Cool. - Empty Nest Repost #8

I have to admit I've wondered ever since I wrote a certain piece a few months ago, if I'd have occasion to refer to it again. The opportunity to say, "Yes......that happened. I hoped it would.....and it did." Well, tomorrow evening it will. Tomorrow evening Marc and I are heading into Seattle to hang out with a couple of our boys at a concert. They WANT to go with us. The only difference between tomorrow's concert and what I originally wrote about is that we'll be seeing someone current and not from our......you know......and oh, I-can-hardly-say-this-because-it-makes-me-feel-sort-of-oldish-and-uncool, but......our 'era'. 

I've had warnings that 'It will be loud, Mom........and long', but except for the fact I'll be missing the one of ours that now lives in New York......I don't care. It'll be cool.

Click here to read the original post:  Cool.

Wishing you a wonderful week ahead.

Warmly, 

Margaret

Patrick

Several members of our family are called Patrick by way of either their first or middle names.  All of them wear it well and are positive, forward looking folks. It is a name that, when I hear it, makes me happy. (We are not Irish.)

Something to ponder: I love what it says on the back of the Hale's Ales growler one of the boys brought home:

The Main  Thing

Is to keep the main thing

The Main Thing

Happy St. Patrick's Day to you!

Margaret

Hoping For A Snow Day.......

Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

 The prediction around here for the next few days is suggesting snow, beginning possibly as early as this evening. Living in the Pacific Northwest, the mention of even a few flakes in the lowlands is cause for a somewhat heady mix of alarm and excitement. Radio and television stations tease with short bites of information. They want us to stay tuned in.....and mostly we do. When gray skies turn white and the drizzle that is winter turns fluffy......we Pacific North-westerners pay attention. 

I grew up and lived for many years in Eastern Washington. Here, on the other side of the state, we call that 'east of the mountains'. The Cascade Range and it's peaks asymmetrically divide our state in two, keeping Pacific Ocean clouds and moisture sort of backed up and stuck on this side of the range. The 'west side' has more rain and a milder climate. We are cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter, while 'east of the mountains' has more distinct markers that herald the changing of the seasons. For snow or sun......many of us head east (or might I add, north to Canada) for the day, the weekend or the week. (I should note here that this has been a particularly beautiful winter here on the west side so far, with little rain and far more sunny days that normal!)

I will acknowledge that the above description of our seasonal weather patterns is somewhat lacking. I was only attempting to illustrate that, although we may have a lowland snowstorm here once or twice a season, wind and rainstorms are the norm.  I have now lived on the west side of this state over twice as long as I did the more seasonal east side. You would think that I might have grown up a bit by now and be grumbling at the mention of the possibility of cold, icy roads and poor driving conditions. But the truth is, the mention of the possibility of snow brings out the Eastern Washington kid in me. I will ignore those who complain, put on a pot of soup and watch it fall. Or pull on warm boots and a puffy coat and go outside.

When the boys were younger, I secretly welcomed snow days. I loved whispering in the still dark early morning doorways of their rooms that they had a surprise day off from school. I loved the four of us stuck here with books and movies, hot chocolate and Legos. I loved their red cheeks after a few hours playing in the yard, rolling up balls as big as they could and then searching for decorations for the one snowman they might be able to build all year. That there is a storm water storage basin a short block away where they could meet up with friends for an afternoon of sledding.

I'm often without a car on days that the white stuff is falling. Since mine handles best up and down slippery hills there are no other ways around, and since I can do what I do from home.....and since I've often planned ahead for food......Marc takes it back and forth to work and that's OK with me. Now that the boys are older and live other places during most of the winter, I email photos of our smiling Golden Retriever, hair clumped with white, after some play time outside. Or shots of bare tree branches turned lacy in our yard. These days I enjoy the peaceful beauty of a snow day and use it as inspiration for knitting or baking or picking up my camera.

