Our Sleeping Flowers

lately..

2015-09-18T20:14:00.002-06:00

Life has been so full. We soaked up summer as much as we could, school began again. The year continues on in a round bringing newer experiences that are unfamiliar and yet all too easily recognized and compared to similar faded memories. We are at a rounding point of time in this home where we can do the same things in the same places, with the same people, using the same words, feelings, and care, and yet it still feels like uncharted water. I wonder if bearings will ever be found before we have to pick up and start again. But then aren't we all perpetual beginners?

I have started to nurture myself a bit more. Adding new to me ventures here and there, prioritizing what I spend my time on and where I emphasize my efforts. Sometimes that means I have to say no to wonderful and exciting opportunities, yes to others, and mostly that has meant finding value and meaning in where I am now, giving mindfulness to everyday moments.

I decided to jump back into the world of food photography and although I have become reacquainted with the limitations of my talent, resources, and creativity, I really love playing with my food.

All recipes can be found on thankyourbody.com.

a girl and her locket

2015-05-06T21:39:00.000-06:00

A dear friend of mine asked if I would take pictures of her daughter for a special day. She gifted her a locket as a memento of this occasion, and her daughter declared she would put a picture of a moment she always wanted to remember. Her heart, a tangible vessel of mercy.

unpresuming

2015-04-30T20:17:00.002-06:00

I've often wondered if posting these as late as now, and at a time that doesn't seem to make logical sense for me is the best move, often wondering if I should wait until there is some correlation so the transition and acceptance is ideal. But I have decided not to be bogged down with technicalities of presumption or holding myself to any time frame of context. Typically, life doesn't wait for the right conditions, the perfect timing or relation, and yet that's one of my favorite nuances I love most about it. How the least correlated of timings, people, circumstances can create some of the most beautiful moments.

So, enjoy these images of last autumn, picking northern spies, honey crisp, gala and macintosh; getting lost in heady fruit laden branches; searching for the loveliest sheen orbs, as well as the most unusual. We went home with pie and sauce apples for days and a rump shaped apple for a new Kindergarten teacher.

breakdown

2014-10-01T18:57:00.000-06:00

The oil light blinked on, and the car engine made an awful noise of metal pieces working their hardest to move. I asked my husband if he thought we should pull off at the next stop. I knew it would put a dent in our timing, we were to be in South Dakota by that evening to spend the Fourth of July at the very patriotic Mount Rushmore. We pulled off, despite having checked and rechecked the car before this thousand mile journey, even buying new tires for it, and drove to a local mechanic who was busy looking at semis and Ford trucks. He said he wouldn't be able to get to the car for at least a few more hours, and then if he could fix it, we would have to wait until after the holiday weekend. We decided to push on, despite the risk.

Another hour closer to the west, the engine stalled. We coasted to the side of the road, and settled there for three hours with our two children and a dog in the summer sun. As our adult minds were heavy with the stress and gravity of the situation, exponentially increasing costs, and worries of what to do next, our girls spent their time picking wildflowers and finding treasures. So we took a hint from those wise old souls and stepped back. Looking at the bigger picture, we saw what really mattered and found a few treasures along our new journey. Isn't that just the way.

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
― W.B. Yeats

endless summer

2014-09-20T16:48:00.000-06:00

In these last few calendar days of summer, I have been clinging. More to our summer memories rather than actual time. Though as I put it in writing they seem one and the same. We began the summer days knowing they were Jane's last days at home, her last days all to us, filled with our rhythm and influence and warmth. It seemed like we were losing her when the winds came, and that she would never be the same. Over three weeks time she has changed. Though others may argue it's still too early to really tell, to a detail oriented mother who knows her emotional and heart subtleties, I can see the separation, her solitary mind filling with things I can't know. This is most noticeable as she transitions home in the afternoons.

Her new day's rhythm might be away from the slow, familiar rhythm that was full and vibrant with home, but she still looks to us in the end. Still seeks approval and love, sharing those stories of people and experiences I didn't share, at least in person. Still sneaking close for cuddles at night, and still knowing where home is. Maybe that solitude she feels during the day has helped her to clarify what home means to her. It certainly has helped me create the sort of home I want her to know.

