will want a sauce that you can get a mounded spoonful of, rather than a more runny level spoonful. 

When the sauce is all together and simmering put the pasta water on and heat on medium high until it comes to a rolling boil.  Also start the grill (If you are using charcoal you should start the coals heating in the tower when you are starting the sauce so that they will be ready to cook in 20-30 minutes time). 

At this time, drizzle both sides of the swordfish with olive oil and season lightly with salt and pepper.  Allow to stand for a few minutes while the fire is getting hot.

When the water is at a rolling boil add salt (About a Tbs.  You want the water to taste like the ocean).  Add the pasta (spaghetti or fettucine) and cook with frequent stirring to keep it from sticking.  Be sure that the grill is hot and ready to cook before you put the pasta in to cook.  It will take about the same amount of time for both to cook. 

Place the swordfish on the grill.  I like to cook it about 3 minutes, then turn it, cook three minutes, than turn again rotating the piece so that you end up with grill marks that go in two directions on both sides of the steaks.  So, about 10 to 12 minutes total.  The fish should be fully cooked and firm. 

Drain the pasta, retaining a cup of the water.  Toss the pasta with about 1 Tbs of olive oil. 

Place swordfish steaks on the plate then top with 1-2 Tbs of the sauce. 

Place a serving of pasta into a small mixing bowl.  Add enough of the sauce to generously coat the pasta.  Add a bit of the reserved pasta water and toss until it is well coated.  Place the pasta on the plate with the swordfish and repeat for each serving.  (You can also just put a mound of pasta on the plate and put the sauce on top of it. The key is for everyone to get equal amounts of the olives and capers.)

Sprinkle the remaining Tbs of chopped parsley over the top of both pasta and fish. 

Serve with a ceasar or kale ceasar salad. 

A New Home, A New Home

Our new countertops!

Welcome, family, to our new blog home. I admit, moving to WordPress was a failed experiment. After much complaining from Dad, I've headed his comments and relocated. Only time will tell if this move was a good idea. So, family, welcome to SquareSpace. 

In other news, Jarrod and I are also building our new home -- or old home -- we're renovating. And, I know I'm not alone. Sarah and Steve win the award for renovation projects. But for those who aren't up on what we're doing. Here's what up. It's all in the kitchen. The blue 90's countertops are gone, replaced with Andino (or something) granite. It's mostly white with some grey and red thrown in. It's heavenly. We've kept the original cabinets which I hope we don't live to regret. They're in good shape and all but they're also Golden Oak chic. Blah. I'm sure they were very hip at one point. 

Moving on. A friend pointed out at the beginning of our journey in the kitchen that we had 5 different types of wood going on in that room: wood floors, wood cabinets, wood light switch covers, wood wall paneling and a lovely wooden large light fixture. All in various shades of yellow. So, the name of the game has been eliminating natural wood. We just finished ripping the wainscoting off the wall. Luckily underneath the wall was painted white and textured. After all, we've learned to have NO IDEA what to expect when you start digging into walls. 

We're replacing all of the trim in the kitchen with white trim, of which I was painting prior to sitting down to write. Thus the crevices of my nails are caked with chunky white paint. Perhaps the saddest tragedy of today was the death of my new shirt. After yammering at Jarrod for doing construction in a nice shirt, I decided to paint in my new shirt. Then I realized I got white paint on it...then I tried to wash the paint off...with a Brillo pad. And now my shirt has a hole in it. But the paint is done and the trim is partially tacked in.

We're going to finish the evening off with a trip to the local cinema to watch the new remake of Baywatch. I guess I should go change my shirt.

Curmudgeon Chronicles - Senior discount

Up to a point, getting older is a good thing.  Old enough to go to school, old enough to drive a car, old enough to live on your own and make your own decisions, and old enough to drink (responsibly) are all landmarks that we spend years looking forward to.  There is a difference, though, between getting older and getting old.  As people say, it is better to get old than the alternative...., but, still, there is not a lot to celebrate. OK, retiring may come with that wonderful feeling that I don't have to get another report done, get that budget done, fight that fight of office politics, or many of the unsavory realities that taint the joy of doing all of the things that I enjoy.  That would be nice, but without challenges to overcome, where is the sense of accomlishment?  Being able to go where we want, when we want, would be nice.  Facing the reality of reducing relevance, and seeing the ease with which you can be replaced, though, is a harbinger of the final outcome.

So, it is not with a sense of joy that I face the reality that I am getting old.  I am not getting older, I am getting old.  No longer can I leap tall buildings.  No longer, do I wear the same size pants I did when I was 30, 35, 40, or even 50.   This may be my reality, and, I may be aware, but, I am not ready to be told that I am old.  It was just such a reality that I experienced.

G. and I had worked way too late at the office (yes I still have a job).  As we do on occassions when it is too late to go home and cook and we don't want to go to a restaurant, we stopped by Taco Bell for a bag of spicy nacho tacos.  I placed my order and was innocently waiting to hear the tally when the young woman asked, "do you want the senior discount?"  Wait! Senior discount is old.   Senior discount is fixed income and poor.  Senior discount is you eat at cheap places because you cannot afford that nice restaurant.  "No, I do not need the senior discount."  She looked at me skeptially and said, "are your sure.?"

Swingers on the mountain

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Good morning family!

