Bang Goes That Theory

From what I had seen of gluten-free baking up to today, it looked to me as if every recipe was going to be unimaginably complicated with long lists of expensive ingredients. In my mind, gluten-free baking seemed a mighty undertaking, only to be pursued when I felt completely ready to use every fancy kitchen gadget, and dirty every dish, I own.

So, of course, I started craving baked goods.

Cookies, cupcakes, cakes. Over the past week I have been unable to stop salivating at the thought of every last gluten-filled morsel. And the idea of trying to bake a homemade gluten-free version in my half-packed, torn up, mid-move house was just an immovable mountain.

Until today.

My mother (my gluten-free guru) forwarded me a cookie recipe from my cousin, Jessica. A recipe with three, simple, readily-available-in-my-ransacked-kitchen ingredients. A recipe that made warm, sugary cookies and filled my crazy house with a wonderful smell.

And on top of all that, peanut butter - my favorite.

I can see I'm going to have to continue to rethink and refocus myself around this gluten-free thing for a while. It's just going to take time to wrap my head around the fact that it doesn't mean I can never have anything tasty again (quite the contrary) and it doesn't mean that everything is harder (just no longer mindless).

In short - I need to quite my bellyaching about gluten this and gluten that and get on with life!

And make more cookies!

Fears

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
-TS Eliot, The Waste Land

Part of this quote appeared last night on an episode of Bones and it got me thinking. (I know, right? Inspiration from TV? Forgive. But this will give you some insight into the wacky mental leaps I make during prime time TV.) It made me wonder – what do we truly fear? What do I fear?

I think it’s a harder question than we probably allow for. We think fear as an emotion, and certainly its source, is easy to determine. But I think that’s probably oversimplifying something that is actually very complicated.

I’m a notorious fraidy-cat. I don’t like amusement rides, flying, or heights. But I’m not afraid of the possibility of death through those things – which I’m sure is what a lot of people might assume. I’m afraid of pain (and my potential inability to handle it), and even moreso of disability. I fear being unable to walk on the beach with my family, or use my arms to hold my husband or use my eyes to watch my nephews grow or my mouth to experience and appreciate all the food there is to fill my tummy with. The human body to me seems a fragile thing and it is not lost on me how lucky I am to be whole and fully functioning. And I worry about losing that blessing.

I also fear loss. I love the people in my life with a strength of emotion that leaves me paralyzed at the thought of the loss of any one of them. I can bring myself to hysterical tears just with the thought (to be embarrassingly honest). I am the same way with my pets – it has been just a month since we lost Daly but I still dissolve into sorrow when I think of him the same as I did the day he didn’t wake up.

And I fear the exact intent behind the quote above. Obsolescence. Lack of impact. Passing out of this world without leaving either mark or memory. And really, who doesn’t fear that? Who doesn’t fear that tomorrow we might be gone and no one, not a single soul, would feel our absence?

How could that idea not be terrifying?

Life is tough. It can be beautiful and fun and deliciously complicated but it is tough. Hard on the heart. Who wants to think that we have gone through all that we have each gone through for nothing?

I am quite sure that doesn’t apply to most of us (we all have our parents, right?). But it is something to consider as you go through your life. What are you afraid of? How does it hinder or drive you? And what can you do to ensure those fears do not become realities?

Even if it springs from a TV show, I think, it’s still a pretty important train of thought. Something to consider. Our fears can drive us, if we aren’t careful. Do what you can to make sure that such is not the case for you.

Success. In a Sandwich.

Last night, I succeeded in making my gluten-free bread. There were a few minor mishaps (you’re probably supposed to actually add the yeast, you know, when the recipe says to add the yeast and not when you see it still on the counter and go ‘oh crap!’) and even a couple of phone calls to Mom (when it says flour the pans, which flour? I have 8 to choose from!). But when the house filled with the smell of warm, yeasty bread and I opened the oven to peek at those two golden loaves – I didn’t care about any of the trouble.

I had bread.

It helped me realize something. I now understand the crux of the gluten-free lifestyle. It isn’t the actual act of eating gluten-free (though that is an obvious part of it). It isn’t knowing your way around the specialty aisles and expensive food stores. It isn’t even knowing what is and isn’t gluten-free (Google is great for that).

It is actually far more simple than any of those far more obvious things. It’s just effort.

The great difficulty with the gluten-free lifestyle is that it isn’t easy. You can’t mindlessly pick whatever sounds tasty from any restaurant menu and then wolf it down (man do I miss that). You can’t just walk into any grocery store and grab the closest box of spaghetti and run home with it. You can’t even just pick any recipe you want out of any cookbook you want and follow the simple instructions.

Most of the recipes don’t have anything even close to simple instructions.

But if I can train myself to put forth the effort – to make gluten-free bread when I really want it, to learn the ins and outs of the gluten-free flours, then really, being gluten-free doesn’t seem like it will really be that bad. I like the bread I made. It’s slightly different, but not as much as I had expected. And when you put peanut butter and jelly on it, it isn’t different enough for me to care.

It’s just about rolling up my sleeves and making myself alternatives to the ‘glutenized’ versions of the foods I miss. It’s about putting in the effort.

I can see that I’m going to have to learn all sorts of things to make this lifestyle work for me. I’m going to have to learn what is and what is not gluten-free (and remember it when it matters). I’m going to have to learn that it really is okay to ask for a gluten-free menu or safe suggestions at a restaurant if I don’t know what I can order. I’m going to have to learn how to make bread without getting flour all over every surface in the kitchen and the cat (so says my husband).

But first and foremost, I’m going to have to learn how to motivate myself to put forth the effort it takes to do this right. To make steamy loaves of bread to slather with honey and stuff with yummy fillings and eat just to know that I can, indeed, eat bread.

What I've realized is, it's not about what I cannot have as part of a gluten-free lifestyle. It's about what I can DO.

I miss bread.

I know it doesn't look like much, just a tupperware container of flour. But it was hard won. (Do you SEE the amount of flour on the toaster?!?)

This evening I started the process of making my first loaves of gluten free bread. I only got so far as the flour mix, which actually led to my first opportunity to use the food processor I bought on super-sale earlier this year. The food processor bit went well; it wasn't until I put the different flours in a bowl and tried that ever-so-complicated trick of stirring, you know, with a spoon that I got it all over the counter, the toaster and myself.

