Suffering the Consequences

Silly Dancing

Mellow Swaying

Watch out! We preg, and we don't even care!




(This is my very first personal video to upload. Cheers for fancy phones.)


We went and saw Vampire Weekend last night in Dallas. It was an awesome, fun show, and I had a great time, but, people, I am an old old lady, and I'll be honest, I'm still feeling it today. Carter and I were talking while we were there, and we just don't have the motivation anymore that we used to. I used to get pumped for this kinda stuff, and though I really enjoyed it and I'd do it again, I can't say that I was pumped last night in the way I remember. I used to live and die for Austin City Limits Fest, and now the idea of standing in that insane heat and getting my sunglasses stomped and laminating my homemade schedule and wearing a trashbag raincoat just makes me feel a little tired. It does.

Whatz a happening here?

The Art of War

I worked at bed & breakfast/restaurant in Colorado for three summers during my college years. I lived with a bunch of other college kids there on the property, which, I must admit, was pretty awesome. Sometimes it reminded me of the staff of Kellerman's on Dirty Dancing... without dancing or pregnancies but with an equally awesome setting and with actual watermelon carrying sometimes. I mean we were a restaurant, too, after all. (We also mixed giant vats of bleu cheese dressing, but that, I'm sorry to say, is another story.)


One interesting and tragic relationship I observed over the course of my three summers there was that of the couple who owned and ran the fairly complicated operation. They had been married and running this business for a long time before I came along, and by the time I saw them interact, things were pretty bad between them. From the stories of the townies who had worked at the inn for years before me, the two used to fight. HEATEDLY. A LOT. But my first summer I was there, they didn't fight at all that I saw. In fact, they hardly talked at all except when they had to settle business. They designed schedules and responsibilities that allowed them to avoid each other most of the day.

Even to my naive and romantic 18 year old self, it was obvious that, in general, this kind of relationship was much more broken than one filled with fights. They had given up. They didn't care enough about the unresolved junk to fight any more. I know I didn't see all the history and didn't know all the details of their relationship, but the following summer, they were divorced, and the wife took over the business... and sort of oddly enough, the husband would come up whenever she needed a handy man and help out around the place.

All that to say, this was a pretty influential lesson for me in how relationships function. Although, I enjoy debate, I am a non-confrontational grudge holder of the highest (lowest?) order, and I will do anything I can to avoid actually addressing offenses or apologizing for my own. But observing the tail end of the disintegration of that marriage gave me a respect for the necessity of fights. I can say that even though I hate sifting through the mess of a fight, I recognize it as a kind of visit to the dentist's office. We do it for our own good and avoid it at our peril.


Image via my dentist, Dr. Ku's, website. It's hard to love him.

And so it goes. We (personally and universally) obviously need to fight sometimes. We will have conflicts, and it's only healthy to have that catharsis. My prayer this morning was to learn how to fight effectively. I'll say with a giant pat on our backs that Carter and I have learned and matured as fighters over the last five years. I sat and thought about what we've learned and what we are learning now.

And I made a list of these lessons and prayers as I see them because that's what I do. I'm a list maker.

• Help us not to paint ourselves as a victim and the other as a villain. Remind us we're a team on this particular problem just like every other problem.
• Remind us of our own flaws and imperfect nature, and help us to cut the other a little slack.
  
• Keep us on topic while we're in the middle of things--not distracted by how we're fighting (sarcasm, silence and not engaging, unnecessary tears, raised voices) but on the actual issue at hand.
• Allow us to show emotion and be sympathetic of emotions.
• Stop us from panic, and keep us from feeling that everything's messed up. Give us perspective.
• Keep us vulnerable and open, quickly admitting responsibility and as quickly as honestly possible forgiving.
• Allow us to step away from a stalled fight to sort things out but to always come back to it while it's still warm.
• Help us have reasonable and flexible expectations.
• Teach us to allow some recovery time afterward and process the fight and see good in it.

Random Photo Dump from 2006ish-2008ish

Look at sleepy, puppy Lu!

Bangs and Other Leaps of Faith

I like to adjust my hair style according to significant life changes, but, also, let's be honest, I have a gigantic 5-finger forehead, and I've been thinking about bangs for awhile. Some of those weekly preggers pictures put me over the edge. Ay-yi-yi.