It already feels like mid autumn here in Michigan, the transition lasting a mere day or two. The loss was an immediate shock, though the memory is still fresh enough I can almost feel the warm sticky midwest summer air and hear the cicadas in the trees before I walk through our back door into a cool crisp early autumn shade. Memories of the heat and sun make me love summer all the more. Truly, we don't know what we have, nor can we experience its greatest beauty and importance until it is gone. The passing of things; moments, ideas, people, reveal their matchless value. Gratefully, summer will be back. And I will pray, with all intention, that our home will always be.

summer whites

2014-09-20T16:00:00.000-06:00

A Summer Rain

2014-09-16T07:36:00.001-06:00

"Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;

The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so;

My dripping locks—they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go."

The Summer Rain, Henry David Thoreau

winter lemons

2014-02-27T12:23:00.001-07:00

Our first winter here in Michigan has been arctic. We live for the days when we can salute the sun, and it salutes back. Some brave days, we venture outdoors in our woolens and knits, layering, then layering some more and reinforcing our boots with plastic bags and extra socks. The wind bites and when the weather is above or near freezing we walk around the neighborhood scaling mountain peaks of snow along the streets, sidewalks and driveways that are resistant to melt or even shrink.

Nature is clever, providing some of the most beautiful sun ray filled fruit during the bleakest months of the year. To hold a plump buxom citrus in your palm is to hold a miniature sun. We call them sun eggs, thanks to a lovely little storybook by Elsa Beskow we received from Grammy at Christmas. These sun eggs burst with each cutting blade, and we squeeze out as much of the juice as we can, drop by drop. Then we find the leftover meaty parts clinging to the edges with our teeth, though with the more sour fruits we squeeze out another drop or two with our fingertips. My girls don't seem to mind the acrid sting of the lemons, biting into them as if they were the sweetest orange. Only after a few munches, they finally decide the summation of each bite has become too much sourness to handle. With our liquid sunshine, we have had lemonade, curd, custard, savory sauces for vegetables and meat, and ironically, ice cream.

As our powdered snow has turned to ice, we are experiencing yet another burst of freezing temperatures and winds. But during the few days leading up to it, the sun has filled our home more often and for longer stretches of time, minute by minute; birdsong was heard and praised on our brisk and hastened walks; winter projects are being finished; plans are being made for yet another trial at a summer garden; and we are full of anticipation for the changes we know are on their way. So we continue watching for spring to come, inch by inch.

Pears en Croute and remembering Ginger.

2014-02-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

It has been 120 days since my maternal Grandmother passed away. It was an experience I anticipated to endure someday, but I couldn't have known just how acutely it would affect me. In our phone calls the weeks before her passing she would mix up her facts, ask the same questions over again, and although I knew they were typical, even necessary marks, for her mortal end, it was difficult to see her once sharp witted mind become dull; and I could tell it frustrated and bothered her. Despite it, she always laughed that beautifully jovial laugh and ended our conversation with her sincere expressions of love. I knew she cared about me and my family, loving us entirely.

I guess it's typical, when someone loses a person they love, that their thoughts settle on memories, looking back at the legacy the person created through seemingly unimpressive daily patterns. Then those who live on look forward to their own legacy and the seedlings of what their own rhythms and habits are becoming. I am not only looking forward to the life I have yet to live, but how it will influence and affect my own children. I think about the person my grandmother was; the courage she had to live the life she wanted that brought her eternal happiness, and how her example of optimism, fierce loyalty to those she loved, and never forgetting to say I love you or laugh have changed me. She was an example of faith and steadfastness, not without flaws, but she was kind to everyone she met. Often her temper and pride got the better of her, and she always had a deep love for delicious food. Both, I inherited with the genes that skipped my mother's generation.

Time is cyclical. A fact not only apparent in the seasons and in the turning of the day, but in human lives. However, I believe there is another dimension. Not only does human lives repeat themselves in its basic round of existence, but if we properly turn to look at the lives lived before, and increase upon those lessons learned, we can turn that cycle into a spiral upward, always increasing in love and knowledge. A life lived unshared is wasted if not lived for others to benefit.