I'm writing because I fear that at this moment my brain can do little else. I'm clothed in all sweat attire, from shirt to pants, because when I got out of the tub this morning the thought of wearing clothing that touched my skin was beyond horrifying. So, I'm wearing my LSU sweatshirt and my UT sweatpants. I am a contradiction but I'm also really comfortable.

We didn't really even get home too late last night. I think we rolled in at about 10 p.m. Then we watched our new favorite show, "Superstore." It's on Hulu for any of you who aren't watching it yet. Get on it. But it was a full 13 hours of driving from Montana back to North Dakota and I did take a Dramamine and I did eat all three meals of the day at restaurants with drive thru windows. For what that is all worth.

This was our third ski trip of the year, which I'm pretty sure means that I have skied more this year than all the total times in years past. Also, I did not cry this time and J and I only got into one yelling match on the mountain. That's what I call progress, friends. Like most sports, skiing is not something that comes naturally to me. Which means that while other novices proclaim that they'll be hitting the green slopes with me, then proceed to zoom down blues on the first day, I get left behind.

So this time, while I was protesting loudly and laying on my side on a slightly sloped green slope and a ski patrol Earth momma came and rescued me and told J and I that "we have a really nice ski school," I saw a golden opportunity. I could go to "school" and have a reasonable excuse to let J finally leave my side and do the harder stuff that he'd wanted to do all along. We both agreed that it was worth our $79 dollars, yes, our martial happiness is worth $79 dollars.

What I found was that I probably should have gone to school a long time ago. Two hours with our hot ski instructor Chris (who, of course, travels to Main in the spring to lead white water rafting trips) and middle aged, dumpy-but-determined Lori (my co-classmate) and I wasn't exactly doing blacks, but I was doing a lot better. And I now had a few more green slopes in my deck that I could explore without Jarrod. I know that all you married or seriously committed folks already know this, but sometimes being told how to do something by someone you don't share a bathroom sink with cuts through the fog much more than hearing the exact same from your spouse. Thanks hot Chris.

Oh so all of that is fine and dandy, but I can't wrap up my post without talking about getting hit on by the swinger! (Way to bury the lead, Emily!) Sunday night we went into White Fish to eat our final hurrah dinner. The lot of us (I think we had about 8 people with us) sat around a bar at a fairly upscale restaurant. This couple was kind enough to move down a few seats to allow us room to sit down as a group. Well, quickly the woman started chatting me up. She was from a nearby town, in her mid 50s, and "still fun even though we're both old and out of shape." And I thought she was just being friendly.

It was fairly clear that she and her boyfriend ("he's a TSA agent, but shhhhh he doesn't like anyone to know") were quite drunk. So I forgave quite a bit and tried to avoid eye contact because that seemed to be all that was needed to be drawn into conversation. Anyway, she starts asking me about who in our group was coupled and who was single, so I happily went through the list and told her. I didn't think that was odd at the time, I just thought that she was being friendly.

Several minutes later I overheard Jarrod telling other people in our group that this woman is a swinger and trying to pick us up. I shooshed him and told him that he didn't know anything and "why does it matter anyway?"

"She just asked us to join her and her boyfriend in the hot tub later and asked what condo we were staying in." Oh yea, maybe he had a point. But maybe not, right?

Anyway, the meal went on and the woman and her boyfriend became more enthralled in the attractive young male doctor to their left than our group. Somehow our group got on the topic of switching beds, to which one of the guys in our group said loudly enough for an audience to hear, "well, Emily and Jarrod wouldn't care because y'all are swingers, right?"

To which the woman swung around on her bar stool with a look of glee that I could only muster up if I found out that there was an "everything is marked at 50 cents" sale at the Goodwill, and said "yall are swingers!?" To which, of course, there we we quickly corrected "no" and the woman turned bright red, apologized and refused to look at us the rest of the meal.

Well, after that fun story, I'm feeling a bit more awake. Time to go to work I suppose.

Much love!

A Very Macrander-Sanders-Underwood-Morgan Christmas Poem

Twas several days after Christmas at a hotel desk in Killdeer, Emily set out to record the just-passed holidays- to help remember the good cheer.

Christmas was filled with mountains and snow,

And skiing with varying levels of success Dad, Sarah, Steve, Todd, Nick, Jarrod and Emily did go.

The holiday was in Denver, the second for Sarah and Steve,

And the first as married couples for the MacSanders and Underwoods - though hard to believe.

Emily and Jarrod came from Devil's Lake and landed in Denver, well, just outside,

And Sarah whisked us to Winter Park (after stopping in Golden) in her sleek Subaru ride.

But on the way there, the snow was falling hard and fast,

After sliding around a curve - yet excellently recovered - we worried if Sarah's nerves would last.

So, we stopped and put chains on each tire,

However when we arrived, one chain was gone, and Emily's exclamation "I got it on! Let's go." made her look like a liar.

But we were there, safe and sound,

Prepared to eat meals in amounts sure to astound.

How could I forget - the five star chef of the trip?

We finally met Audrey, Steve's sister, a cooking school graduate who is very-very hip.

Steve's mom, Marcia, was there to meet us, too.

And helped us sled the hills of Winter Park, until our fingers and lips were blue.

Cookies were made by Mom in piles so high,

Though the oozing red frosting made it look like  Mr. Gingerbread was about to die.

Presents were given and received as they are every year,

And Steve's gift of Bryer horses to Sarah were the quickest to bring a tear.

On the last day of our white Christmas vacation, the lads went to ski the mountain some more,

And mom, Emily and Todd shopped a bit - a hobby some of us adore.