I'm pretty sure there's flour on Olivia as well.

Seeing as it is already after 9:00, I now have a kitchen to clean and I wanted to go to bed early I am going to put off the rest of the baking until tomorrow. But I am excited. Thrilled. Drooling already.

I miss bread you see. I recently decided that going gluten free (following the example of several women already in my family), might help me clear up some nagging gastrointestinal issues that my doctor's suggestion was to 'live with'. And so far it's been okay. Except bread.

I have always loved bread. Rolls. Big crusty french loaves. Pastries. Bagels. Any and all forms of bread. Stuffed full of warm meat and a thin swipe of spicy mustard. Or cold cuts and an all-too-generous layer of rich mayo. Or just a touch warm with a small bit of butter and dripping with sweet honey.

Sigh.

I miss it. And even though I know that gluten free bread won't be the 'same', I don't care. A substitute will still be lovely.

So tonight I pulled out all of the flours that my dear husband brought me from the specialty food store and the food processor and a large bowl and mixed together the flour mix. I hope tomorrow to be able to pop out two full-grown loaves of warm bread and make a sandwich. I'm not the best in the kitchen but... I certainly hope I can figure this out.

I'll let you know what happens.

O Captain! My Captain!

I spent my past two mornings teaching a professional training session with one of the partner's from my office. I was very nervous before-hand, spent a lot of time preparing and then really enjoyed the actual teaching - answering questions, providing practical tools and hearing that the attendees felt they had actually received something of genuine value from what we said.

It got me thinking. Thinking about all of those professors, teachers, trainers that I've had over the years that really left an impression. Mr. Curl in 7th grade (I'm pretty sure I still have his English Grammar packets!), Mrs. Cooke in high school, Dr. Velie in college (who's graduate school recommendation letter sits framed on my desk and I imagine always will). After these two days, I have a new appreciation for how difficult it really must be to make that impression on someone. Much less more than one someone.

I would love to be able to do that. I like to teach people, to help people take things they don't understand and conquer them and use them to their own advantage. Today wasn't really a situation where I could make some sort of significant impression - a training about how to prepare for an audit just isn't going to be that profound. But it made me realize that I would love to be in a position that would give me that opportunity to really make a positive impact on someone.

It also made me realize that I should probably drop all of those teachers a thank you note. This stuff they do - it's harder than they make it look!

Life Lessons

I've been pondering this choice for over a year. Wondering how I would feel once I had a tattoo. Going back and forth between worrying what people might think and thinking to myself 'Who cares what people might think?!?'

The one thing that never really waivered - was where or what the tattoo would be. There were a few maybes - what would the words look like? (Font is important.) Would I add a small swallow curving around the edges? (Only if it won't detract from the words - the words are most important.) But despite the maybes, the message - the message always stayed the same.

Of all the life lessons I've had to learn in recent years - this is one that has repeated itself over and over. (Ad nauseum.) It's the one I struggle with the most.

Let go.

I'm a worrier. An anal-retentive control freak. I get very anxious about details and logistics and little nitty gritty questions about the whats and hows. I get all wound up over things completely out of my control and do everything I can to keep those things to a minimum.

What I've been trying, for ages, to get myself to realize is that there's really not that much I can do about... well... most anything and life is at it's best when I just let go. It's not in my nature and I need constant reminding and thus the tattoo - a (quite literally) constant - permanent - reminder to let go.

I'm trying to be better to myself lately. Letting myself stumble. Mess up. Be sad. Make big decisions. Far too often in my life I have kept myself in a box all sealed up with packing tape and padded with bubble wrap. But what I've realized is that doesn't mean I have fewer scars - it just means that fewer of my scars have been of my own choosing.

This small section of skin stained with ink is, actually, a scar - not only by choice but of my own design. And I'm proud of it. It means a lot to me. To me, it is a statement about me being true to myself. In two words, just one short sentence, I say more to myself than just let go.

A lot more.

Too Short

I had, yet another, reminder today that life can be, all too unexpectedly, too short. As many of you might remember, I previously accepted a challenge to participate in a marathon relay team this past weekend. Well, my team fell apart for a variety of unable-to-run reasons and so I spent the weekend in Dallas with my family instead. When I got to work this morning, I learned that one of the members of my team from last year's relay had decided to run the half marathon.

And died doing it.

I still haven't processed it. I didn't know him well (he was friends with the organizer of last year's team) but I remember arriving at the exchange point last year and, sweating profusely, handing him the timing chip. I remember watching him run off and learning later that he finished his leg at some impressive negative splits - making up a lot of the time I had lost on my oh-so-slow short leg.

And now he's gone.

Apparently, what I've been told, is that he suffered a heart attack and, despite the best efforts of other runners and the course emergency responders, died right there on the course.

Twenty-seven years old. Younger (and healthier) than me. Gone in an instant.

I think it should be a reminder (as so many such things are) to all of us. Don't take a single moment for granted. Don't be afraid to reach out and take hold of those things that you so desperately want for yourself. You just never know, no matter what you might think, how much time you truly have left.

As Dave Matthews says, 'the future is no place to place our better days.' You don't know what your future holds - none of us do. So take full advantage of your present - it may be all you have.

In memory of Marcus, today, I intend to take advantage of my present. I intend to do something that's been on my list for a while now. I'll share it with you soon but I wanted to take this moment to encourage all of you to do the same.

In memory of Marcus.

On a Lighter Note

(How much lighter? Well, the originally-planned title for this post was 'Food Porn'.)

It's been difficult for me to figure out a transition from my last post about Daly-pup because, to be honest, I have not made that transition yet in my daily life. So I figured what I would do today is something that Melody suggested - I will focus on things that I think he would have enjoyed and tell you about those things.

So I'm going to tell you, just like I promised, about the food in Seattle.

First of all, I should warn you, I loved every morsel I ate in Seattle. Every. Single. Bite. So pardon me if this post ends up being long-winded but there's just... there's just so much to say...

And I'm going to start with doughnuts.

