Food for Thought

Last night we watched the movie "The Hundred Foot Journey." I usually don't love a movie unless it involves some kind of spaceship or time machine or military hardware or at least a handgun, but this beautifully shot sleeper won me over. Of course it didn't hurt that one of the main players was food. Spicy, tasty, steaming hot dishes of Indian food, to be more specific. Lines that expressed the main theme were “every bite takes you home” and “food is memories.”

When my wife and I were dating and later, as poor newlyweds, we would go to the Bombay House, still the best Indian restaurants we have ever eaten at. Their Chicken Coconut Kurma is on my list of "if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would you choose?” We became so addicted to the amazing flavors at Bombay House that after one splurge the owners had to call us to say, "I am so sorry; your check, it is bouncing."

Years back, when many of the women in my family came down for women’s conference and to visit, we all went to Bombay House and had a great meal. When it came time to pay the bill, we began to hassle my sister Charlotte, who had been designated to cover the large sum, about how long it was taking her to get it paid. My niece Jessie began to be sincerely distressed even to the point of tears, trying to understand why Charlotte had to pay for it all and, especially, why we would be so rude about how long it was taking for her to pay. (She did not realize that Charlotte was just figuring the bill and using our mom’s card to settle accounts.) To this day, the situation and Jessie’s hysterics still makes me smile so hard my face hurts.

Once upon a time, back when I could still write a letter to my dad, I was smart or lucky enough to start collecting family recipes and I even created a cookbook for my siblings. He sent me the recipes and short histories for many family classics including his upside-down cake, Spanish Delight, and pancakes.

I have mastered these and maybe even improved them and, strangely, I feel a certain satisfaction about this. I can make an apple pie that is as good as my mom's. I have been a part of creating and sharing food that spans the decades. It runs in the family. My sister Lissa cooked me her triple berry pie for my 50th birthday. I will now forever associate that delicious flavor with her and that occasion and forever appreciate the time and effort she put into every bite I took in the company of my family. My wife makes bread and scones that I have a really hard time sharing with others; I really only share because I cannot physically eat them all by myself. (I do my best, believe me.)

While I cook mostly to selfishly feed myself and my family, I occasionally will feed others. So I understand what my sister-in-law (and amazing chef) Lin wrote in her blog a few years ago: "Fixing you food is how I tell you that I care for you, that I am sorry you had a bad day, that I’m glad that you had a great day. Food communicates (I hope) what I so often can’t find the words for." My wife cooked a huge batch of Black Eyes of Texas (http://kcwoman.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/texas-when-i-die/) and sent them up to her brother who requested them for Christmas. It's like having chips and dip for dinner, a real treat. Anyway, even though I have been dieting the past few months, I still love food... and the memories that come with it. And I'm grateful for those people who have cooked for me over the years. Her blog’s still there if you find yourself wanting a good read or a good cry: http://kcwoman.wordpress.com/

I am slowly but surely putting some Walker family recipes online at pepperplate.com. If you would like the login information, feel free to contact me. http://www.pepperplate.com/recipes/.

Neighbors or Family?

So about the time we were looking at this sunset on the Gulf Coast of Florida, my phenomenally good neighbor Greg Clark was holding a shovel and looking at a dead skunk in my backyard. The day he and his wife Linda discovered the

smelly invader, it was impossible to enter the immediate area to attempt to water our lawn, a task they had agreed to undertake while we were gone. The following day Greg buried the offensive creature, then put our fire pit grill lid over the top to mark the spot as well as to prevent the remaining neighborhood wildlife from digging it up.

So, what kind of neighbor does this kind of stuff? Um, the best kind. Other neighbors, Randy and Cathy, were watching our evil black cat, daily giving her food and attention. Randy somehow felt obligated to try to pet the cat. Yeah, the cat that consistently bites you after three strokes of her fur, all while sitting disrespectfully on your thighs, which she considers to be her territory even though they are attached to your body. The text conversation is on the right:

Sometimes folks just do stuff above and behind the call of duty. It doesn’t take long until you realize that these people are no longer just friends, but have become family. Or maybe they are family and you just don’t realize it.

Just last week, our Clark neighbors (yard waterers, buriers of the skunk) were over in the forest which is our front yard picking chokecherries off the trees there. As I chatted with them, they shared that they had gone to a family reunion in Oakley, Idaho and also visited Grantsville, Utah. I was surprised, as my Dad, Hal Wilson Walker, was born in Oakley and, back a ways, in my grandmother’s line, we have a relative with the last name Clark. We also have roots in Grantsville.