All in all, the trip was great,

And it's hard to believe that for another family gathering - 12 months we may have to wait.

We left with our hearts more full,

Looking forward to next Christmas - perhaps in London - which surely won't be dull.

The Day We Met 'The Bear'

There are many bear stories now in the Macrander family.  There is the time when we were on vacation in Colorado and Sarah was obsessed with seeing a bear.  We were on a rafting trip on the Arkansas River and were coming around a bend.  Sarah pointed excitedly at a large black animal by the stream and yelled "bear."  No Sarah, that would be a cow.  She so wishes that the family did not have such a long memory. There is the stuffed bear, once shot by Jarrod's father Kent, that Emily now lives with.  That had to be a question that entered her mind as they were getting to know one another. "Can I really date (love, marry) a guy that keeps a stuffed bear around the house?"  I tend to think that it reflects Jarrod's quirky sense of humor and connection to his dad more than a passion for killing things and displaying them.  I just think that it needs a hounds tooth hat.

I am not really sure that Todd has a bear story, but, am not sure that I would want to know it.  OK, that was shameless.

The story that I am about to recount is from 1981.  You kids have grown up with the picture and the ticket stub to a game from this story prominently displayed in our house.  You have probably heard me tell the story dozens of times, but I will write it down here as another daddy story.  Put on your glasses.  This is a long one.

A lot happened in 1981.  After nearly two years of being grad student acquaintances in Biology, that spring Ginger (aka mom) & I  gradually became friends, then good friends, then more than friends, our involvement and time together growing as spring turned to summer and then to fall.

Rolling the clock back a bit, through two college experiences I had never been to a game and generally viewed sports as a drain and a distraction to the academic reason to be (what a dud I was!).  At Alabama, though, it is hard to ignore football.  I went to a few games when encouraged by fellow grad students.  I rooted for players that I had taught as students in Anatomy and Physiology.  I listened to the games on the radio while doing my field work on Saturdays (nothing else was on the radio, unless you wanted to listen to Auburn).  I even went to the '79 Sugar Bowl when a friend got tickets and invited me on the road trip.  I had gradually become a fan, but, fully expected to one day leave Alabama and leave behind college football.  I still remember the conversation when it came time to buy student season tickets in the fall of '81.

Ginger, "It's time to buy season tickets."

Michael, "I have never bought season tickets.  That is almost $80 and I do field work on Saturdays."

Ginger, "You will buy season tickets and we will go to the games."

Michael, "Oh."

For her part, Ginger grew up in a family steeped in Alabama football.  To say that graddad was a fan was to entirely miss the passion. Ginger was simply raised Crimson.  Vandy be damned, she was going to "The University."  But,Ginger's football tradition was further shaped by years of sorority life - beautiful girls dressed to the nines, neatly groomed boys in three piece suits and starched shirts, bourbon poured from flasks into stadium cups of coke, shakers and yelling "ROLL TIDE" on beautiful fall afternoons when victory was virtually assured.  Life can be beautiful sometimes, and, oh to be young...

And roll they did.  They won national championships in '78 & '79.  Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant reigned over this kingdom like an invincible deity.  If asked the question from ghostbusters, "Are you a god," there would have been no question.  From the hounds tooth and tweed hats that he wore, reminiscent of the time when a gentleman wore a hat, to his posture leaning against the goalpost watching the teams warm up, and the observation tower on the practice field, he was a transcendent presence.  While students sometimes made fun of his gravelly grumblings and seeming besotted confusion on his Sunday afternoon game replay show, in the fall of '81 he was nationally recognized as the greatest college football and he was ours.

The '81 season had not been perfect, however,  having lost to once arch rivals Georgia Tech and tied (yes that could happen in those days) a perennially weak Southern Miss team.  Perhaps it was the pressure of Coach Bryant closing in on the record of the winningest college football coach of all time.  There were whisperings of Bear having lost his edge.  There was a young black quarterback (never before at Bama) and discipline issues with a talented but cocky running back (Linny Patrick) who had just never really produced as expected.  Still, with one game left in the season, the record of 314 victories had been tied and a victory over our hated rivals Auburn, who were even more reviled because they were now coached by a Bryant acolyte who had turned coat, would seal the record.

Also in '81 Ginger and I were approaching the end of our grad school days.  There is no other time in your life when you are so immersed in the process of intellectual becoming.  I am sure that it is the same for law school and medical school.  It is a selfish time of total dedication to this chosen academic profession and it is an insular and esoteric world not fully appreciated by people outside of the process.  Your community is small, dominated by fellow grad students and professors.  A large university and even a city spins around you mostly unnoticed while you read journal articles, debate the merits of the latest theory, and imagine your work to be on the edge of breakthrough.  Married grad students were rare and all but one that we knew at that time were divorced along the way.  Perhaps it is a sign that four couples also got together during these years and, to my knowledge, all are still together after 30+ years.  Having been there for several years and being nearly finished Ginger and I were medium sized fish in this small pond.