It might snow tonight and for the next few days. I hope the weather forecasters aren't just teasing me. I have a full refrigerator and pantry. I have a knitting project, an empty card in my camera and a great book I'm in the middle of. Bring it on...... please!

Wishing you a wonderful weekend!

Warmly,
Margaret

9 AM, Sunday, January 15, 2011: Big, fluffy flakes are falling! Breakfast is just about on the table , but hoping to get outside afterward.

Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

As a youngster coming home from school, I was occasionally greeted by the scent of  banana bread before I even hit the steps leading up to the back door. Once inside I knew I'd find a couple loaves resting on the counter......because "there were some bananas turning black and I didn't want to waste them."  On another day I might see a pie cooling on a rack and be informed, "I had a little sour cream so I made a raisin pie." Short sentences or comments casually uttered years ago by one or the other of my parents surface every once in awhile, which I realize, still make a difference in my days. Remembering this makes me hope that I've provided my boys with useful snippets of conversation to take away for their futures, especially knowing how they squirm at the mention of a 'few suggestions', a 'talk' or worse yet a lecture. (I try hard not to............)

Remember last week when I made Pumpkin Gingersnap Ice Cream? Since the recipe only called for one cup of pumpkin puree, and since I only had a large can of it in the pantry, I ended up with a leftover bowl in the fridge. Not wanting to waste, I planned at some point to make muffins with the remainder. As I set out to do so yesterday morning....thinking that the scent would be kind of a nice thing for the two boys I still have at home to wake up to (not to mention the finished product.....the ones I make have chocolate chips in them....) I became side tracked by a memory of a recipe for Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls rattling around in my brain. Once it popped in there, I couldn't seem to let it and the fact that I want to become more successful with my yeast dough baking go, so I searched my cookbooks to find one. I finally chose one from AllRecipes.com.

Although it took a bit longer than muffins would have, I was more than happy with the finished product. The extra time I hadn't planned to spend baking was worth it. I didn't waste leftover ingredients. The scent of cinnamon, ginger and cloves that wafted up the stairs, may have been even more delicious and tempting than the pumpkin chocolate chip muffins I intended to make. I happened to have all of the ingredients on hand (including a can of evaporated milk....which I normally wouldn't have around except for the recent holidays). Working with yeast dough, which has always been a little awkward for me, most likely due to my lack of practice, seemed a bit easier.......less awkward this time.

I remembered some things. I learned some things.

Here is a link to the recipe I used: Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls. My computer is in the shop (again), but I'll come back and post a couple of photos here on Monday. 

Some notes:
 - I made 'pumpkin pie spice' by mixing together the spices I would normally use when making two pies into a small bowl. Two tsp went into the dough, then enough cinnamon was added to what was left over to make two tbsp for the filling.
 - I baked the rolls for 30 minutes, but they could have used another five or maybe ten.
 - I didn't have cream cheese in the house, so made a buttercream frosting and added a bit of almond extract to it as well as the vanilla called for.

Wishing you a Wonderful Weekend!

Warmly, Margaret

PS. Have you noticed I've made a shift from Tues/Fri posts to Wed/Sat posts? I'm not even sure how or why that happened! Probably due to one extra-busy day during the holiday season......and then it seemed to stick. I'll still be posting twice a week on what ever combination of days that seem to work best this year. Thank you so much for reading and for checking in! XO

Dressed For Christmas

Marc and I were engaged in March. At that point he was a medical student and because of the fact that his breaks fell in either July or December, we had a choice of those two months in which to plan our wedding. July seemed too soon, but December was just right. Besides, I remembered what the church I attended had looked like at Christmas during previous years......lovely, all dressed up for the holidays.

St. Mark's was large and old, and at that time looked somewhat unfinished both inside and out......which it was. Construction on what was meant to be a grand Episcopal Cathedral began in 1928, but due to the stock market crash of 1929 and the Great Depression that followed, the building was never finished in the style intended. The cement interior walls were tall and plain and water-stained. And rather than magnificent and ornate spires reaching toward the heavens as planned, it was finished as a simple box with a cross placed on top.