I used to talk to my students about the significance of a female character choosing to change the hairstyle on top of her head usually signaling a shift inside her head, too. The fall after I got married, I tried to get stylish and chopped off my hair to achieve the lamentable look I'm sporting on my driver's license picture. Then I very reasonably grew it out for a few years. The summer I quit teaching, I again chopped it to represent my new freedom for the shackles of crazy teenagers and kooky, Renaissance-fair-loving department heads. Then I felt naked and wanted to grow it again. I'll chalk up this particular hair change to the imminent entrance of our little one. If we can finally take the plunge to parenthood, certainly I can cut a few inches off the front, right? In other words, I'd like to dedicate these bangs to Wee Woo...

and this video to Kendrick.

On Repeat

Carter and I had a brief conversation lying in bed last night during our nearly nightly time which I like to call Girl Talk about the movies we liked to watch over and over as kids.

I know there are some I'm forgetting, but here are a few I can remember:

The Never-Ending Story

That face looks likes an albino version of a little dog face I know at home. Image from here. I also want to say that the scene with the horse sinking in the mud traumatized me.

Flight of the Navigator

Image from here


Big Business

So. Random. Why did a fourth grader like Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin so much? Image from here


All Dogs Go to Heaven

Image from here


Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade


Villain image from here


Newsies
... but I was much older for this one. Embarrassingly so. Image from here

Spinach Pie, Broadway, and Fingerprints

Have I sung the praises of a humble little dish called Spinach Pie here before? I don't think I have, and I can't think why.

I would think this would be one of the first recipes I ever posted actually because I've had an intimate relationship with Spinach Pie since I was 18 or so... that's over a decade of delicious and nutritious intimacy. (Does the word "intimacy" make you uncomfortable?)

But nevertheless, this is one of those recipes that has just stuck and cycles in and out of our rotation regularly, even habitually. I can't quit Spinach Pie. (Is that allusion passe and unfunny?) My name is Beth and I'm addicted to the classic flavor combination of spinach and nutmeg (and sauteed onion and melty, mildly sweet cheese and buttery buttery pastry). I really love Spinach Pie flanked by tomato soup during the fall and winter when I can cuddle back Indian style on the couch with Carter at my side and Lu at my knee, and I can pick up my little wedge and dunk it bite by bite in a creamy and tangy soup, chips and salsa style.

(Did I ever tell you about the time Carter remixed a song on the computer of me singing about chips and salsa? It goes like this--"What do you like to eat? Ch-ch-ch-chips and salsa." And so on. I'm surprised he didn't make me choreograph an accompanying dance, too. He likes to clap his hands and command me to entertain him like a personal Broadway chorus... and yet he hates musicals. Figure that out. Where were we?)

The origins of Spinach Pie. I made it first with my Aunt Nelda at their house in Loveland the first summer I was working at the Baldpate Inn. It's so long ago, I don't know if she'd even remember, but I do. Obviously. I think she was trying to cater to my vegetarian lifestyle. It's essentially a calzone but with my well-traveled aunt's insightful addition of some French flava.

Did I mention that is easy as... you know. It is.

Spinach Pie

1. Defrost one small package of chopped frozen spinach. Squeeze out every extra drop of moisture, using your fists, sieve, paper towels, and strongest muscles.

2. Saute 1/4 an onion in olive oil (or butter! I bad.) until sweating and translucent. Throw in a cup or so of mushrooms until they start releasing juices. I don't like to stir them around too much.

4. Break apart your compressed ball of spinach and stir it in with onions and shrooms. Take it off the heat. Salt and pepper the Vegetal Triumvirate. Then grate nutmeg over the top of the whole thing.

5. Stir in Swiss or Gruyere or any mild cheese (goat, mozz, ricotta, whatev) over your warm mixture. Just taste it here. You'll love it.

6. Unroll one shell from the red-box, packaged, Pillsbury pie shell on a greased baking sheet or pizza stone. Massage a thin veil of mustard into the soft belly of the opened and vulnerable pie shell. This helps effectively seal your dough from the juices of the filling, so that the outside bakes and becomes flaky, not soggy and gross. Plus, it tastes good. Dump your slightly cooled, cheesy Vegetal Triumverate onto one half of the pastry dough. Like this.




7. Fold the other half of the shell over the mixture and crimp the edges together like the decorative edge of a pie, sealing together the dough edges and enveloping the innards.




Some like to crimp pie edges with a fork, empanada-style, but there's something very poetic and personal about imprinting the dough with your fingerprints, I think. Plus, that's how my ma taught me.