Colin and I walked into Top Pot Doughnuts our first morning in Seattle (and our third). I had seen a piece on Top Pot on the Travel Channel (the show Breakfast Paradise always makes me want doughnuts) and it was one of the places I knew I had to visit while we were in town. We stood in a long line that wound around in the tight space, finally arrived at the counter with wide eyes and growling stomachs and promptly ordered more doughnuts than a family of five could eat.

As husbands and wives are wont to do, we disagree on the matter but I think, without a doubt, the original glazed were the best doughnuts I've ever eaten. They are large and doughy (my favorite) and not over-glazed so they aren't too sugary sweet. (Darn you Top Pot for not delivering your yummy goodness via FedEx! Silly quality concerns - I'd take a day-old Top Pot over no Top Pot any day!)

We also had doughnuts two other times in Seattle at Tom Douglas’ restaurant Lola. We ventured down to Lola for dessert after eating at another Tom Douglas hot-spot, Serious Pie (more on that in a moment) on a Food Network suggestion (remind me to drop Giada a doughnut-themed thank you card). Lola has this dessert – it’s a paper bag of warm, hot, light doughnuts that you shake vigorously to coat them all over with a cinnamon sugar mixture. They come with these little containers of a creamy mascarpone and a warm huckleberry jam and the warm cinnamon sugar dough with the slight tang in the jam and the creamy mascarpone is just this incredible texture/taste combination that confuses you and makes you happy in one bite.

The first night we had these – we were going to get them to go because there was a long wait for a table. They handed us our order, however, and we instantly commandeered seats in the bar near a window and finished off the entire to-go setup in no time. Two days later – we were back.

Colin is still craving them.

Both nights we had Lola’s for dessert, we had dinner first at Serious Pie, just down the street. We originally went there (again on a Food Network tip) so that I could taste the goodness of a Yukon Gold Potato Pizza. Well, to be quite honest, that pizza was over-salted and I enjoyed the piece of Colin’s tomato and mozzarella far more and when we went back the second time we ordered two of those (and promptly ate them both).

It was not all doughy repeats, however, as we also had stops at the Space Needle (spectacular view, mediocre food) and Pike Place Market (chowder, macaroni and cheese and dried cherries, oh my).

We also went to a small burger joint, Red Mill Burgers. This was a Man vs. Food pick-up and from the moment we opened the door and stepped in – I knew it’d be good. A juicy burger on a warm bun with Red Mill sauce, Tillamook cheddar and fresh lettuce and tomatoes… please sir, may I have another?

But I think one of the things I was most impressed with in Seattle was the fresh fruit. This may seem small and silly to some but I can’t even begin to describe the fruit I picked up one day at Pike’s Place. Apples and pears that were so big to eat them fresh out of my hand was almost difficult and grapes that exploded with so much juice when I bit down that I sighed in contentment and was full for hours. I would give anything to find that quality of fruit here closer to home.

Luckily some of the food I loved in Seattle I can get shipped straight to my door – Beecher’s handmade cheeses, Chukar Farm’s dried cherries and berry mixes and even smoked salmon from the notorious stand where they throw the fish. I am currently anxiously awaiting the arrival of a birthday box from Chukar Farm’s and wish only that I could order Top Pot, Red Mill and fresh fruit the same way.

Just means I have to go back and continue to eat my way across Washington state. At the earliest opportunity. If anyone wants to do me the favor of dropping hints to my loving husband, I'd be oh-so-appreciative...

A Daly-Shaped Hole

This idea comes from a Salman Rushdie book where he talks about a 'God-shaped hole' that appeared after he lost his faith. He says that when you lose someone, they leave behind a hole shaped like themselves. It's a hole that you cannot fill, because no one else will fit in it but that person that you lost.

Today, I suffer from a Daly-shaped hole.

Colin and I lost our puppy this weekend. After four years of loving him, we are having to figure out how to let him go and I have gained a new understanding of the truth in this Rushdie idea. I miss my pup. I miss his kisses and his own variety of 'hugs' and the way he would celebrate small things like new toys or tiny pieces of cheese with his whole body wriggling in excitement. And no matter how I try to comfort myself, it doesn't quite work - because what I miss, I cannot have. Because Daly, Daly is what I miss.

I've been sad the past few days because I miss my dog. I wish he could be here. But last night, I had a dream about him and I'm doing my best to let that dream make me feel better.

Normally I wouldn't tell you about a dream because I realize it seems weird and because normally I have nightmares and those aren't worth sharing. But this dream was special.

I was outside, with Colin. We were standing on one side of what seemed like a thin wall, like one of those smokey glass walls where you can mostly see what's on the other side but not quite. I was sad, thinking about Daly, and then I saw something moving on the other side of the wall. It was Daly - running around, sniffing and generally being deliriously happy about finding himself outside on a beautiful day.

And I thought to my dream-self, "Here I am, so sad, and there he is, just on the other side of the veil - so happy. How funny we humans are that we mourn what others celebrate."

Then I woke up. At 4am, I looked at the clock and sighed.

A strange dream, but it brought me comfort to think that Daly is there, just on the other side of a veil that I cannot pull back, and he is happy.

I miss him for myself. But I rejoice in the idea that he is settling in to a new home and it is sunny there and he is allowed to run and jump and play and kiss and love. And he is waiting for us.

Someday that Daly-shaped hole will be filled again. I will scratch behind his ears and lay my head aginst his back and feel whole. Today, all I can do, is look forward to that day.

First of Many

You're probably going to have to suffer through a whole string of Seattle posts so please bear with me while I tell you all about how wonderful it is and how you should take your first chance to go there. But for a first pass, I'll just tell my story in pictures.

Now, worry not my curious fellow eaters - an entire future post will be dedicated to the fabulous food finds - complete with pictures (some of empty plates because, you know, I just couldn't make myself wait long enough to pull out the camera). But for now, know that we had a wonderful time and it is quite possible that this Emerald City is MY Emerald City. The one that lies at the end of my personal yellow brick road...

Graduation

Today is kind of a sad day. It was the last day of my painting class. While part of me is glad to have my Tuesday nights back, a bigger part of me is sad that class is over.

I was finally beginning to figure out some small amount of confidence in myself as a painter. Not a good painter - not that kind of confidence. But the ability to play. To try something out and NOT be good at it.