I love that cathedral and it's interesting history. Throughout the years it has been know for it's beautiful music,  pipe organ and prominent place overlooking the freeway from Capital Hill in Seattle. But back then, what I loved was how I felt when I went inside. As with many things, it's beauty was in the unfinished details and in the community that called it home. 

When I walked down the aisle on that foggy Saturday evening before Christmas, I was surrounded by family and friends and the collective beauty of all of our unfinished details. I walked on my dad's arm wearing a dress designed by my mom and I, and one that she had expertly sewn. I carried a bouquet of red roses, ivy and small Christmas balls designed and made by one of my sisters. Another sister watched her two young daughters walk down the aisle as flower girls, while another yet, stood beside me. My brother read.

White candles, pots of red poinsettias and one very large pine tree graced the space near the altar. I've often thought about the church members who most likely donated seasonal flowers and greenery in order to beautify their church for the holidays. We were so fortunate to have had it present at our Christmastime wedding. At the time we were young and on a budget, and may not have considered those things as much as we should have. We no longer live in the city and so no longer attend that church. Recently however, the church I do attend asked for donations for pots of poinsettias to surround the altar for the holidays. I wrote out a check......and silently thanked those who had helped to dress up St Mark's in December 26 years ago.

Wishing you some wonderful days as you prepare for Christmas!

Warmly,

Margaret

PS. Today is my 100th post!!

Father's Day

This close to Father's Day, it's hard not to spend time thinking about the first time I told Marc he was going to be a dad. The first time both of us realized we were going to be parents. We both hoped it would happen but assumed it would take awhile. It didn't.

About a year after we were married he was assigned to work in a clinic in Spokane for six weeks. No big deal. My parents live there so I would drive across the state for a short visit with all of them at the half way point. After a few servings of pot roast at my parents dinner table the first night, my mom made a comment. I was really hungry for some reason.... and for red meat, which wasn't necessarily normal for me. It struck me as a little strange when I thought about it on the drive home, but I might have just missed her cooking. A couple additional symptoms prompted me to do a pregnancy test within the week. I was pretty sure I felt different.

When I made the call to Spokane it took nearly a minute for Marc to respond, but in a good way. In a 'suprised-it-happened-so fast-that-I'm-speechless' way. Our life would change, but then it had several times already. It changed in a big way when we met, when he started medical school, when we got married. In the years leading up to that we had both gone though change separately....college, graduation, new jobs, a few moves. We were used to it, welcomed it and realized we had little control over much of it. The stuff of life. Neither of us are the type that needs the future to be too planned out or perfect. When we attempted to map out the best time to start a family, we could think of reasons, financial and otherwise, to put it off until much later.......but we really wanted it to happen sooner if at all possible. So with little money, a lot of trust and big plans we jumped in. We weren't impulsive....simply realistic. Why wait?

Even though we didn't have anything tangible to show for it.....no morning sickness, no ultrasound picture, no baby bump.....we were parents. Physical evidence would come soon enough, but I'd listened to the heartbeat, seen the pregnancy test, made the phone calls. 

Every moment of the past many years of parenthood has illuminated places inside of us that we weren't even aware existed. We've found strength  and humor and creativity. Patience and unconditional love. We learned to trust ourselves and the process. To trust our boys to make the right decisions; to learn from their mistakes. It doesn't mean that those things weren't difficult sometimes. They were, but the difficulties stretched us all. It makes me laugh when I describe our parenting experience this way. The phrase that comes to mind is  "but our kids would beg to differ."  And they do. They're our kids. We're their parents. I'm not sure they will see the big picture until they have some of their own.....but I hope that someday they make big plans, are not afraid of change, trust the experience and jump in. It's been amazing.

Happy Father's Day!

What Makes Us Who We Are....Part Two.....