Isn't it funny to try to think back to when you first learned to crimp the edge of a pie? I can't remember learning this. My guess is that a lot of us can't. I love that it's such an old, now instinctive skill, like swimming or two-stepping or something.

I also remember watching Lois, the owner of the Baldpate, make pies late at night when her staff would wander back after nights in funny little, smoky bars down in town. I would sit with her, and sometimes she'd let me help, and she pointed out how everyone's crimping result was different even if they used basically the same method of pinching the dough. Some light pressure, some heavy, some with small fingers, some with fat. Like how everyone's laugh is different. I really like that.

8. Slice a few air holes in the top for decoration and for steam to escape. Bake on 400 for 30 minutes or so. I also think it's prudent to let the pie sit for a few minutes for the cheese and spinach to firm up a bit before slicing open.

Banana Bread and Friendship

This is my friend Molly and her hub Jeff. I stole this picture stalker-style straight out of her Facebook album. We've been friends since third grade. Molly has a sweet post that made me cry and cry this morning (and if I'm honest, even tear up right now thinking about it).

But please ignore all pictures of me in glasses. It was a rough time.


And this is Mol, Jeff, and Vincent, a dog close to my heart.



And this is Molly and her son, little Jack.

As we're getting ready for a baby of our own, I hope that he or she has a Molly-kind-of friendship. The kind of friendship that changes your life and protects you and makes you better.

Girlfriends

We're keeping my parents' dog, Betsy, while they're in Colorado this week... and apparently taking a surprise trip to Mount Rushmore afterward, too. What the heck, right? Tangentially, they're up visiting family in Loveland and then were going to swing over to Vail with my aunt and uncle for a night or two. Coincidentally, Carter's parents are in Vail right now too with his aunt and uncle. We told them each to keep an eye open for the others. Turns out, they did see each other and are staying in the same hotel.

So, anyway, sweet Betsy is with us this week and loving her vacation, too. Betsy is a little overweight, but she's gained a personal trainer in Lu. Someone in the house made the comment that she looks like a golden brown sausage-stuffed kolache. While Betsy loves to rest and snuggle, Lu loves to run and bite her neck meat. Bets is an obedient and gentle and affectionate dog. Whenever she tries to lick Lu's face, Lu will jerk her head away in disgust. Don't get me wrong--Lu loves her, too. She just shows it in more of a roughhousing/non-affectionate kind of way.


They love to trade toys. It mostly involves Betsy picking up a toy to chew on and Lu running by and stealing it.


This is what we see most of the time: Lu dominating; Betsy submitting. I've seen Lu literally slap Betsy in the face with her paw. You'll have to excuse my language, but that's what I call a bitch slap. I've been thinking of their relationship dynamic as something akin to a high school queen bee mean girl and a chubby, good-natured (slightly low self esteem) girl.


Now this is rare, but sometimes Betsy's weight accidentally gets the best of her and scrawny little Lu is thrown down, and I laugh and laugh.


Some little dogs were stinky from all the playing and going on walks and what have you. I thought it was funny that they snuggled up together for protection.


Look at Betsy's sweet eyes. (Don't look at my squashed out thighs and furzley hair.)

Getting Ready for Bed

image via here


When I was younger, I used to get nervous when I washed my face at night that someone would sneak in and attack me while I was vulnerable, eyes closed and soapy. I also have REALLY horrible vision, so even if I did get my eyes open, I couldn't see much. I used to kinda position my bent over body away from the door to help protect myself from these imaginary sneak attacks.

Alright, so I don't really worry about this anymore... but it was a long time fear.

Last night, the contacts were out, and I was scrubbing and rinsing off my makeup when something hit me right in the face. Hard. It sorts of slapped the left side of my face and ricocheted off. It hurt... but more than that it was the total surprise of getting slapped in the face in my vulnerable moment.

I was not happy.

And there could only be one culprit.

"What was that?! Was that Lu's ball?!"

"Sorry. Yes."

"Why did you do that?! That's mean!"

"I didn't mean to do it."

"What were you doing?"

...Well, what he was doing was kicking the ball around, drunk on the World Cup. He is quite the soccer star. He was delivering a neat and very accurate pass to my feet. Apparently.

Not pleased. Not pleased for a long time.

Walmart Wackiness

I try to avoid Walmart AT ALL COSTS.