Something like this:

This is my last painting project for the class. I started it last week and finished it tonight - with SIGNIFICANT assistance from my teacher, of course. But I'm still proud of it. Not perfect by any means, but a nice strong step in the right direction.

I picked up a sketchbook that I'm going to try to carry around and get myself to continue to play with ideas and colors and images in the way that I've been learning to do. My teacher actually gave me (GAVE ME) one of her paintings tonight - a small landscape that I've been eyeing and trying to trace for weeks now. My goal is that at some point before her next class (which I can't take) starts in January, I could create a version of that landscape to give back to her.

I'm also currently up to my elbows in the beginnings of a knitting project - a 'boy blanket' for one of my friends whose wife is due in late December with their first child. It's not really a baby blanket because the colors aren't 'baby' persay but I'm very excited about it. I won't post pictures here until it's been finished and gifted but just know that it is turning out quite well (if I do say so myself...).

It's been wonderful to get back to that more creative side of myself that more often than not gets squashed down underneathe the practical accountant side. I've reveled in having my hands covered in paint for days after class and poring over the yarn colors at Hobby Lobby to find JUST the right shade. It reminds me that I really need to devote time to that aspect of myself and enjoy those activities that I love that aren't work-related.

Colin and I head to Seattle on Thursday so I imagine that I will come back with all sorts of fantastic ideas that I'll have to work on - rainy landscapes to paint, scarves to knit and tasty food to write drool-worthy blogs about. Look for pictures and trip stories to be posted here when we get back next week!

Growing Up

Our little divine Miss O had herself quite a terrible morning. Colin took her to the vet for her one-year check up and shots and oh my my was she unhappy. Colin said she was crying and squirming and then when the techs entered the room she would crouch behind a chair and growl. GROWL.

She learned that from her big brother Ralph. He's pretty growly.

She's been very loving since I got home this evening and now she is curled up beside me on the couch completely passed out. She tuckered herself out getting so worked up! It's tough business protecting your little 9 pound body from a crowd of giants.

It had to happen though. All of our babies have to be boarded for the big trip and so she had to get her exam. She seems to have survived relatively unscathed, though she may not be easy to put back into her crate to get her to the boarders.

It's been a pretty crazy past two weeks - I spent last week in Antlers, Oklahoma on a client and this week going back and forth to Tulsa for various training sessions. Next week is the Seattle trip so we're busy getting ready for that and preparing the pets to be in the care of others (and cheering on the Rangers!). I'm very excited for this time next week - Colin and I will be eating dinner atop the Space Needle! Get ready for a whole host of pictures of various angles of the same sunset-drenched skyline...

Black Thumb

Colin and I are basking in the October sunshine at my parent's lakehouse this weekend. The weather is gorgeous here and I enjoy the quiet, peaceful moments on the back porch where all you hear is the wind in the trees and the soft music of the chimes hanging from the eaves. We went to town to Bentonville today and meandered slowly through the outdoor shops, spending the most time (and money) in a bookstore, of course. On our way back out to the house, as we passed a nearby apple orchard, I mused out loud to my husband "There's something about the idea of that life, tending an orchard, that appeals to me."

"HA," he snorted. "You do realize you'd have to water those. You always say you don't have a green thumb. Well, plants seem to think that you have the black thumb of death."

He can be so supportive.

He's right though. I'm not very good with plants. I forget to water them or forget to provide food or I leave them in open sunlight when the little plastic tab very clearly says they prefer shadows. For someone who can be very meticulous when I want to be, I'm completely thoughtless when it comes to green, growing things.

But I really do love them, even if I can't keep them alive. I love fresh flowers and the scents and soft textures of draping vines and the bright, round shapes of fresh fruits. I admitted to Colin I wouldn't so much want to tend the orchard as own it and then pick the fruit when it was ripe - I'd hire someone else to do the rest of the work.

"Oh wait, or I would like to own a flower shop." (He snorts again). No - I sigh, not with potted plants or any of that so I wouldn't have to keep them alive. Just big barrels of cut flowers of all kinds overflowing from the shelves.

Shop Exterior, Gunn's Florists
Brighton, England, UK

A place like this one - Gunn's Florist in Brighton which I passed one day as I was hunting for a tasty place for dinner with Mom (for those traveling to the UK on a GFD, I highly recommend Food for Friends). This store called to me from across the street - there were overflowing bushels of flowers crowded all over the floor and in bins up to the ceiling and spilling out of the open door into a large pyramid of flowers on the sidewalk. I found myself lamenting the complete lack of space at the hotel for a vase of off-white cabbage roses with soft pink tips.

Interior, Gunn's Florist
Brighton, England, UK

I would love to spend my entire day surrounded by such loveliness. I'm sure it's more complicated than I want to make it in my head but I envision days spent wrapping heaping handfuls of hydrangea into brown paper cones and gently insisting to male customers that red roses are not the best way to win your way out of the doghouse.

I know that there would also be anxious moments spent over calculators and spreadsheets figuring overhead and spoilage but in my heart I see myself in jeans, a soft cotton button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up and my hands buried in green, living things, chatting away with people and loving every minute of it.

Colin's still pretty sure, cut flowers or no, that I'd kill everything in my shop long before I had the chance to send it home with anyone. Ah well - it's still a pretty thought.

Local Flavor

A great part of the move to OKC (I think probably my favorite part), has been discovering the food. Oklahoma City has some incredible local food - everything from steak to sushi and all the wandering pathways of delectables in between. And today, today I sampled one of the best treats I've found yet.

Check out this monstrosity:

In hindsight, I wish I had turned it around so you could see the onions and cheese exploding out the other side. I made a mess of myself with this sandwich - one bite in and I was wearing it. It was ridiculous. So much meat and this incredible overflow of melty cheese and sauteed onions - not to mention pickles, lettuce, tomato and a healthy helping of mayo and mustard... From the second we sat down (about two feet from the griddle) in this greasy spoon, Nic's, at 10th and Penn - I said 'There's no way I can eat all that.' Colin has long lamented the fact that I'll order a burger and eat only about 1/2 the meat before I take it out and just finish the bun.

The only thing left in that basket were a couple of the crispier fries.