Yup. For the past 8 years, I’ve been living next door to my cousin 

(however distant) and didn’t even know it. And another relative, Jon Clark, had recently moved from a house just up the street. I did a little Web-digging and found some delightful information about the Clarks of Oakley on Jon Clark’s daughter’s blog (including the fact that the Clark’s bought the ZCMI store in Oakley, a location I am certain my father visited often as he referred to the store in number of his stories: http://almosthalfwaythere.blogspot.com/search?q=Oakley

It’s funny, because these are two men, and families, that I really like. I thought they were intelligent, creative, occasionally a little quirky, but always kind and filled with a sense of humor. How pleasant to discover that we share some of the same heritage and bloodlines. Funny how just a little knowledge can tweak your mortal perspective.

Our common ancestor is a guy named Thomas Henry Clark. He was born in Acton, Herefordshire, England in 1805—the same year as Joseph Smith. As a young man he was affiliated with the United Brethren, a religious group who listened to the gospel preached by a missionary named Wilford Woodruff and were baptized into the LDS Church. He sailed from Gloucester and emigrated to America and later led a group of Saints through Canada and down to Nauvoo. One of his descendants, David Mark Smith of Springville, wrote this about Thomas Henry Clark: “He was a great leader, a tough resilient pioneer, dedicated Bishop, zealous missionary and devoted family man. He was a man of many paradoxes, a noted athlete but a humble servant of God, he helped settle and defend a tough Indian territory but became highly respected and loved by the Native Americans, he experienced incredible hardship and tragedy both personally and with those he had stewardship over, yet he maintained a positive outlook and remained faithful in his beliefs and even showed, at times, a sense of humor.” (http://smithharper.org/docs/clark/thomashclarkbydavidsmith.pdf)

Sounds like some people I know, just subtract some Native Americans and add some leather gloves and skunks.

Hitting the MZ Button

Location: Embassy Suites Hotel, San Diego ❖ 10th Floor

My wife and I get in the elevator and almost immediately half a dozen bubbly young girls stream in and line the glass walls. One of them holds the door and yells down the hallway, “Kiera, are you coming?... Are you coming or not?!”

“I’m coming!” is the reply and, seconds later, two more girls pop in from the hallway.

As the elevator descends, one of the girls looks down and, grief-stricken, blurts out, “I forgot my socks! I’ve got to go back to 10.” We didn’t yet comprehend why she was so distraught at this discovery.

“Hit the MZ button.” “We’re going to MZ,” one of the girls explains. And, lacking a “the,” we sense that she has no idea what those letters actually mean.

“What’s on MZ?” my wife asks one of them.

“It’s the most slipperiest floor ever!” the girl responds.

No socks. Slippery floor. Now it all made sense.

When we returned to the hotel later that day, we hit the MZ button in the elevator and stopped on the mezzanine level to see if we could discover why it was so magical for those girls. I expected to find some slick, polished marble or ceramic tile section of floor. But we walked the entire thing and it was all carpet. It was, however, smoother carpet than the other, more trafficked floors. The reality was not as thrilling as the imagined destination but, for those girls, killing time between sessions of their cheerleading competition, it was the place to be. But only if you remembered to wear socks.

We went next door to a cool beach-themed shop and I scored some crazy tie-dyed, striped socks (above) that I had passed on earlier because they were pricey and a little outside of my comfort zone. But after discovering MZ, I had to have them. And, well, it’s now gotten worse, or better depending on how you look at it. This is what came in the mail yesterday:

Now, when faced with a rough day, instead of saying, “Go to your happy place,” I now say “Go to MZ.” And I remember my socks.

There’s Always Next Year

Yep. I kept the score book from the tourney.
It was kind of a big deal.

With less than ten seconds left on the game clock, our team was down by one point. But we had the ball and enough time to get at least one shot off. I ran down the court as fast as my 18-year-old legs could carry me, then turned to look for the ball. Our point guard had dribbled the ball past half court and decided that he would take the final shot from well beyond the three-point line. The ball sailed through the air, we looked up, and held our breath. It fell way short... an air ball... and miraculously dropped right into my hands. I turned, there was the rim, so I tossed the ball up and it went right in. The buzzer sounded, and the game was over, 65-64.

We had just squeaked by Blackfoot Post 254, our first opponent in the Explorer Olympics, a multi-day summer league tournament that featured the best high school and Church players in southeast Idaho. And we were ecstatic. We had just stolen a game from basically the same team that had taken state during that year’s high school basketball season.