I cannot emphasize this enough, but sometimes, you know, it's just necessary. Every time I go to the Walmart closest to our house (which is not close at all which is one of many reasons I hate going), I see the strangest things. The patrons and employees are straight up crazy...

like the time I saw the SKINNY, 50-60 year old woman in the daisy dukes so short you could see a peek of her cheek;

or the time the toddler got her head stuck in between the bars of one of the Subway chairs up front by the registers and was SCREAMING bloody murder and no one could figure out how to get her removed;

or the time I saw a man shopping in a black cape;

or when the very feminine, young man hovered around me singing to himself very loudly and obviously wanting to be applauded for his mediocre American Idol voice.

So you get the picture. This particular Walmart (all Walmarts?) seems to be a magnet for weird folk.

I went to Walmart yesterday. I needed some odds and ends. When I was checking out, the woman at the register says, "You must be havin a party," and picks up my green cocktail napkins and kinda shakes them. "This is what gave it away." I respond in the affirmative.

Then she transitions and says, "My boyfriend and I want to have a country wedding because we country people, but the only problem is we having it in February."

Now, here was my dilemma: Is this an issue because they wanted to have in outside in the midst of the beloved country? Should I suggest having it at an indoor venue but still somewhere out in the country? Should I recommend specific venues? Am I overstepping my bounds by giving a stranger advice? But she presented the problem to me, so maybe she wants advice.

Instead, I said, "Oh. Well, that will be romantic." You know since it's in February and all.

She continues, "My manager told me that my husband is just going to forget our anniversary." Presumably because it's close to Valentine's Day? I have no idea.

"But I told him that I'd be the one to forget it because grandmother's birthday is the same day we havin it. February 26th." I said, "Oh," and smiled. Should I say I'm sorry? I just don't know. I mean she chose the date, right?

Around this point, I had swiped my card, and she handed me my receipt, and I think I told her congratulations, but it's kinda a blur.

So I'm walking out, past the infamous Subway by the entrance of the store, and I look over, and there is a plainclothes Santa Clause sitting on one of the tall stools just watching people come in and out of the doors. Not eating, just watching. What is going on? Is he a pedophile? A Santa disguise is the most pernicious lure I can think of. Now, I say Santa Clause, but honestly his beard was actually a little longer than I picture Santa's. Think more ZZ Top. Oh, and he had on a bonafide top hat, too.

Thank you. Come again.

Sad News

I heard they're going to tear down the Ridglea Theater on Camp Bowie in order to build a Bank of America.

3 Best Things This Morning... and This Weekend

1. Please go to this site to see the full linea de tiempo for the family, and make sure you click on the picture for Nicolas 2009. (found via Unruly Things via Hither and Thither)




2. I visited Sweet Sammies in the W7 area on Saturday night, and despite how full I was after dinner at Patrizio's, that ice cream sandwich was a revelation. I chose oatmeal toffee cookies and buttered pecan Blue Bell for mine.


Plus, I waved at and received a reciprocal wave from Casey Thompson through the Brownstone kitchen observation window. (image from Eat This Fort Worth)

3. My dad


He loves animals, the outdoors, his grandson, and laughing. He is a man's man--hunting, fishing, football coaching, building and fixing--but he is creative and artistic and tenderhearted, too. My sister and I danced growing up, and Dad would sometimes be caught crying during our performances. He has a very good sense of direction, not just geographically but the way he points his life toward loving the people around him.

He has a strong sense of right and wrong and justice and honor. He always seemed to find teachable moments when we were growing up. He expected me to work hard and not to quit. Oh, track and the 800m, how much did I hate you?

He is friendly and accepting and... I think jovial is a good word for him. He taught and coached all his adult life, and I remember in high school sighing as the boys preferred talking sports with him to talking much of anything with me.

He knows all sorts of random information. Hub and I were debating where the term "cop" originated, and Carter said I bet your dad knows. We called him, and of course, he did. (from the copper badges policeman used to wear)

He is strong but flexible. I think he enjoyed allowing me freedom to be what I wanted to be, and I think even liked debating over differences in opinion... like when I argued for vegetarianism my junior year in high school or wrote the essay for him and mom on why I should be allowed to spend the weekend in College Station visiting my boyfriend. After initial thumbs down for both, I ended up getting to do both.