Now, granted, I smelled like burgers the rest of the day because Nic's is maybe 300 square feet in total and you don't come out of a place like that not smelling like grease and onions. And, quite obviously, this blew all pretenses of going back on my diet today straight to hell. But it was worth it. I'd go back in a heartbeat.

I'd go back tomorrow if I had the time to wait in the line that gathers outside of the door (by 11:20) for a coveted seat at that battered wood bar. I'd go back for breakfast because I have a sneaky suspicion the pancakes are phenomenal and quite probably the size of my face. I'd go back for the meatloaf I've heard is even better than the burgers.

Nic himself makes all the food (right there, while you watch) and each time he passed me once he'd set my basket down he wanted to know if it was good. To be honest, I'm not sure if he ever got anything more than a grunt or an 'mmmmmmm' in response.

I was too busy taking bites that were way too big and licking my hands clean. I love food like that - the food that shuts your mouth and keeps you busy. This is not cozy-up-and-have-a-deep-conversation food. This is sit-down-and-shut-up-and-eat food.

Oklahoma City is good at that kind of food. Real good.

There's all sorts of other food less crazy in size and not so in-your-face - Sara Sara's Cupcakes makes these strawberry cupcakes where you actually bite into HUGE pieces of real, fresh strawberries and Sushi Neko has this incredible tuna dish with lemon slices... I can't even describe it right. Cattleman's has steak so tender I dissolved into giggles with each bite (and coming from a Texas girl - that means something) and the Pachinko Parlor has this amazing vermicelli bowl with fennel broth and wild mushrooms and shirataki noodles (gluten free Mom!!). The list goes on and on really.

Oh the food here is so good....

I know Oklahoma City is one of those places that's best known for really one thing that happened TO it and not really anything it's ever done itself, but that's just because people don't slow down and EAT here. The people in this city take great pride in their craft - and for a lot of them, that craft is turning out incredible food with quality ingredients.

And for an eater like me, that makes it easy to call home.

Progress

I left my painting class tonight covered in paint and grinning from ear to ear. I'm finally starting to get it.

Not that I have any idea what 'it' is exactly - I just know that I'm starting to enjoy the process of painting more and I worry about the technicality less.

Nothing fancy and here it's assisted again by some app-magic but I'm still pretty proud of it. It even got a compliment out of the teacher (albeit for color variations essentially destroyed in this photograph).

I also tried to get pictures of the landscape I did but they didn't come out right - and I don't love it as much as I love the lonely flower anyway. Something about this painting appeals to me tonight. I think it probably has something to do with the fact that the promotion announcement came out firm-wide yesterday and today I felt a little like an ant being tortured by a child with a microscope. All it takes is one good thing happening to you and it seems like people come out of the woodwork to try to set you on fire.

Luckily, I'm not that flammable.

Odds & Ends

I know I've been gone for a while and I apologize because I'm sure you were hoping for something special when I got back but all I really have to share is miscellaneous happenings and thoughts from the past few weeks.

First off, a decision is made.

After much hunting and extensive research (very characteristic of the way I approach just about anything), Colin and I finally found a beautiful place to stay on our trip to Seattle later this month. We went back and forth between fancy splurging and bare-bones practicality, between local flavor and piling up Hilton rewards points. I finally won the argument against a chain by telling Colin I was absolutely set on staying in the Capitol Hill neighborhood (where there aren't any Hiltons, conveniently enough). Then I sealed the deal by showing him this picture of my first choice, a lovely bed and breakfast in a gorgeous, fully-restored Craftsman - the Gaslight Inn.

We are getting more and more excited about our trip - our first true vacation just the two of us since our honeymoon four years ago. I have uncovered all sorts of exciting things for us to do as well as rich, quiet places to spend lazy afternoons and warm restaurants in which to spend late evenings. (I decided I find it very fitting that someone like me, a self-declared "eater", should travel to a city with the word EAT in its name.) It will be a welcome respite for us after these hectic months of Colin going back to school and my long hours at work.

And another decision, made by someone else.

I also found out this week that, much to my surprise, the partners at work decided to promote me to manager as of January 1. I was surprised because I had previously been told I would not be eligible this year because they want five years experience and I only have four and a half. I'm excited, though somewhat intimated, by the challenge. I've been trying to tell myself that such feelings are natural - I find I do my best work when I have a healthy respect for the potential difficulties of the task at hand.

A somewhat-unexpected response to the news.

The day after I was informed of the promotion, the partners informed the rest of the department. The evening in between Colin took me to the mall - I wanted a nice shirt or sweater to wear to the announcement. Somehow, the fun search for a simple shirt ended with me in a dressing room at Ann Taylor, beset by two women bringing me all manner of suits, dress shoes and trendy, high-belted satin shirts. Colin came around the corner of the dressing room to find me, all dressed up in $400 worth of fanciness, in a state of utter panic.

"Can we please leave now?!?"

In that moment I was completely overwhelmed by what this new position might mean. Did it really mean I needed fancy, high-heeled shoes and suits? Did I need to change my approach to work and appearance and life? I'm a casual person by nature, flat shoes, comfy sweaters, no makeup and no hair 'style'. And I like that part of me. I always do my best to look professional but within those very specific guidelines - professional, and yet comfortable. Something about seeing myself in the mirror all dolled up in business professional dress made me worry that this might not be such a positive change after all.

We left the mall and immediately drove to Target where I bought a $7 shirt, $17 shoes and a $10 purse, all of which looked like me and worked perfectly for the big luncheon and all the shaking of hands and excited chatter that followed it.

The dressing room experience helped remind me - it's all what I make of the change that matters. In the end, I have to take this new position and make it my own and do it in my own way. I will continue to be professional in appearance, in my own comfortable way. Who I am got me promoted - so hopefully that same person can help me succeed once it happens.

In reward, a long-awaited treat, and a slight rebellion of sorts.

I'm not sure if it was entirely driven by the promotion and the dressing room episode but I finally made up my mind to do something I've long contemplated. Colin was so glad that "after five years of talking about it" I finally found a local place with a good reputation and high standards, and we went yesterday.

It is, after all, very small and I would imagine that 99% of the people who meet me will not have any idea it is even there. But I love it and it speaks to me because it signifies a return to myself and of honoring who I am, work position notwithstanding. I battle sometimes between who I am during the week and who I am in my head and this was a nice way of making sure both are getting equal representation.