Marc contacted Cimego's Minister of Culture before we arrived so we could make the most of our time there....who by the way shares his family name of Bertini. How fortunate that he could spend part of an evening and several hours the next day with us, even though he now lives and works a few hours away. He told us about the village he grew up in and filled Marc in on some probable relatives still in the area. We were invited to a town council meeting that night, but were too exhausted and hungry to go. Although we had to point and guess a little, we successfully ordered wine and scotch in the bar, but thank goodness our guide showed up in time to help interpret the menu. He spoke perfect English, sat with us at dinner and encouraged Marc's questions about history and food and customs.

The following day we wandered the village and spent quite a bit of time looking through a house that was kept as a museum, probably much the same as the one his great grandparents would have lived in. Afterward, we visited the home of the town's last remaining blacksmith. He had passed just a month earlier and both lived and worked there with his sole source of power harnessed from a stream with a water wheel. On a short hike in the surrounding woods we walked through an area that was part of the Italian front during WWI and spent a few minutes inside a bunker.  Strange how, surrounded by the fall foliage, it felt so similar to places we hike at home. I couldn't help but think about the people who were once there......are there now......and how different and not so different our world's are.

 Cimego is the lower village. The upper group of buildings is a separate village.

   

 Church door

Period tool

Blacksmith's home

The woods above Cimego.

 



What Makes Us Who We Are

Growing up I had no doubt where I came from and where I belonged. It was in this home with this family. This history. I knew it was mine and that I owned it. I still have a sense of being rooted in something larger than myself. It travels with me, influences the world as I see it and integrates itself into my decision making. It is tangible and real and a part of my DNA. The collective past of many people, their possibilities and lessons, is where I’ve been and where I can go. This is a history of those who were transported by ship or wagon, looking for something different but familiar, and then settling in. Those who navigated unfamiliar languages in a backdrop that was ocean, prairie, plain and mountain. With each heave and pitch, ebb and flow, their lives shaped mine.

Both sides of my family at some point picked themselves up and moved, then planted themselves and stayed. The fact that their choices are simply interesting to me, somehow doesn’t seem like enough. They were difficult, hard working and risk filled ones made by real human beings and based on hope, possibility and survival. Choices that I have to take time and effort to truly understand. In the place I'm so fortunate to call home, it takes thought and imagination to process events that took place generations ago that allow me to be right here, right now.

A few months ago we were planning a trip from Barcelona to Venice. As it turns out, the distance from Venice to the town Marc's great-grandparents emigrated from is a few hours away via car. If we extended our trip by a couple of days we could visit. His great-grandparents were a big part of his life and their influence is still present. The town that they left was something they spoke of often.  

So we stayed longer and traveled to Cimego to check out that part of his history. In the space of this blog entry I couldn’t possibly describe all the emotion that bounced around the interior of the car as we traveled northwest from Venice. We passed farmland and vineyard, making our way from sea level toward the Dolomites. The drive around Lake Garda was a sort of harrowing one with skinny and winding roads, but on it there were stunning views of lakes, rivers, small villages and mountain peaks. We had to pull over several times to figure out what one road sign or another meant and finally decided to turn the GPS off after realizing it was probably easier just to look at a map.

The trip took quite a bit longer than we thought it would. There were a few times that Marc questioned our decision, but finally we ended up in the quiet village of about 500. We walked the same stone streets and paths his great grandparents had past homes that have hay barns on their top floors. We visited the beautiful church of San Martino where they celebrated baptism, first communion, mass and marriage. Noticed the surnames of Zulberti (his great-grandmother’s) and Bertini (his great-grandfather’s) everywhere from gravestones to war memorials to businesses. The stories told by those who shaped his life about hard work, tough choices, food and connection to their country of origin fell so thoroughly into place during those couple of days that I could almost hear the click.

I’ve added a few photos that I took and will add more next week in another post.

 I would love to hear the stories that shaped your life.