At the time I was working a night shift at a potato processing plant. And these “olympic” games ran all day. So I would get home from my shift, change into my basketball clothes, plop into the back of the Weaver’s brown van and drift in and out of sleep as we travelled the 45 miles from Roosevelt Street in American Falls to Blackfoot High School. Often waves of music from the cassette deck would splash in and then retreat from my dreams, usually Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” or Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Starting Something.”

The cycle repeated—trim potatoes, change into gym shorts, sleep in the van—another day, another game. In the semi-final, we played with more consistency and we pulled off a 57-45 win over a Pocatello team (basically the Highland high school squad), qualifying us for the championship.

Potatoes, gym clothes, nap in van. We played Unit 536 (Orofino) in the final game. We led by 6 to 8 points at each break but they made a big push at the end and we only won by 4 points in the end: 79-75. I had 20 points and only 2 fouls. It is rare that I score that many but all of our starters had double figures.

My lucky 80s wristband.

I can still picture the gym in Blackfoot where we celebrated, the weight of the “gold” medal around my neck, and the feeling of playing hard, leaving it all on the floor, and winning a championship. Not having been chosen to play high school ball, it was the closest I ever came to “taking state.” Well there was that one time when I was part of a choral quartet and we were awarded a superior but that was a subjective win… you couldn’t see the points on the scoreboard. Anyway, I digress.

Having won our region, we qualified to go back to the national playoffs. As I recall, that competition fell smack dab in the middle of potato harvest and most of our team could not be spared. As consolation, we played another qualifying team from Idaho and beat them by 10 points. That team went back east, made it to the championship, and lost to a New York team by 10 points… oh, what could have been. But there are worse things than having your season end on  a win… that kind of finish is so rare—63 of 64 teams in the NCAA tourney will be going home on a loss.

I keep looking to recapture that post-season feeling by recruiting a group to play BYU intramurals. But when the median age of our team is 47 and we are playing kids half our age, we usually fall out in round 2 or 3 of the tourney. Last night, it was a second round loss. But there’s always next year and the hope of ending the season on a win.

There’s always kickball this summer or maybe innertube water polo next winter… that BYU intramural championship t-shirt still eludes me. And if that doesn’t work, well, this is the year I will finally be old enough to qualify for the Huntsman World Senior Games. I hear they have some pretty competitive teams down in St. George each October.

If I listen real carefully I think I can hear a ball bouncing and soles squeaking on some hardwood right now... just sayin’.

Boing Boing

This animated loop shows how some of my favorite players react to a shot bouncing on the rim. The free throw shooter gives a little lean, hoping the shot will spin and go in. Three hopeful rebounders jockey for position, readying for the impact of the fight for possession. Another player, well, it seems like a perfect time to adjust his jersey. (I miss you guys.) Have a great Thanksgiving. (And a shout out to Andrew who provided video.)

If you click on this, I think it will expand to a larger image.

Hearing My Dad Laugh

So back in the mid-90s, Julie and I sat down with Mom and Dad and chatted about their early life, from Dad's work on the railroad, on through the war years, and up to the time when my oldest brother was born. This is how I learned that Lorin was a "persnickety" kid among other things.

Our intent was to do more interviews but we pretty much wore them out with this session and never really got back to it. I am just grateful we got what we did. Fair warning: The video quality is not great. I am going to try to import it again later and get a cleaner picture but I was able to improve the audio quite a bit so you can hear the voices a lot better than in the original.

So here is 38+ minutes for you to watch when you have the time. I think you'll agree that there really is nothing better than hearing my dad tell a story and laugh at his own jokes on Father's Day. Except maybe for mom laughing at everything but his jokes. :)

Here you go.

Of This and a Lexus

Out of every family trip comes at least one phrase or moment that forever lives in infamy. We were heading to Boise this past weekend when a white Lexus sedan starts honking at the car in the left turn lane in front of it, trying to get it to proceed even when it was obvious that there was not space or time to do so safely. So, in response, Austen says, "What the heck?, white Lexus." So we instantly adopt this as our family's catch phrase. 

Feeling the need to document this gem before it was lost, I attempt to use my voice-activated smartphone. "Siri, make a note of this . . . " The phone cuts me off, and before I can say the words, "What the heck?, white Lexus," this comes up on the screen:

The universe (and its many smartphones) do indeed make fun of us all.