Beyond that, the continuation of just a simple life.

Not much else is new. Colin's late classes and my overtime have kept us busy and we get home, collapse on the couch and talk in hushed voices about wayward staffers and forgetful professors while our house slowly gets messier and our four-legged babies beg for attention. My running has taken a back seat to other duties and I must now renew my efforts at a more determined pace in order to ready myself for the marathon relay. I have also been doing a terrible job at cooking new recipes and I've realized this weekend that I should be using Colin's late classes as the chance it is to try out recipes I know he would refuse to eat.

There's always something to work on.

Organized Chaos

I have often been amused to hear people at work talk about how organized I am. They're convinced that I am naturally like that - everything in it's place, filed and color-coordinated. Even when I try to tell them it's all a self-imposed, purposeful construct that helps me get through my workday, they simply shake their heads in denial. Even when I try to convince them that it really does take a lot of effort on my part to be that way, they smirk and say "Whatever Mandy."

Regardless of what I say, they don't believe me.

I wish they would talk to my husband. Colin would tell them all about how I really am when I'm at home and I'm in my more natural mental state. He calls it 'organized chaos' but I think he's being polite. Really it's probably better described as just plain chaos.

At home, things appear randomly wherever I happen to drop them. There are usually pairs of shoes spread throughout the house, one or more in each room ('and not always in pairs', Colin points out oh-so-helpfully). My ever-present cardigans could be in the guest room, over the back of the chaise in our room, on the living room couch, or on the kitchen counter (anywhere but the closet). I am constantly in search of such small items as keys and sunglasses because I tend to set them down when I come in but not always in the same place.

The largest concern I had about our current home was the fact that we would have to share a closet. My anal-retentive, super-neat hubby shivered at the thought but he has managed well. I work very hard to keep it mostly clean - usually by dumping whole piles of clothes from the floor into the hamper even if they aren't dirty.

When we travel, Colin likes to compare what happens to the contents of my suitcase to an explosion, or, as he says, to what would happen if I "unzipped it and ran around the room shaking out the insides in small piles completely at random."

In some ways I like being organized, having everything where it should be and easy-at-hand. At work it gives me a sense of confidence and preparedness. But I have to admit that my natural comfort zone is in a state of slight (or even advanced) disarray. There's something homey and comfortable about stuff being strewn about in a way that implies use and even need. If everything is neat and tidy it tends to make me feel like I can't relax.

But, more than likely, only those of you who have actually lived with me will believe that.

Obsession

Sounds scandalous doesn't it? What could it be you wonder... The word obsession has these dark, twisted connotations of something secret, something inherently dangerous and sexy.

HA. Do you know me at all? I'm about as dangerous as a paper cut.

My obsession involves a styrofoam cup the size of my head and what comes in it. For a while I resisted. I had even been thisclose to cutting it out altogether. I kept telling myself, like any other addiction, it's expensive. In excess, it does bad things to your brain. And the second you give in to it... you have to have it again. And then you have to have it twice a day.

And then the car hops at Sonic know your name and your order and they're walking towards your car before you ever press the call button.

Colin always cracks on me because I have to drink my Route 44 Unsweet Iced Tea from Sonic exactly like this. Both hands on the cup (it's heavy!), head tilted to one side and straw in one side of my mouth. I don't know why. I hadn't even noticed it. But now that he's made fun of me I realize it every time - but I can't help it! I can't stop myself.

I love their iced tea. It's an easy cheesy way to make me pretty silly-happy. As I've given up my traditional comfort foods on my 'health quest', the comfort-in-a-cup that a Route 44 represents has become ever more important. It's a great way to get that same warm fuzzy feeling without downing 1,000 calories in a single sitting.

Sometimes I worry about all the caffeine. And the $2.05 a pop. And being known by name at a local fast food joint. But mostly, I just take that first sideways sip and sigh... Ahhh... so good. I'm completely obsessed and I've given myself over to it.

I like to think it could be worse. It could be a 44-ounce rum and coke you know.

The Worst Within Us

Yesterday in training we had to do one of those self-tests that helps you determine your 'communication style' by asking you to rate what response out of four options is most like you for about 20 given situations. Then you calculate your score, trace it to your style and learn all of the best and worst aspects of your personality and why you succeed or fail at work.

Yeesh. All that after just 10 minutes worth of response ratings?

Of course there are always some aspects of these tests that make us say 'yes - that is definitely me' and then there are others where we just snort and say 'HA. Whatever.' But it just made me think about the fact that if we really are honest with ourselves - do we actually need a test to tell us any of this stuff?

I'm pretty aware of the worst parts of my personality - especially at work. I'm demanding. Picky. Anal retentive. I want things just-so (color-coded, natch) and I want them in full sentences dang it! I am a stickler for old-school office etiquette (don't sit in someone's office until asked, wear closed-toed shoes) and I have high expectations for my staff straight down to the newbies but also for my higher-ups - and I can be unforgiving when repeatedly disappointed. I also tend to put off assignments that I'm not interested in or feel unprepared for and I ask extensive questions about pretty much anything I'm asked to do. And I hate review notes. Nothing irks me more than having to return to something I've already finished to redo it - which is completely hypocritical because, since I'm so picky, I leave TONS of review notes.

I can come up with all of that in no time flat because I know it about myself. I'm sure there are negative aspects of my personality I gloss over but I do my best to be honest with myself (and my staffers - I admit all of these things to them up front). But I try to remind myself that there are positive aspects to my personality as well.

My main goal with every staffer is to teach them as much as possible. Anything they want to know, sometimes more than they want to know. I will stop whatever I'm doing, at any time, to answer a question or help them in any way. They are absolutely my first priority and I have been told (in more than one upward evaluation) that they know that. I'm also a stickler about not asking anything of my staff that I wouldn't do myself - and I've been told they know that too.

One of my staffers is an excellent barometer for how I'm doing at balancing out the good in me with the worst in me because she's one of those tell-it-like-it-is women that doesn't pull punches. She has told me that she likes working with me because she knows without a doubt that I wouldn't waste her effort on something I didn't think was important. (She's also told me that sometimes while clearing my internal control review notes she wishes she could smack me.)