Life continues on after death, but not as we know it now. It does get better. Though I believe we don't have to wait until then to make it so.

Pears en Croute
inspired by this italian recipe

for the pâte brissée (barely changed from Martha Stewart)
1 1/2 cup white whole wheat flour
1 cup toasted white whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1 cup unsalted butter (or coconut oil) chilled and cut into small pieces
1/4 to 1/2 cup ice water

for the pears and filling
8 pears, peeled and hollowed out
1/4 to 1/2 cup dark brown sugar
1/4 cup honey
3/4 cup walnuts
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

Prepare the pâte brisée

Sift the flours, salt and sugar.

Cut the butter into the flour mixture with a pastry cutter or fork (or pulse in food processor) until crumbly.

Slowly pour in a couple Tablespoons of the ice water and mix with a wooden spoon (or process) until the mixture comes together but isn't wet or sticky. If the dough is crumbly when you pinch at it, add another Tablespoon of water until you have the correct texture.

Divide dough in half, flatten into two discs, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate.

Bake the pears

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

Hollow out pears by cutting a circle around the core on the bottom side of the pear, then spooning out the core. If your pears are ripe, it should remove easily.

Combine brown sugar, honey, walnuts and nutmeg in a bowl, set aside.

Fill each peeled and hollow pear with a few Tablespoons of the sugar nut mixture then carefully set, bottom side down, in greased or parchment lined baking dishes.* If some filling falls out, just tuck it back in.

Roll out pastry dough to 1/4 inch thick (you may need to bring it out a few minutes before to thaw).

Cut long strips, about 1/2 to 1 inch in width. Starting at the top of the pear, wrap the pear with the pastry, slowly turning and overlapping about a third of the strip, being sure (as the italian recipe translated) "not to let any part be discovered". You can blossom out the pastry by gently opening up the top parts of the pastry strips with your fingertips, but I decided against it to make it a little easier.

Bake for 18 - 20 minutes.

Serve

Serve warm with a dusting of powdered sugar or vanilla whipped cream with a pinch of nutmeg. Or maybe with a bit of vanilla ice cream.

*It is easiest if each pear has its own dish. You can set all the dishes on one baking sheet to make transferring in and out of the oven easier.

resolutions

2013-12-30T05:00:00.000-07:00

We brought a bouquet home with us from our venture to the mountains what seems ages ago, and amidst the chaos of packing decided to press some to take along with us. A small remembrance of our Utah life where we first started our little family. The sentimental in me can't help but connect the symbolism of our life there, now preserved as a memory. It is faded and not quite as vibrant as in the moment we were living it which was so full and rich of motion, energy and life. But small mementos, pictures, videos, and written accounts are a reminder of that fullness. Sometimes so vivd I can almost smell the summer mountain air again.

I recently read Hannah Coulter, a beautifully written novel that articulates this poetically.

"You think you will never forget.

You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can't remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can only return as a surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind.

And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence." [.]

Intentional, attentive living. It is my lifelong ambition, to live with presence.

joy and beauty

2013-12-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

Before I became a mother, I was not childless. I was surrounded by children, and I loved them with my whole heart. I was a dance teacher, with handfuls of little dancers who I taught and danced alongside. After years of dancing for myself and learning how to teach the techniques I was using everyday, I found a greater love for seeing a young child move with pure innocence. Something magical happens when a young child moves, not because they are told to, or because they are mirroring another, but simply because they have something inside them that can't help but materialize. It is an abstract thing, but as perceptible as they are. They move in ways that are as distinct as they are. I became someone who gave these small souls, who are typically given some shape to stand on and arbitrary movement to mimic, a vocabulary to create their own sonnets and epics. The abstraction that needed a means whereby, was their natural ability for creation. It was so fulfilling, helping these beautiful dancers and innate architects nurture their love for creativity.

When we moved away from the creative dance program I learned to teach at, the one Jane began her dancing at, and with no comparable instruction nearby, I decided it was time to revisit my love for teaching young dancers, my young dancer, how to create. In January I will be starting my own creative dance classes here in Michigan. I'm not sure if there will be an interest, or what their future will be, but I do know that even if it ends up being a class of me teaching my own daughter, there will be nothing more wonderful than being the one to teach her the joys of pure movement.