Hardley Speaking

2007 Excalibur Gray 200cc Vespa

So I wrote the majority of this post a week after I bought my scooter. Since then, I received a package from my brother that gave me instant street creed… a matte-black Harley cruiser half helmet… with a couple minor scratches that give it just the right amount of character. And Clair’s subsequent text message gave the Vespa its bemusing name: “  thought it was a perfect scooter helmet for your Hardley.” I laughed until I teared up… it was perfect. (FYI, it’s the third definition of bemusing: to cause to have feelings of wry or tolerant amusement.)

The perfect scooter helmet

So… I am close to doubling Hardley’s original 400 miles and have found it difficult to keep from smiling every time I ride it, bugs be damned.

Ever since I took my motorcycle safety course last summer, I have done a lot of thinking about how we move through life, physically, yes, but mostly psychologically.

If you’ve had any kind of contact with me recently then you know that I now scoot down the mountain to campus on my 2007 Excalibur Gray 200cc Vespa. I bought it from a Colorado football coach who was sad to see it go but needed the cash to help fund his next ride, an 80s-era Land Cruiser. I think he was tired of his fellow Coloradans thundering by in their redneck pickups, hollering, “Get a horse!” He bought it from a guy in Twin Falls, Idaho who must have never driven it. It had just over 400 miles, almost like new . . . except for a scratch on one fender. I guess it was parked and rolled over onto its side one time. I have found that it is easier on me to buy things with at least one scratch so I don’t feel the pain of putting the first one on there myself.

Anyway, after a maiden voyage on a Sunday, a spring snow storm, and morning rain only let me ride the scoot to work once the first week. I started formulating flimsy excuses to ride. Um, I need to run down to my wife’s office to see why she is working so late. Oh looks like she’s already home, guess I better head back home now.

After posting my new ride on Facebook, my SUV-and-testosterone-fueled neighbor suggested that my owning a scooter would necessitate my clipping a corner from my “man card.” While I generally can withstand the winds blowing from the insecure, this did get me to thinking. Are we defined by our possessions? By our mode of transportation? To some extent I think they are reflections of our taste, our style, maybe even our personality. But they are essentially tools, what we use to create, to participate. And that’s the important thing, I think.

I definitely love things that are well designed, that “fill the measure of their creation,” that have forms that aesthetically meet their function. I love the design and function of a pair of retro Air Jordans, the ones that I wear three times a week and the pair in the box that has the potential to carry me down the hardwood and help me elevate to hit a jumpshot. I love space pens because they are beautiful and dependable writing implements. I love the iPad mini I scored in a local drawing... again more for what it allows me to do that for what kind of status it might gain me in social circles. I love my  decades-old Stumpjumper mountain bike and would not trade it for a brand new bike with a lighter frame or better components worth thousands more. It has taken me down too many trails and roads, I understand how it rides, and we are comfortable together.

Last summer I tooled around on my buddy Randy’s Suzuki 1150cc touring motorcycle. It’s awesome and I loved riding it. But I guess I just don’t have the patience to gain mastery over something with that much muscle. I am lazy and impatient. And while I like the power gains of a clutch and multiple gears, I just don’t need it every day. I like that I can back my new ride into a tiny parking space that is so close to the gym that I could easily huck a basketball and hit the door. I like that this scoot is pretty new and should not require a lot of maintenance. I like that it is Italian.

This week I had the glorious moment that is universal for scooter riders: when I filled the tank with premium fuel, it cost me $5.77. Before and after my transaction, the guy at the next pump was filling up his SUV, and I’m pretty sure he scowled at me. A Vespa repair blog I now frequent expressed it better than I can so I won’t even try:

“While he stands there numbly, watching as the gauge on his pump passes sixty or seventy dollars, I’m climbing back on my Vespa, and heading back out to enjoy the day. And as I pull out of the gas station I can feel his eyes on me; I can almost hear him thinking, I’ve really got to get one of those.” --t.c.

When we visited Italy, especially Naples, scooters were everywhere, a way of life for most Europeans. But in America, my new blogger friend t.c. says, “Here, well, we like our cars. The bigger the better. We have five foot, two inch soccer moms picking up their kids in urban assault vehicles that get eight miles to the gallon and that could carry ten Vespas in the back. We give our large cars large names. We have the Armada, the Expedition; sometimes they are so large we name them after mountains, as in the Denali. We take three thousand pounds of steel with us to pick up a carton of milk.” Nailed it.