I'm not really sure what the benefit is to my telling you any of this except to say that I think it's important that we all contemplate the best and the worst aspects of working (living, or loving) with ourselves and do our best to balance out the two. We can't always quell the worst aspects of our personalities, and sometimes we shouldn't. My pickiness may be frustrating at times for the people working with me, but there are very real benefits to having high documentation standards (and when it becomes second-nature to them they aren't quite so annoyed anymore anyway).

At least... that's what I'm going to tell myself.

In any case, it's important to realize that we all take our two wonky halves and use them to patch together an imperfect whole and there's really no reason not to acknowledge our own weaknesses because if we ignore them, they are far more likely to bite us in the butt.

Social-lite

I've decided that, for a natural recluse like me, getting married is to a certain extent like a terminal illness for your social life. Wedding bells are, in a way, the death toll for all other relationships. Your other bonds start to decay almost instantly and then quickly slide downhill into all but nonexistence.

That's exaggerating of course, but it's late and I'm tired so give a girl a break. In a way, I feel like I've been hiding under a rock since Colin and I got married, with short excursions out for knitting classes and one semester of English courses at a local university (and one blissful week in the UK with my mom). Other than that, I've been (self-)limited to only rare outings with friends and lots of time with my oh-so-lovable hubby.

Not that the hubby has suddenly become any less lovable, but I'm working on getting myself out more. I'm finding ways to be out in the community on my own as an individual rather than as part of a pair and tonight was a perfect example. Tonight, I had my first class session at a local tech center for a class in, of all things, acrylic and watercolor painting.

Essentially it took only about, oh, an hour with a brush in my hand to realize that watercolors probably require a level of finesse that I don't actually possess. But I chatted up the women at my table, discussed paint preferences with the teacher and did my best to make my 'study in values' really look like a house with a mountain in the background. I'm still thinking that maybe acrylics should be my focus but with a little Hipstamatic app magic I think it actually looks pretty nifty:

Regardless of my actual success with the painting - I really enjoyed being in an incredibly hodge-podge group of people attempting to learn something just for the heck of it. And because I also enjoy photograpy, it doesn't bother me at all to use a little digital manipulation to improve the results of my manual efforts.

Not bad for a first session. Pretty darn successful if I do say so myself.

Lazy Food Lover

I read Molly Wizenberg's 'A Homemade Life' this weekend and it reaffirmed one thing I already knew about myself (and have long proudly advertised) and called into startling relief something else I have ignored to the point that I was surprised to truly realize it.

I love to eat. And I hate to cook.

Pretty much anyone who's ever met me knows that I love to eat. I'm not shy about it. My motto (claimed from a much-loved movie) is 'I'm an eater.' I know all the tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants within a ten mile radius from my house, office and major clients and I constantly seek out recommendations when I'm in an unfamiliar area. I'm also not a very dainty eater - I attack my meals with gusto and relish every last bite.

But I do not enjoy cooking.

I want to. I like to look at recipes and I say things to myself like 'oooo buckwheat pancakes - I love those! I should try that!' But the truth is, I don't really want to try that. I would much rather have someone else try that and I would happily oooh and aaaah appreciatively while I devoured everything on my plate.

This is something I need to work on. The best things in life are worth working for and food is no different. I know there are all sorts of wonderful recipes out there I would love - I just need to quit being a lazy bum and get down to the business of trying them all out.

I think I'll start this weekend. Some buckwheat pancakes out of Molly's book would be the perfect way to kick off a September Saturday morning. I'll finish my run, roll up my sleeves and make myself something tasty.

Maybe I just need to cook, taste, repeat until I teach myself that yummy things only truly come to those who cook. A little positive reinforcement experiment. It just might work if I keep at it. And I'll get to eat all sorts of lovely things along the way.

End of Summer

This weekend ended up a, somewhat unexpected, simple celebration of some of my favorite aspects of this summer-turning-to-fall time of year. We spent a clear, cool Friday night in the stands at a Red Hawks baseball game where I promptly stepped off the diet wagon in order to indulge in my love of ballpark hot dogs. Well, let's be honest. I didn't step off the wagon. I threw myself overboard headfirst into a river of nacho cheese. Three hot dogs, half a funnel cake and a mini-helmet full of ice cream later, I sat in the stands with my feet up, giggling like a schoolgirl, knowing without caring that I would regret every last gastronomical decision I had just made.

Tonight was a much quieter (healthier) splurge as we took Daly-pup to the trails. I love to take Daly just about anywhere because putting him in the car and rolling down the window is all it takes to make him deliriously happy. And really, seeing him makes a lot of people we don't even know happy. People will talk to him (one teenager once even barked at him) and he just drools happily all down the side of my car in mute response. I honestly think that driving down the highway with his head out and eyes squinted down to slits is how he'd love to spend every waking moment for the rest of his life if he could.

The trails, however, is an area that is actually not that far from our house, just on the northwest side of Lake Hefner. It's about a mile long paved loop (there's also windy single-track, mostly frequented by serious mountain bikers from what I can tell) and we go there frequently with Daly to enjoy the quiet green patch in the middle of the city. Tonight, Colin took Daly on his leash and I... I took my bike.

After years of wanting a new one (since my previous bike got stolen off my front porch in college, to be exact), I recently got myself a bike. It's not just any bike. It's a Schwinn Windwood Cruiser with a front basket, back luggage rack and old-school bell. I researched and found the exact bike I wanted, saved up and finally bought it just over a month ago. It's white, pink and black and I am, quite honestly, head over heels in love with it. I tell myself that it's a great form of cross-training but the truth is, riding this bike makes me feel ten years old again and completely carefree which is a feeling I treasure wherever I can find it.

The only downside so far has been that getting the bike anywhere is a bit of a hassle now without the Blazer (the only time I have missed that car) and by the time we got to the trails tonight my husband was grumbly and cranky and I was already sweating. But as soon as I got on and took off - I was back to the same giggly state from Friday's game (only without the powder sugar all over my shirt like some dieter's scarlet letter).