God is gracious

2013-11-25T20:53:00.003-07:00

".. a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth." Luke 12:15

The decision of my husband returning to school has been a calculated one. One I had to weigh against the comforts of life. I never thought myself a materialistic person, but there I was wondering if I could happily live on much less than ever before. I reprimanded myself soon enough, we live nowhere near the sting of actual poverty, neither will we ever become acquainted. We are rich with the necessities of life, and more. My children will grow simply, but fully.

I am grateful for everyday moments that remind me what my life is worth. Moments that are ordinary, common, often weary with tedium. Somehow when life is at its weariest, usually when I am still and normal life continues on around me, I have a subtle realization of how full my life is with its evidence in the moment I am witnessing.

I am grateful for a husband who has weaknesses and strengths, and who loves and respects mine. I am grateful that he plays with our girls, reads parenting books with me, and will be my date to a modern dance concert if need be. I am grateful that he can gently take off my blinders of pride and open my eyes to those life moments I need to savor, and that his approach is through humor. I am grateful for the noise our children fill our little house with. I am grateful to have a little house to fill to bursting with noise, love, worry, faith, warmth, rhythm, and life. I am grateful for little expressions of love that are given at the perfect time, and never with insistence. I am especially grateful for the forgiveness I receive after apologizing to my daughter for moments of weakness. She teaches me every day how to love fully and unconditionally. I am grateful for my girls' love for each other, that their favorite thing to do is hold each others hand and walk through the house side by side. Their friendship is something I hope will only grow stronger. I am grateful for their insatiable imaginations and curiosity, even when it may result in water all over the bathroom, or dirt/mud/leaves/rocks tracked through my house, worms in my face, hour long walks around the block, extra laundry, dirty nails, messy hair, and an occasional mouth of dirt (theirs, not always mine). I am grateful that I can sing to them, especially when we sing together. I am grateful I can read to them, even when they ask a million questions mid-sentence (is that a universal kid-thing?). I am grateful I can answer their questions even if it's with "I don't know", I should figure out the answers to those. I am grateful that I have someone hanging on my legs begging to be held, I should hold her more. I am grateful for parents who taught me through daily monotony and daily acts of love how to love my own children with an overwhelming imperfect love, I should thank them more.

"Moments are the molecules that make up eternity" [..] I am grateful for the moments that I can recognize and appreciate, and especially for the moments I don't appreciate because they make me regret my lack of vision and clarity of love, causing me to be better. God's grace is evident in our every day. That we have each day to look for that grace is a blessing in itself. We can find joy in life, and usually they are in the details of love.

beyond the rainbow

2013-11-20T11:53:00.002-07:00

At night, after dance parties and imaginations have submitted to the weariness of the day, we close our day. Mostly accomplishing ordinary tasks, taking care of little bodies and teeth, reading stories we could otherwise recite from so much repetition, including the physical books for ceremony, then filling our souls with God's love and the small joys of kneeling together in a full sided square, at least until a little one breaks the shape mid devotion. The last ritual commences in the dark, with little whispers pleading for greater powers to ward off evils and the unknown, and among the last whispered imaginings of the day, my voice, imperfect, but all my children know of lullabies, humming songs my own Mother sang to me.

I don't know the exact songs she sang as I drifted off to sleep during my young childhood, somehow I cannot recall those memories as pure fact. But if she did, as I assume, I was likely clinging to her voice in the darkness as I know my Jane clings to mine. I was always afraid of the dark, and when I sing certain songs, I hear my mother's voice in my own. Like an anchor, an audible refuge, my voice assures my little one that she is safe, and that when your mind is full of wonderful things there is no room for the bad. I associate specific songs with my mother because they are her favorites. I wonder if she remembers evenings like ours, humming lullabies between interludes of telling children to stop talking and go to sleep. Then I wonder if I will be the one to remind my own daughters of those days, or if the faint memories of them will return as they sing songs with my voice and memory in them to their own children who cling in the dark.

Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, oh why can't I?
If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can't I?

above. below. cranbrook.