Hardley's first custom item: a bad boy Cougar decal

So I guess I am trying to find a way to justify being an American and driving an Italian scooter with a name that is Italian for “wasp.” Truth be told, I have been driving a a totally uncool minivan for years. Sure we tried to call it the “swagger wagon” or the “MAV” (for Mormon assault vehicle) but there’s not getting past the fact that it is a yawn-inducing family transport. It became mine as soon as a snowy winter hit our mountain as my wife began driving our “cool” 4-wheel drive. At that point I took a moment and decided that I am not defined by what I drive or ride. I love that minivan, because it has taken my family safely to Alturas Lake, San Diego, Portland, Boise, Seattle, all over Utah. For me, it is what it does, not what it is, that connects me to it.

A scoot is not a motorcycle. But riding a scooter puts me teetering on the fringe of motorcycle culture, but definitely not powerful enough to be a rebel of the road. Does it make me a wannabe? Visually, maybe, mentally, nah. But it does make me different from what you think when you hear “biker.”   

I can still picture the big red hand-me-down red bike of my youth. It didn’t look like much when you parked it next to my siblings’ blue-gray ten speed with all those speeds and the white tape wrapped handles. But it was mine, and it got me down the rode with a smile on my face.

There are a number of ways to travel. Why do we sometimes choose to take a Sunday walk if we could hop in a car and cover the distance more quickly? Sometimes simple is a nice change from fast.

For me riding a scooter requires more strategy than hopping on a motorcycle. Of course I also like to think that lumbering down the court makes me a more intellectual ball player. Sure there are times to be aggressive and loud. But slow and stealthy can allow me time to really think something through. I guess, at least for now, slow and simple suits me more than quick or complex.

I can get away with a scoot because I work and live in a college town. So I guess, to make a short story long, if you want to feel young, do things that make you feel young. I’m not ready to start feeling old. And I see a lot of kids on two wheels.

Addendum: So last weekend I spent time with Hardley’s polar opposite, the 1963 Cadillac Sedan Deville that my dad bought back in the early ’80s. Julie’s dad and I pumped up the tires, filled it with fresh gas, put in a new battery and, after 12 years of sitting in storage in Idaho, it fired up and idled strong. (Seems Clair and Arthur put in some quality parts.) I drove it up and down the farm road a couple of times and, other than some power steering noise, it seemed to want to take off down the adjoining country highway (or maybe that was just me). That was the first time in 30 years that I had driven it. I can’t really put that feeling into words so I won’t try. Anyway, the yin and yang is complete: Hardley weighs in at 308 pounds, the Cadillac at just over 4,000.

Yale Harker, physicist and expert vintage
restoration consultant extraordinaire

That car will require another blog post or two on its own… so I’ll save it for another day.

Laughter and Tears

One score and 8 years ago, after I had spent some time with my future mother-in-law, Bonnie Harker, she asked me a question, evidence that we had developed a lasting bond. “Even if you and Julie don’t get married, can we still adopt you?” We have always gotten along, mostly because she had a great sense of humor, that is, she would laugh and laugh (and laugh) anytime I made any attempt at humor. Of course, she had raised Julie, and her five brothers, all of whom are irreverent, warped, and hysterical, and it has always felt like they were as much my brothers as they were Julie’s.

Bonnie was always accepting and perhaps overly encouraging of shenanigans; and, honestly, I cannot recall a time when she meddled in our lives, or was severe or critical. She definitely was not your typical mother-in-law. But she was always up for an adventure.

For example, one of our first road trips was a clandestine visit to the Parker, Idaho Cemetery one spring. In broad daylight, we cruised in, parked with the motor running, then popped the trunk, stuffed it full of the budding gypsophila (baby’s breath) that was growing wild there, then sped off before we were noticed. (There was a lot there and I’m positive the pruning improved the plants’ future growth.)

Another time, we were sitting in the living room of my in-laws house in Idaho Falls and Bonnie spied a moose and her calf (maybe two) heading into the cemetery across the street. In seconds, she had her coat on and a camera in her hands and we were running outside into the snow, trying to get a photo. Never mind that she still had curlers in her hair, there were moose to see!

Bonnie and Yale have been there for so many family events—birthday parties, blessings, baptisms, weddings, graduations, Christmas mornings—that it’s simply impossible to count. As I’ve looked through photos this past week, I really love the ones where Bonnie is playing with her grandkids, often wearing a hat, a metal bowl, a basket, or something else silly on her head.