Fall is such a beautiful time of year, full of transition and depth and I love the colors and the brisk, cool air and the way the light feels different in the early evening. The light had that quality tonight, the warm golden look of a sunset that seems to be so particular to late fall. As the path curved ahead of me and the rays slanted through the trees, I was happy to be out on my bike in the stillness, circling back periodically to Colin and the pup and smiling a big goofy grin at just about everyone I passed.

I've never really been a true fan of summer. As someone who gets hot-and-bothered easily, the 100 degree heat in this part of the country makes me wilt typically before we even reach midday. But fall... there is something completely rejuvenating for me about the feel of fall.

I'm glad it's here again. I'm glad that we went to the game Friday night and I'm glad that the ballpark hot dogs at the Brick are always as fantastic as I hope they'll be. And I'm glad that on my bike I can recapture some internal stillness, some of that just quiet joy that reminds me that I am alive, that life is good and that simple things are worth working for. Too much of adult life gets lost in seriousness I think, and I am grateful that my bike reminds me what it is to feel the wind in my hair, my feet on the pedals and the rush of simply moving myself through the world on my own power.

Tomorrow I'll be back at work but tonight I'm trying to savor the last moments of the end-of-summer feeling this weekend gave me that reminds me so much of when I was a student. Part of why I love fall I think is because for so long it signaled the return to school and, as a self-professed nerd would, I always looked forward to returning to school. I won't get to buy books and notepads and shiny new pens this year, but I can tool around the neighborhood on my bike and remember that feeling as best I can anyway.

Which is exactly what I intend to do.

Challenge: Accepted

Come ludicrously early on November 21, I will be milling about the starting line of the Route 66 Marathon with hundreds (thousands?) of super-fit long distance runners. I'll be there as the first leg of a relay team - the long leg. Testing myself for the first time in front of others at a distance longer than a 5k. Part of me is already anxious and excited.

Part of me is saying 'What the hell are you thinking?!?'

I participated in this same relay last year and ran the shortest (straightest, flatest) leg. Between then and now I have done two other formal events - one 5k and my longest race ever to date - a 10k. I didn't prepare well for either. I have had a hard time sticking to my initial commitment all the way through race day and invariably I have dropped off and struggled through the distance unnecessarily.

I am determined not to do that this time.

This week I started training - using the C25k program I've heard so much about ('there's an app for that!'). Before I've just kind of made up my training as I went along and let's face it - I'm not very good without structure. After the C25k program there's a B210k (Bridge to 10k) program that I've already downloaded - it should get me (pretty close to) ready for the distance I've accepted, 7.6 miles.

Already this week it has helped me to feel alive in that way which I think only consistent exercise can. I'm sure some of it is purely psychological but I feel the muscles in my torso and legs differently than before - they feel tighter, more responsive even just when I'm standing or walking. My posture is always better when I'm true to my running and now is no different - I'm holding my head a little higher, feeling the confidence which power over my body brings.

My body has changed drastically this year (why is a story for another post). Originally I had set a modest goal for my weight-loss efforts but I've since more than doubled it to a new, much more powerful goal. I have learned that I don't have to be restricted by how I see myself - as someone who isn't very athletic, doesn't like health food, will never be 'skinny'. That is an image I have created and it doesn't have to be reality.

This race is my next attempt to slash one of those ideas - that I'm not very athletic. I never have been, really - even as a dancer, I had the heart but not the grace, the ability. Part of why I've embraced running I think is because anyone can run - it's not a matter of ability. It's a matter of persistence. Perseverance. Sometimes just all out stubborness (and Lord knows I have plenty of that).

I have two main goals on this particular race day. A recurring one that I have NEVER accomplished - to run the entire distance without walking. But more than that, something completely personal - to stand at that starting line, with all of those super-fit long distance runners, without fear. To know without doubt that I can complete the task ahead. To look forward to that moment when I come to the exchange point and hand the chip to my husband (who's taking on 5.9 miles himself) and know that I will get there and feel completely fantastic.

Those are my goals. And I have 79 days to get there. What can you accomplish in the next 79 days that you would initially say you couldn't? Is there something you want but don't think you can have? I encourage you to make it your goal. Push yourself to do something that makes you wonder 'What the hell am I thinking?'

We'll get there together.

One Word

Have you ever played the introduction game where you have to describe yourself using just one word? I've never entirely understood the point of that game because it seems inherently misleading - any word you pick would surely leave out whole aspects of who you really are, and naturally focus on some aspect of yourself that you really (really) like. And yet, for some reason, I was thinking about it this morning on my way to work and trying to determine what word I would choose, at this point in my life, to describe myself.

Several came to mind (a perfect illustration of the issue with selecting just one) - curious, interested, intrigued. I was definitely focusing on an aspect of myself that I really like: my natural instinct to ask (lots and lots of) questions. To wonder not just who, what, where, when but also how, and why and all the details in between.

But then... as I thought about those words... I realized something else. I realized that they also focus on an aspect of myself that I definitely DON'T like - my seemingly constant position as someone who is acted UPON rather than someone who ACTS.

Think about it - curious. Something outside of myself has made me question. Interested. Something outside of myself has drawn my attention. Intrigued. Something has made me wonder. None of them are acting words - interesting (where I am the source of attraction), intriguging (where I am the one causing the wonder).

It's actually one of those annoyingly accurate 'coincidences' which Freud would have said don't exist because this subject-rather-than-source aspect of my personality has been a trait that I have fought against for a while now. Really ever since I began to understand the propensity I have to allow other people to act on or for me, rather than my acting for myself. I have, far too often, allowed myself to feel obligated to ask for permission and be denied something when I should have just reached out and taken it. Even now, as a working, bill-paying adult... even now I do this.

I'm working on it. I'm taking baby steps - reminding myself of little things that I can, and should, do for myself without asking anyone if I can, or should. I'm trying to remind myself to follow my instincts and not to feel guilty about who I am or what I want. I've been doing a good job lately of taking time back for myself - this blog is a good example, my re-dedication to reading, the soon-to-begin painting class.

But in the end, I'm not trying to change how I naturally see myself. I like that I'm curious, that I get interested in all sorts of random things and intrigued by just about darn near anything I don't initially understand. I just want to take those same passive traits and turn them into actions. From being merely interested to being in active pursuit of the interest, in active pursuit of the intrigue.

From being acted upon, to being the source of action.