2013-11-04T21:02:00.000-07:00

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

baking whole wheat blueberry muffins

2013-10-21T07:00:00.000-06:00

I started home play schooling my four year old a few weeks ago. The novelty hasn't quite worn off yet, it's not much different than our day to day rhythm, and truthfully we haven't stuck to a rigid schedule. We did add a little more structure to the day, have included a formal learning activity (not really that formal) and started doing things to make it feel official like singing more songs about what we're doing and boarding a "school train" to define the start and end of the "school day". So far it has been a good experience, it helps that we're basically exploring all day.. And considering we're faced with the challenge of balancing our playschool schedule and a baby's schedule that seems consistent until it's not, we have done pretty well. Sometimes the littlest one will even join in, sitting on a little cushion like her big sister clapping along as we sing about the weather and days of the week. At least until a doll distracts her or she remembers that she needs to taste test the pot of soup simmering on her play stove.

Everyone's favorite part of the day is when we do a hands on activity, or handwork. In translation that means baking time, especially since the weather has hailed the arrival of Autumn. In theory and planning I have hopes for teaching my daughter how to finish long projects she can work on a little each day. We have a hand knit scarf waiting to be finished for her doll, and we began a nine patch quilt she has been sewing with supervision (also for her doll). I also have a loom that she could weave a small rug for her play kitchen, a talent she learned during our volunteer hours at This Is the Place Heritage Park this summer. But there is a contentment I will not deprive her of as we measure and combine ingredients, then take pleasure in something delicious we made together while it is still full of warmth from the oven. She has taken to it well. Not surprisingly she is naturally drawn to the beauty and art of baking.

Whole Wheat Blueberry Muffins
from Weelicious Lunches

Makes 12 muffins
1¼ cups whole-wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons coconut oil or unsalted butter, softened
½ cup sugar
1 large egg
½ cup buttermilk (almond milk with 1 teaspoon of lemon juice)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup fresh blueberries
A handful of sugar (for sprinkling)

Preheat the oven to 375°F. Grease a muffin pan.
In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and salt.
In a standing mixer (or in a bowl using a wooden spoon), cream the coconut oil/butter
and sugar.
Add the egg, buttermilk, and vanilla and mix until thoroughly combined.
Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and mix until just combined.
Gently fold in the berries.
Spoon the batter into the prepared pan (filling each well three-quarters full).
Sprinkle a pinch of sugar on top of each muffin.
Bake for 14 minutes, or until the tops spring back when lightly pressed.

Originally this recipe called for fresh raspberries, which we didn't have; and was baked in a donut pan, which we don't own. Those are the two alterations we made to the recipe. Thanks to this cookbook I have gotten many fun ideas for "school" lunches, even if we're only having lunch at home. My preschooler will help prepare our meal, eat up, then clean up. She surprisingly enjoys the work of preparing and cleaning up, and not so surprisingly, she really loves to eat it.

from blossom to blossom

2013-09-22T19:24:00.002-06:00

Evidence of the importance of friends, though distances apart..
A dear friend sent me this poem. She knows me better than I thought, sending me an instant treasure.
If you have a moment, I hope you will take the time to read it.
A bit of an adieu to Summer.

From Blossoms by Li-Young Lee

our beloved chocolate chip cookies

2013-09-21T20:27:00.000-06:00

This week marks a month spent in our new home. After weeks of preparation, we moved our little family across the country to pursue greater dreams and futures. That is the plan anyway. After moving back to my hometown for a few months, I realized I had been missing a place I thought I had always want to leave. As a teenager I was so busy trying to get away, move on, and become something, that I didn't take the time to appreciate what my little hometown had. Primarily, it has my family. I always knew it had them, but I didn't realize how much I needed to be near them, if only for a short time after growing up, getting away, moving on and becoming something. I was grateful for those few months spent with them. I miss them now. But I am also grateful to be a part of another family, a worldwide church that can be painfully small sometimes, but in our case it has been a comfort. There is a familiar repose when at Sunday worship, the same lessons are taught with the same spirit and the same love, God's love.