The biology department had gotten some grant money and over a year had the opportunity to bring in truly top scientists for multiple days of interaction with students and faculty.  We got to hang out and receive advice from people like Edward O. Wilson who had done both undergrad and Masters at UA before going on to Harvard to become the top celebrity scientist in ecology.  During the week prior to the Auburn game, a couple of guest scientists were leading a workshop in Ginger's field.  They were actually developing mouse embryos in vitro, or outside of the female's body.  Imagine that, in 1981, actual development, though short in duration, of embryos in a "test tube" incubation chamber and Ginger was learning the procedure from the two guys who developed it.  Although tops in their field, these guys were fun loving down to earth guys who insisted on being called Tom and Norm.  These were seriously fun guys, as well as being great in their field, and for a week Ginger & I were their social guides taking them out for fried catfish, to off campus bars, and generally having a great time, sometimes including an undergrad pre-med girl (Beth) who tagged along.

On the last day, Norm (the older guy) suddenly said, "before I leave, I want to meet Bear Bryant."  Ginger's major professor (Ron) said, "I think he is pretty busy.  He IS trying to become the winningest coach of all time AND beat Auburn this Saturday."  Being bold, however, and having faith in The Bear, Ginger called up the athletic department and told them about the visiting scientists that would like to meet Coach Bryant.   "Of course," they said.  "He's not here right now, but he should be back soon.  Come on over and he will see you."

So Tom, Norm, Ron, Beth, Ginger & I jumped in a car and drove over to the coliseum, an impressive structure that housed the basketball arena and the athletic offices.  We walked up two flights of stairs and into the receiving office of athletics.  There were three admin desks, each with footballs resting on pedestals signed by Alabama football legends like Joe Namath, Kenny Stabler, Lee Roy Jordan, and Johnny Musso.  On the walls were large aerial shots of the Rose Bowl, Sugar Bowl, and Orange Bowl stadiums before any of these were in domed stadiums with teams lined up to run a play at mid field.  Our excitement levels grew as we realized the greatness that resided here.

Shortly, a phone rang.  "Coach Bryant will see you now."  The attractive mid 40s lady escorted us down a long crimson carpeted hall past the offices of coaches of other sports and assistant coaches.  We came to a huge door with a plaque that said Paul W. "Bear" Bryant Football Coach and Athletic Director.  She knocked before entering and when the door opened there stood The Bear dressed in a suit.

The next few minutes is sort of a blur.  He apologized for keeping us waiting, saying that he had just returned from attending a funeral and remarking that, at his age, you start doing that more and more.  He politely asked what Tom and Norm did and listened while they tried to explain in awestruck tones.  Part way through, he laughed and said, I'm afraid that is all over my head.  Noting the camera that Ron had with him, Coach asked if we wanted to take a few pictures.  There was one of Tom and Norm with The Bear and one of Mom and Beth with The Bear.  Sadly, I was too shy and stupidly aloof to get into one of the shots, but, I was there.

Soon our time was up and we were ushered out.  We were all walking on air.   Tom and Norm were like kids who had just visited Santa Claus, talking constantly and pumping fists in the air.  Ginger was the hero that day, having had the nerve to dial the phone and arrange the audience.  As soon as we got back to the Department she called her daddy to tell him.

Norm and Tom left that afternoon with many thanks and fond goodbyes.  Ginger may have seen them at a science meeting, but I never saw them again.  Waiting for time to take them to the airport Tom and I were shooting hoops in the back lot of a local bar.  He asked, "So, you and Ginger, is it serious?"  It was the first time anyone had ever asked that.  "I guess so," I said.  "It is good so far."

That Saturday we were in the South end zone student section of the Iron Bowl at legion field.  I still had no clue as to how important that game was to both fan bases, but I knew that Alabama would fight hard to make Coach Bryant the winningest of all time and Auburn would fight hard to prevent it.  The game was close and hard fought with momentum swinging back and forth.  In the 4th quarter Linny Patrick (the running back who had been perennially in the dog house and generally failed to live up to expectations) took over the game ripping off multiple runs of 10-20 yards.  With the game finally secure, it was the first time I remember doing the na na na na hey hey goodbye song or rammer jammer (a truly obnoxious cheer where the band plays dunt duh dunt "Hey Auburn" dunt duh dunt " Hey Auburn" dunt duh dunt "Hey Auburn. We just beat the hell out of you, rammer jammer yellowhammer give em hell Alabama).  What great fun!!!

Alabama had won, Coach Bryant was the winningest coach, and I was in love with this beautiful, brilliant, and confident girl.  It all fit together somehow.

In January Alabama lost its bowl game to Texas.  The '82 season was disappointing with four losses and discipline issues on the team.  Coach Bryant retired at the end of the season, but won his last bowl game, the Liberty Bowl on a cold night in Memphis.  28 days later he passed away.  I-10 was shut down as the motorcade took him from the church in Tuscaloosa to the cemetery in Birmingham.

That May Ginger and I were married.  I married into an Alabama football crazed family and found that it fit pretty well.  It sort of all came together one gorgeous fall afternoon.

Curmudgeon in London

There was a great Warren Zevon song from the 80s called Werewolves of London.  It was one of those great songs that had a catchy opening chord progression hook that is instantly recognizable and pulls the listener into an otherwise silly little song about that “hairy handed gent who ran amok in Kent.”  Interestingly, the chords (DCG) are the same as the chords from Sweet Home Alabama but are played on a piano, rather than a guitar, and with a very different syncopation.   Still, great songs start alike, sort of, and the chorus of “Ah-oo werewolves of London…” is a fun howl.  You can find it on Youtube and with only a little bit of messing with the phrasing, you can turn werewolves into curmudgeon and use it as the score to walking about town with a scowl. Now London is a great city with impressive sites and beautiful people.  To a certain extent, living here (even for a short time) is a privilege.  Still, it is congested, at times dirty, and not without its irritants that become curmudgeonly complaints.  Here are a few in no particular order:

 Gum on the streets – The streets of London are not paved in gold.  They are paved in gum.  In the busier parts of the city you literally cannot put a foot down on a sidewalk without stepping on a flattened disc that is now an integral part of the pavement from gum spat upon the street.  I really cannot imagine that that many people chew gum and, really, that that many people just spit it upon the street.  The evidence is right there, however, and  it is obvious.   Fortunately, it is usually dried and does not stick to your shoes, but it is there as a reminder of boorish behavior.  Yuck!