But if I had to pinpoint one thing he taught me that I think has had the most lasting impact, it might be the way he loves Mom. He would say to us as we helped Mom make dinner, "Isn't she the prettiest woman you've ever seen?" And she was! But we would sort of roll our eyes and be grossed out. Dad always said without excuses that he loved us, but he loved mom most. And this always just seemed natural to me. I mean, he's known her longer. When we both graduated and moved out, she was still there. But I also think that placing her as primary importance in our family taught us what it is to really respect and love a woman and that she was worth it, and that created a legacy of what to look for in our own husbands. His loyalty and devotion to her defined what I looked for in the way my husband would love me one day. And though Carter and Dad are different in many ways, in this particular way, they are the same.

Happy Father's Day.

I Remember These!

Homesick Texan has a recipe for seasoned oyster crackers that I, too, remember eating when I was younger, and they are indeed incomprehensibly, embarrassingly addictive. I think it was a recipe that was passed around our neighborhood and church because I remember my mom citing someone down the street (who had some wild kids that I babysat once or twice but looking back I was only about two years older than the oldest) as the benefactor. For some reason, Mom stored ours in the freezer... maybe she made such a huge batch that they had to be put away, but regardless, I certainly remember sneaking into the big freezer to snatch a handful whenever a craving materialized. "Bay-eth! You better get out of that freezer right now! I'm saving those for the Fourth of July at the lake! Now get back in here and do those dishes!" I will confess those little crackers are just as good cold and frozen... maybe seasoned even further with the illicit allure.

I even tried to make something similar for our New Year's party this year, but I couldn't find this recipe, which is what I really wanted. The alternative recipe disappointed and only resulted in me wanting these even more. Here's Homesick Texan's recipe:

Ingredients:
1 pkg. 12-14 oz. oyster crackers
1/2 cup of canola oil
1/2 tsp fresh dill weed
1/4 tsp garlic powder
1/2 tsp lemon pepper
1 pkg. ranch dressing, original (do not use low fat!)

Method:
Preheat oven to 250 degrees
Mix oil with herbs and spices
Put crackers in a 9 x 13 inch pan
Pour oil and herb mixture over crackers, gently stir
Cook in oven for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally

Retrospective

A longtime friend, famous for her prolific picture taking, recently cleaned out her old pictures and generously gifted a couple of us with some old and seriously embarrassing pictures from our youth. I just want you to know that these are the GOOD ONES. If you think I was going to put those college pictures during my bad skin and heavy days, you've got another thing coming. I'm sorry, but I am way too vain for that.

Hey, remember when I was debating bangs? This is why have to give that decision some intense consideration. Little House on the Prairie regalia is so fourth grade. Also, it's a good thing my mouth is closed because I had some serious buck teeth. Seriously. They were no joke.


I kept on looking at those pictures and wondering why my mother didn't intervene, pull out the tweezers, and tell me to stop wearing my dad's knee-length denim shorts. Oy. At least I had the sense to wear loafers and socks to camp. Understandably, I got my first kiss during this week at Lakeview. I think I'm not smiling because I had braces. I mean, something really had to be done about those teeth.


Aaaand the bangs are back. Judging by the Anne Geddes poster in the background, this was taken in the late 90s during college. Judging by our makeup, we decided to give each other makeovers one lonely and dateless Friday night.


This was the afternoon of my bachlorette party (FIVE YEARS AGO!). My photographer friend likes to take posed pictures. I think I was directed to showcase my ring and look up lovingly like I was gazing into Carter's eyes. The evening itself was highlighted by a few falls, a sneaky phone call, an embarrassing moment or two with my mother, and everyone telling a particular guest to just go to sleep already.

Summer Nights on my Street

image here


One of my favorite things about our neighborhood (aside from the lovable watchdog Mr. McKinney across the street) is that we live about two miles from the Botanic Gardens. And one of my favorite things about the Botanic Gardens (aside from these pretty pictures from the Japanese and Fuller Gardens, respectively)...


from Lonely Planet

from Fort Worth Botanic Gardens

is that every summer they have Concerts in the Garden, including a firework finale, and because we're just slightly higher and just far enough away, we get a pretty great view of the pyrotechnic show from our front yard. We'll be casually watching TV or cleaning up after dinner, and we hear the faraway popping--it's funny how it surprises me every time-- and just like nearly everyone else on the street we go out in bare feet and stand in our driveway and watch for a few minutes. Even aside from the flashy show, I also really like that we can wave at our neighbors in the hot dark. It's a little bit hushed and a little bit awesome to stare out and up. It's a nice perk of our tiny home. And since this is my third house on this same street (What can I say? I like to be wedged between Central Market and the museums.), I've enjoyed the fireworks from several slightly different vantage points, and this one, I'm convinced, is the best.