We have also had some dear friends help us grow roots here, sharing their love for this area, and sharing their friends. There is nothing as necessary as tangible relationships with the people around you. A digital connection can be wonderful and fulfilling, but we all need flesh and blood friends, especially when you need to borrow a lawnmower or be a part of a dinner group. In the last few weeks we have met our neighbors, and found copies of people we knew and loved in our previous Utah life. Have you ever met people like that? They are different individuals, with different nuances and traits, but they just flood you with the sense of a specific person, like a shadow of a friend you had in another place, at another time, giving a feeling of attachment that is immediate. I am not sure this phenom happens often, but it has been a bit of a gift for me.

A beloved recipe is like that. Each time you make it, it creates a different memory, but it has the same encompassing feeling. Chocolate Chip cookies will always remind me of days at my Mother's knee learning how to level a dry measure of flour with the backside of a butter knife, and sneaking chocolate chips and tastes of cookie dough when I thought my Mother wasn't looking. Now, as a Mother myself, I teach my daughter the same method of measuring flour, and have to smile to myself when she sneaks chocolate chips and pinches of cookie dough when she thinks I'm not looking. The place is different, the time is different, details and people are different, but the love and familiarity it embodies will always be the same.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

3/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup sucanat or brown sugar
1 cup coconut oil or butter, room temperature soft
1 Tablespoon vanilla extract
2 large eggs
2 1/4 cups of white whole wheat flour*
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sift dry ingredients together, set aside.
Cream the butter and sugar together.
Add vanilla and eggs.
Add flour mixture, and then gently mix in chocolate chips.
Drop by Tablespoonfuls an inch or two apart on a parchment or mat lined baking sheet.
Bake for 13 minutes.
Cool on cooling rack.

*any other flour will do, if you use all purpose or are at higher elevation add a few Tablespoons more.

honorable august

2013-08-12T09:44:00.000-06:00

“The bee is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly;
The pretty people in the woods
Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come,
The breezes madder play.
Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?

Wherefore, O summer's day?” [.]

We took a fishing trip to mirror lake, a favorite clime of sanctioned forest where we have our own secret digs and groves, discovered before this little nymph came into our lives. It was her first time exploring there, and her last for a number of years. I don't know when we will be back to this area again, where the wind brings wildflowers of high summer to life. They nodded their heads as if beckoning us to join them and do the sensible thing of making floral crowns. The most sensible wear them until they become listless, weighty with summer's heat and depth. Not long after, the wearer mirrored the act and napped the whole return home.

helpful little floral crown tutorial on the house that lars built

summer pearls

2013-06-19T16:12:00.005-06:00

A typical summer is a time of busyness in play, spending most days in fresh air and sunshine, adventuring and traveling and feeling hot from so much movement and energy. Though it's technically not summer yet (only a couple days left) the warm weather that others have been taking advantage of to break in their summer plans has passed with little acknowledgement from us as we have spent our days (going on two weeks) nursing our health indoors. We could easily be bitter about the beautiful weather that we have not fully experienced, but surprisingly we have enjoyed our days. Bringing a bit of life inside, an embodiment of sunshine in our single windowed apartment helps, as well as big imaginations. We have been pirates, following treasure maps and fighting dragons (who knew pirates were so versatile?) We've watched ballets, and performed our own. We've created art, taken naps, picked out summer books, planned summer birthdays, and enjoyed passing moments with peaceful quiet.

"After all, I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” [.]

farewell spring

2013-05-30T00:00:00.000-06:00

“I am never alone wherever I am. The air itself supplies me with a century of love. When I breathe in, I am breathing in the laughter, tears, victories, passions, thoughts, memories, existence, joys, moments, and the hues of the sunlight on many tones of skin; I am breathing in the same air that was exhaled by many before me. The air that bore them life. And so how can I ever say that I am alone?” C. JoyBell C.