 Get that out of my face – In Houston, many intersections have people at them selling flowers, or washing windshields for money.  In Anchorage, the mid-town intersections are frequented with people with signs that invariably say something compelling like “wounded vet,” “homeless and hungry,” or “God bless you,” and they walk up and down gazing into the windows of cars stopped at the traffic light attempting to make eye contact and elicit a charity.  Those kinds of things occur a bit around London, but the pervasive and, I find, irritating thing is people giving away papers.  There are a number of soft news publications that are distributed around town and given away free (or, in some cases, with an implied hint for a donation) at entrances to tube stations and other high foot traffic areas.  These are basically flyers filled with advertisements around some modest stories masquerading as news.

So, I am used to Houston Press and Anchorage Press real estate offerings and other local news as being free give away rags available to the public.  The difference here is that, rather than simply placing a stack on a stand and letting people take it, if they want, here they hire unfortunates to hand them out and apparently train them to be aggressive in how they do it.  So, at the entrance to the underground, the exit from the underground, the top of the escalator at the office, every two blocks on the local high street someone is shoving something at you and saying something like Daily News(?).  On weekends shopping sometimes you have to pass the same person 2-3 times and still they stick the damned thing in your face.

It is a really small thing and really no inconvenience, but to Mr. C. it feels like the drip drip of water torture of invasion of space and interruption.  I try to signal, leave me alone, don't stick that crap in my face, I don't want it by refusing to acknowledge their existence.  Still, they stick it out there and ruin my day.

Stroller warfare - I will admit to being a part of that generation that turned the pretense of parenthood into a noble enterprise, rather than something that just happened to us.  We purchased and proudly displayed cautionary baby on board signs on our cars warning, and expecting, other drivers to take special care in proximity to our precious cargo.

Living in upscale Hampstead, however, the young parents, or their nannies, are seemingly everywhere taking up way more of their fair share of the sidewalks and commanding right of way, as if to scream, " I have a baby here, can't you see."  So often, I have to stop or step aside to accommodate these baby benz's with their plastic rain covers and little platform on the back for older brother or sister to stand upon.  I get it, hauling 1-2 kids around with you and dealing with all the crap is a pain.  Still, that is not quite my problem and I am not a second class citizen, simply because I am not pushing a pram.

While on the subject, I also have a curmudgeonly grudge against pre-school scooters.  Imagine the razors that were employed by adolescents in the early 2-thousands to jump curbs and skate around neighborhoods on a skateboard that had a handle.  These scooters are like that but have two wheels on the front to increase stability to the point that they are used to give wings to British tykes in the 3-5 year range.  These little s---s buzz around the sidewalks flying ahead of their calling parents and mindlessly tripping running old farts off the pavement.  Of course these beautiful British children obediently stop at each street, so as not to be flattened by cars.

Attack of the mummies - privileged British children, especially girls, have perfected the act of calling for  their mother's in a way that drips of superiority and selfishness.  Mummy, I have done my homework.   Mummy, may I have a pudding now.  Mummy, MUMMY, MUMMY I demand your attention.  Enough said....

Walking abreast - In the 60s there was a popular comic called doodles that took random quick scribbles and made something funny out of it.  Imagine one large circle next to several small circles.  That was a mother cannonball walking her bb's (ha ha ha).  One of those doodles that caught my adolescent attention was one with two stick figures on either side of a large circle with a smaller circle at its center.  This was two men walking a breast (snicker snicker).

That is not what I am talking about here.  What gets my goat is groups of people walking down the street or corridors mindless to the fact that their preference for walking beside one another forces others to avoid, step aside, or stop altogether to avoid being run down.  In my view, we must share the space that we collectively inhabit, and my right to hang with my buds should give way to free passage.  To be honest, this is certainly not unique to London and well cultured Brits tend to be hyper vigilant and aware of their impact of those around them, issuing a "sorry" in place of what Americans would say "excuse me" for.  London is, however, a city of many people and many cultures and not all are as aware, or, caring.

Connected and clueless - Okay, this is truly not a London only experience, but given the congestion of London streets and walkways, it becomes problematic.  We have become a world of people who are connected electronically but disconnected personally to other people, or, our surroundings.  We get on airplanes and trains, and collect in public places ignoring those around us, in favor of our handhelds flipping our way through cursory life.  Now, in London, it is considered rude to intrude on others around you by gazing at them, or, listening in to their conversations.  Everyone effects the thousand yard stare, so as not to intrude.  So, what else to do with your eyes and mind, but to engage in on-line or electronic games, and yes, I use my kindle.  It becomes an irritant, however, when people walking down the street are unaware that they are approaching someone and force them to take evasive action or stop completely, simply because they were selfishly clueless.  I want to snatch their device and smash it to the ground while yelling, "get into your life."