Spring is a rejuvenating breath after a long winter, one that fills and enlivens. Spring never fails to leave before I am ready, but not without first preparing us for the work and play that summer brings, planting literal and intangible seeds. I always want it to last, I know I am not the only one, and though the blossoms are soon blown away as sunny days dominate the moody grey ones, what endures are memories of every spring before with all their anticipation and high hopes. Summer is practically here, and I am so excited for all we have planned, but I always miss spring.

above . below

2013-05-24T00:00:00.000-06:00

in Hong Kong.

wet market

2013-05-23T00:00:00.000-06:00

The wet market was a favorite place to visit in Hong Kong. It's the outdoor market where vendors sell and locals buy fresh fruits, vegetables, flowers, meats, and seafood. It is all fresh. You will find quite a bit of the seafood still swimming in shallow water, wriggling around. One fish flopped onto the street in front of us as we walked past, and when we alerted the vendor, she assured us that he (the fish) was just playing around and to leave it, he would find his way back eventually. We also watched a man struggle to get a crab into a box to be sent home with a hungry customer, as if the poor thing knew its fate.

The market is within walking distance, a few blocks away, from where my grandparents live in Causeway Bay. Past Times Square, through the dry market where they sold dehydrated goods such as mushrooms, herbs, even swallows nests (we spent little time there), and under a concrete overpass where artisans, bums, and voodoo women congregated waiting for customers willing to pay for revenge on someone who had done them wrong.

The market is contained within a couple streets, including a number of indoor stalls toward the back where they sell less popular items like frogs, eel, chickens, and lizards, all alive. They had flowers, fresh vegetables, fresh lychee, dragons eyes (longan), dragon fruit, fish of every color, freshly butchered meat (that I couldn't help wondering how fresh it really was), seafood I didn't recognize, fresh and dried noodles, chicken and duck eggs, and a surprising amount of produce from South America. Nearby were bakeries, soy milk cafés, and shops with roasted fowl in the window. The street is covered in water, an ode to its name, and the sounds of vendors and customers bartering and exchanging give the mechanical sounds of the city living energy.

pearl of the orient

2013-05-21T00:00:00.000-06:00

In March I traveled to Hong Kong with my youngest and my father. It was a trip taken to connect generations, a trip I have looked forward to my entire life. It was fascinating to find that this place, so strikingly different than the homeland I have lived in, could feel so familiar. It may have been from the years I have dreamed of visiting the city where my father grew up, or the countless videos, photographs and memories I have seen and heard of over the years. But I like to think that it's because this city is in my blood. It was like coming home, learning a bit of who I am.

Amid the chaos of this city filled with thousands of buildings, so many many taxis, and millions of people who seem to be in constant motion, I loved finding moments of calm, simplicity, and a touch of nature.

all photos taken with my iPhone 4s.

waiting on the stairs

2013-05-15T23:44:00.001-06:00

udon noodle salad

2013-05-14T09:06:00.003-06:00

One of my favorite things about living in the same town as my parents is that my father invites us over for dinner. A lot. His first love is my mother, but a close second is food. Telephone calls always begin with, "What have you eaten?" Gifts are nearly always food related. When he travels, sightseeing is based on where and what he wants to eat. He loves to discuss recipes he is testing and perfecting, and he will often tell me the compliments he receives from others while simultaneously confessing he's not as good as they think (even thought he is every bit as talented as they say). His only vice is that he is not a salad lover. The vegetables he does eat are often boiled to death or fried, and a salad is almost always an afterthought, graciously included for company. This salad is a love child of my father's tastes, and his need for fresh food.

Udon Noodle Salad
serves 4

8 ounces dry udon noodles
Greens; swiss chard, spinach, baby kale, mesclun, etc
cilantro, stems discarded
1/2 red cabbage, the center cut out and thinly sliced
4-8 ounces tempeh, broken into bite size pieces
peanut sauce (recipe below)

Bring a pan of water to boil. Add dry noodles, stirring around and cooking until al dente. Remove and run under cool water. Remove excess water and place in a large bowl. Add a few spoonfuls of peanut sauce to the noodles, mixing around to coat.

Combine the greens, cilantro leaves, sliced cabbage, and tempeh into the noodles. Mix to coat, then plate and serve with a garnish of cilantro and a slice of lime.

Peanut Sauce
1/4 cup peanut butter
2 Tablespoons honey or agave
2 Tablespoons nama shoyu or dark soy sauce
2 teaspoons sweet chili sauce
1/4 - 1/2 teaspoon japanese sesame oil
juice of half a lime
2 - 4 Tablespoons almond milk or water
handful of cilantro

Combine all ingredients into a blender or food processor. Process until well mixed and cilantro is chopped fine.