Enough rants from a COF (cranky old fart).  I do truly enjoy living in London.  Congestion aside, it is quite the life experience.  Ginger & I jumped on the Tube last sunday and were quickly at the Tower of London, strolled across the tower bridge and along the Thames to London bridge.  Not bad.

Adventures in Backcountry - Just the Beginning

  Backcountry skiing is not something to embark on cavalierly. Unlike resort skiing, backcountry is unforgiving and, for some, deadly. To enter into the backcountry safely requires training, gear and acute gumption.

This winter my goal is to rock backcountry terrain.

For me, this is a goal that three years ago would not have been remotely possible. Now it is pretty much all I think about. To the extent that it is not uncommon for me to watch a single ski clip multiple times throughout a day and with each iteration my muscles twitch for action. In reality, my body nor skill set are at the level needed to be successful.

So how does an individual begging prepping for the backcountry experience? First, educate yourself! Learn as much as you can about safety, terrain, avalanche risk assessment and rescue techniques. This endeavor has, admittedly, been a bit difficult for me as I like to learn by doing and that is not safely possible. If you are unsure of where to start I recommend, http://www.americanavalancheassociation.org/.

Conditioning is also immensely beneficial for a positive backcountry experience. Conditioning should include three things in my opinion: cardio, weights, and more squats than thought to be generally rational.  Also all conditioning should, if possible, start way before you begin dreaming of skiing.  I swiftly learned on my first day in “side country” that although I think I am in decent shape; I am not.

Next, get people involved with your quest. Especially those who have experience and don’t mind spending time helping you figure stuff out. Work out, skill practice and generously thank these people as they are your Virgil in your ski purgatory.  Most important: share the stoke! Outdoor experiences have a keen ability to create lasting relationships. Embrace it, these people will likely be lifelong friends.

Another necessary step is to inevitably get the appropriate gear. No longer will just skis, boots, bindings, polls, water resistant jacket and pants suffice. In order to be safe/capable one must now acquire beacon, shovel, probe, skins, touring bindings and possibly different skis and poles. These items are not cheap but can be bought through Craig’s list or eBay at a fairly low-cost.

Once you have completed aforementioned steps it is then time to start practicing skills on undeniably safe terrain. This is my current juncture. Over the weekend I took my first steps into the realm of backcountry terrain. It was fantastic and very educational. In a short amount of time I learned that I have a good bit of knowledge to obtain before being remotely proficient. Best of all though, I was able to demonstrate to myself that my crazy season goal is obtainable. It will take a lot of time, energy and patience but it is obtainable. I can’t wait. Bring on winter 2015-2016!

Wedding Update Part One: Thank God for Etsy

I finally feel like I'm making some ground on the Whole Wedding Thing. In the past couple of weeks, fast approaching my two-month engage-iversary, we've checked several big items off our to-do list.

Premarital counseling: Because everyone needs a good counselor. Our Pastor from Canvas Church, Chris Parrot, will be leading out premarital counseling. Unfortunately since Jarrod is in North Dakota and not traveling to Houston as often as he thought he would, we'll be doing perhaps the first-ever teleconference premarital counseling. We've got that scheduled for June.

Wedding dress: By Olivia Zavozina at Nordstrom. This was the fifth place I went (David's Bridal, Blush in Austin, BHLDN, Impressions and finally Nordstrom). I was so burnt out on wedding dress shopping I was seriously considering just buying one online. Then my bridesmaid Sarah Neill asked if she could go dress shopping with me and she set up the Nordstrom appointment. We were all the way at the end of the appointment when I showed my consultant Rachel a dress I liked online. She went and pulled the dress and said, "let me tell you why you won't like this." Well, I did like it and I'd finally found my dress.

Shoes and earrings: In the moments following purchasing the dress, I had a mild freak-out in the Houston Galleria parking garage and started The Endless Scroll which is when you (I) scroll for an embarrassingly long amount of time looking for The Perfect Thing. Sitting in the parking lot, I bough a pair of shoes, earrings and brooch to wear with the dress. Though the purchases were for sure impulse buys, it's a weight off of my shoulders that I know longer have to worry about those things.

Veil: I bought mine on Etsy. It's a dead-ringer for the pricey veil I fell in love with at BHLDN but cost only only a fraction of the price.

Reception tables: I'm thrifting glass from Goodwill and that is going well. And its just another reason to hit all of the thrift shops...like I needed a reason.

Reception site: AvantGarden. This art house is really special to me because my church has done art shows at this venue for several years. It's cool that now I can do my wedding reception here as well.

Ceremony site: First Christian Church. The ceremony will be held at First Christian Church. This is where Canvas Church has held Christmas Eve services the last several years. Our church meets in an elementary school, so unfortunately that was not an option, but we are both so excited to be able to have our ceremony at First Christian.

Room block: We have a room block set at Hilton Americas in downtown Houston.

Save the Dates: Ordered those today!

Meanwhile, I have a million little projects going on. I'm learning calligraphy so I can hand-address the Save the Dates - so don't you dare open it and chunk it in the trash. Really though, I might cry. Just kidding.

Happy birthday, mom!

When I think of you, I think of roses.

Dear Mom, When I see roses I think of you. Roses remind me of hours spent tending the dirt gingerly pruning  each plant and a look of simple content after days spent in the sun. Watching you tend your garden growing up provided me with patience for nature and an appreciation for the attention needed to bring beauty into our world. I hope that one day I have roses so that you can come to my garden and help me tend them.

Another thing that reminds me of you is Goodwill. Countless hours spent sifting through rows upon rows of used clothing to find that one marvelous thing that some silly person thought was of no use or out of style. It always has amazed me how skilled you are in this endeavor. As much as I may have protested in high school about wearing a used formal dress I am incredibly proud that my dress seldom cost more than $50 and was always unique. It set me apart from the rest of my class and I have you to thank for that. Not to mention, it instilled in me an appreciation of unique used clothing. Why buy something new when you could buy something used for a fraction of the price?

Mom, above all thank you so much for being my Girl Scout leader and encouraging me to continue participation in the program. Many women I know started scouts but quickly left simply because they didn’t have a leader like you.  You made scouts fun and took it upon yourself to ensure that we were given diverse experiences and skill sets. Because of your dedication I and other girls were able to horseback ride, sail, rock climb, start a fire without accelerants, and most importantly view the world from other peoples’ perspectives.

I would not be who I am today without your love and guidance.

Happy birthday Mom - may your day be filled with sunshine, roses and love.

Sarah

Engagement story: A trip to California to remember

I had an editor once that told me never to bury the lead - so, J and I are engaged!

J has a training in Bakersfield this week, so months ago he invited me to go on to Los Angeles with him the weekend before.

Unfortunately, a couple of days before the trip I got ill. But it was nothing that a little (a lot) of Mucinex D couldn't tackle, so Thursday morning I boarded the plane.

I arrived at LAX just in time for J to pull up in the new Mustang convertible he rented for us for the weekend. We were going to the filming of the Jimmy Kimmel show, so we quickly headed into town to grab something to eat and go wait in line for the show.

We ate at Hard Rock Cafe and were served by a waiter named Elvis who had long painted, pointed black nails.

Back on Hollywood Blvd. we went to find the long line waiting to get into the show. I love this picture of Jarrod.

The show took us into the evening and we were both so exhausted that we skipped the post-show Neo concert and went to the home that we'd rented on Airbnb (Thanks Mary Nevaire for turning us on to Airbnb. We can't stop using it.)

The home is owned by a couple and their love of fine art is apparent. Every wall, including the laundry room and bathrooms, has original art hung on it. Gosh, the house was just beautiful. Both of the guys are in the entertainment/television/movie business so they had really interesting stories to share. One of the guys had a cousin and his friends in town from Denmark, so they were also staying at the house. I think Jarrod's favorite part of the trip may have been talking politics and healthcare with the guests.

Here's a picture of their backyard. Mark described it as "English garden meets drought-proof."

Friday we slept in and enjoyed a vegan breakfast provided by our hosts. We then headed out to the beach and took a small walk, ate at El Coyote and visited a vintage store called It's a Wrap. The store sells castoff clothing items from movie and television sets. I got a jacket from True Blood! We finished out the day with a hike up to the Hollywood sign (after napping in the car post Mexican food in a random rain shower)(Don't tell Jarrod, he "didn't" fall asleep).

Saturday (big day!), Jarrod planned on us driving up the coast on the PCH. We made it through Malibu and suddenly hit a block in the road. Apparently there was a mudslide a few months ago and the highway is shut down. So, we stopped for lunch and were advised to head to Santa Barbara.

The drive was amazing. Because we were circumnavigating the mudslide we drove through beautiful tree-covered mountains, all the time with the top down in the convertible. Sorry for the crappy car window pic:

We made it to Santa Barbara and very quickly had to turn around and head back to Malibu for our 5:30 dinner reservations. I had a hint that something was up because Jarrod usually doesn't make reservations days in advance and we never eat while the sun was still up, but I thought he was just trying to do something special and didn't think much more of it. I was convinced that since he hadn't asked up until this point that he was not going to ask on the trip at all.

Well, the drive back took longer than expected and we were literally racing against the sun.

We got to the restaurant and were disappointed to find out that the table J had requested along the railing was not available. Usually we're go with the flow kind of people, but J asked me several times if the table we were put in was really ok. I thought his persistence was odd, but again, didn't think much of it.

We had drinks and a fine dinner. Our waiter was lovely and attentive. As the dinner was winding down I was certain that nothing was going to happen - we were about to order dessert! So, I got up to go to the bathroom and give myself a pep talk.

On my return, I launched into a conversation with J about the inside of the restaurant and, I'm horrified to admit, the shape of the doors to the restrooms. They were round. It was weird.  J interrupted me and said, in a very serious tone, "I love you."

I was like, "Yea, yea I love you too. But I'm mean those restroom doors..."

And Jarrod started fishing around in his pocket and pulled out the little black box.

I was shocked. And the rest of the evening is guessing because it was a blur. He asked me to marry him. I kissed him. He said, "Is that a 'yes?'" I said, "Yes!"

People were clapping. (I now know that the waiter had gone around and told everyone that J was about to pop the question. Major pressure.) I finally looked around and saw that the waiter had filmed the whole thing on J's phone, including my opinions on the bathroom doors.

The waiter then led in a series of poses to take photographs - again, all a blur.

The next couple of hours passed texting and phoning friends and family. There were some questionable gifs exchanged between Kyle, Jarrod and Layne...

The next morning was a hard goodbye. We said goodbye to our new LA friends and headed to In-and-Out Burger where we ate double cheeseburgers and well-done animal fries.

I'm back home now and still recovering from California-time. I've yet to start blowing up J's phone with wedding ideas, but that's coming soon. He's already busy with all of my home renovation emails.

To Be or Not To Be a Skier

In a land of snow and ice I stand on a precipice. My chest heaves with anticipation as my breath billows in wispy clouds before me.  Looking down I search for a path of least resistance. To my left and right snow capped rocks peak out as if to remind me of the hazard that lies beneath their pristine facades. I need no reminder. My mind hums with a thousand possibilities. Only some of which would NOT result in my hospitalization.

This is the first time I've followed Steve and his friends down un-groomed terrain. This is my first time to ski out-of-bounds. Standing, looking down the steep slope in front of me I can't help but feel uneasy. I've never thought of myself as a skier and certainly not a skier who tackles out-of-bounds terrain.

In my boots I am literally shaking. A queasy feeling rises in my throat. I think to myself that there is no way I can do this and not crash horribly, probably directly into a rock or tree. In my mind I see myself in a hospital bed. I want to go back. I don't want to do this.

Then, I look up. I look at Steve. He is smiling. "You can do this" he says. "No, I can't" I reply.  "Yes, you can. But if you want to hike out I will go with you" he assures me. Looking up the slope we've just come down I recognize that hiking out really isn't an option. Taking a deep breath I stare down the snowy chute in front of me. A part of me wants to cry.

 "You've got this" Steve says. And with that, I point my skis down hill, lean forward, and let go. Light powdery snow  swells  up around me. A couple of quick turns later I am staring up at Steve from the bottom of the chute. I made it.

For the rest of the day it is impossible for me to wipe the ear-to-ear grin off my face. Even later when I crash and  snow drips down the back of my pants I jump up squealing with glee. I tested myself, passed and earned the right to  be called a skier. It is an amazing feeling and I can't wait for our next adventure.

Pumpkin Lasagna Roll-ups Easy Clean Recipe

Pumpkin Lasagna Roll-ups Easy Clean Recipe

Ingredients

6 whole wheat lasagna noodles

1/2 c can pumpkin

1/2 c ricotta cheese

1/4 c cooked onions (optional)

small handful spinach or kale

marinara sauce

1/4 c Parmesan cheese

Steps

Boil noodles and let cool. Mix ricotta, pumpkin and onion. Spoon filling onto lasagna. Top with with greens. Roll up. Use toothpick to close. Arrange on baking sheet. Spoon marinara over tops of rolls. Sprinkle cheese on top. Bake in oven @350 for 15 min or til cheese is melted.

**I had some leftover breakfast sausage that I included in my rolls as well and it was amazing.

Yearly Ikea trips keep the family together

Last year, Todd and Nick came down for New Year's eve and the next day we made out maiden voyage to the land of Ikea. Since Todd and Nick just moved into their new home, we thought that it would be appropriate to go to Ikea again so that they could buy things for their new place. The good news is that they got through the trip with spending less than $500 and learned that their new dog, Maddie, travels really well in the car.

I tried to find the photo from last year of Todd and Nick's "adopted" family. I could't. But here is the new one. Looks like they added another baby to the family. Congrats!

Christmas Church Potato Casserole Recipe

So J chose to be born at the wrong time. Dec. 19. Who does that? Someone who wants to get twice the presents at one time, that's who. At his Dec. 18 birthday celebration this year I ate these amazing potatoes. And I've eaten them as left overs several times since. They're simply amazing. Jarrod's mother, Ruth, was kind enough to share the recipe with me.

In other news, Bonnie, my friend since junior high, graduated from college this weekend. I went to her graduation party at the Irwin house on Saturday. Congrats, Bonnie! I love you. She is going to be a fantastic teacher.

Christmas Church Potato Casserole

1 (2 lb.) bag of Southern style hash brown potatoes

1 tsp. salt

1/2 c. melted butter

1/2 c. chopped onions

1/4 tsp. black pepper

1 small can of cream of chicken soup

1 pt. sour cream

2 c. grated cheddar cheese

2 c. corn flakes

1/4 c. melted butter

Directions

Mix all ingredients except corn flakes and butter. Spread in oiled 9 x 13 pan. Mix corn flakes and butter and sprinkle on top. Cook in preheated oven at 350 for 90 minutes.

Macrander Late Thanksgiving Poem

It's that time of year when plump, ready turkeys start to disappear, When the Macrander family near and far,

Start gassing up the commuter car.

For Emily, Thanksgiving day was held in Sugar Land,

Though why Aggie always gets the first invite, I don't quite understand.

Aggie followed around cooks and sat in the sun all day long,

Because the bond between her and Kaitlyn's cat was never strong.

Sarah flew from Denver to be with the rest of the clan,

And told the family about her new boyfriend, Steve, not Stan.

In Baton Rouge, Todd and Nick were kind enough to host the whole group,

Though in such close quarters, Dad struggled to find a private place to...stoop.

We always cherish the moment we get to watch Dad cook,

Because we know these secrets are found in no book.

After Thanksgiving, Jarrod and Emily did arrive,

But only to hop in the car and head to New Orleans - another drive.

On the hunt for a restroom, we went into the mall,

And found a tree to take our Christmas photo by, oh so tall.

As with custom with every trip,

Each Macrander goes to Todd to get a clip.

After several days of family fun,

And starting to feel like we each weighed a ton,

We gathered around the apartment stairwell,

While Todd ran to apply some last minute hair gel,

And took this lovely family photo.