She would host summer “cousin parties” at her house. Her husband, Yale, would flood irrigate the yard, and the kids would tromp through the water for hours, blowing bubbles, and eating tons of snacks. I couldn’t bear that level of chaos but Bonnie simply reveled in letting the kids experience the joy of being a child.

Did I mention she was absolutely gorgeous? Back when Julie and I were dating, I looked at her mom, saw how beautifully she was aging and, since I am all about appearances, decided I needed to marry her only daughter. Best decision of my life. I am so grateful for the mother that she was and the children that she raised. They have become my dearest of friends and, while this week has been hard, I am so blessed to be with them and their dad right now.

Bonnie’s ability to remember or respond to the world around her slowly faded over the last few years due to multiple strokes. But I was able to make her laugh as we watched a basketball game just a month or so ago. The commentator had an interesting “broadcaster”voice and when I mimicked him and said something like, “That LeBron James is quite the athlete. He can take two steps and leap right out of the arena,” Bonnie chuckled at the ridiculous way I said the line. It reminded me of the time we watched Three Amigos and I would repeat parts of it in my best Mexican accent and we all laughed to the point of tears. I will miss her laughter so much.

One of the few things that have brought me some comfort this week is the thought that she has had a chance to hang out with my Dad. And he has been telling her the most terrible mother-in-law jokes imaginable. And she has laughed and laughed. First because she loves to laugh. And second, because none of the jokes have ever applied to her.

Life Is About Change

My nephew Marcus reported on his mission to Long Beach California yesterday. My mom, Julie, and I were impressed with how much he had grown in the past two years. He stood tall, spoke clearly, and delivered an impressive address about change and his experiences sharing the gospel.

My sister-in-law Janet had asked him a question before his mission and it went deep: "What do you want out of life?" He took that question, analyzed his life, and pulled three more specific, goal-oriented questions out of it.

Where am I headed?

Where do I want to go?

What do I need to do to get there?

While these prompted him to serve a mission, I think we can ask the same questions at whatever stage of life we are in, and they can help us to focus in on what is important and lead us to happier, more productive lives.

He also said that many of us live gospel principles in order to receive the blessings. (Guilty.) He called us out, saying this is "greedy." We should be doing the right thing for the right reasons.

It was wonderful to spend some time with Justin's wife, children, and grandchildren. They have grown into truly sweet, thoughtful, and successful adults, and I have a sense of just how proud he is of them. I am going to find or invent, if needed, reasons to see them more often.

From left: Adam, Janet, Ashley, Ryan (he's 6-6), Lyrissa, Marcus, and Verna. The little guys, Parker (pulling a face) and Zane, belong to Adam and Lyrissa.

Generous Clarity

I love headphones as much as my wife loves flashlights. And that is saying something. She loves flashlights so much.

She just got me a lovely headset that is sleek, light, bluetooth-enabled . . . meaning that they pair wirelessly with my phone and my computer. This will allow me to jog without my flailing arms catching a headphone cord and yanking the earbuds out of my ears while simultaneously pulling my phone away from my body and toward the cold, hard ground. Not that this ever happened last month when my buddy Larry and I ran more than 24 miles in our lazy man iron man challenge. Volume up is touch-sensitive . . . just slide your finger up the side of the right earpiece . . . so if you need to reach me when I am rocking out, you can just call and I can talk to you with just the touch of a button. Music resumes as soon as you finish telling me, in great detail, about all of the amazing Italian food you just ate while you were out of town . . . in case that happens again.

These headphones sound oh-so amazing. I am listening right now and they occasionally startle me when something in stereo makes a noise just behind and to the left of me. As is the case every time I get shiny new tech, I am listening to all of my favorite songs one after another and they all sound brand new.

Of course, the first really clean music came out of the stereo in my brother Clair’s room. Pablo Cruise, Loggins and Messina, America, Chicago… I understand you’ve been running from the man who goes by the name of the sandman and that your horse has no name. And music always sounds better when you have a dart wound in your kneecap. Or so I’ve heard.

I can still hear some of the amazing vinyl from a set of corded over-the-ear headphones at my sister Charlotte’s house in Jerome. The curling cable only let you go so far from the turntable and receiver so I just plopped down on the floor six feet away and listened in the dark.

And I remember borrowing my brother Justin’s Hi-fi Sony cassette player. The song playing as I traipsed from their apartment to our house in American Falls on a crisp winter day in 1977: “Don’t Fight It” by Kenny Loggins (Steve Perry of Journey doing background vocals). That guitar still rocks and rolls inside of my head. And will again . . . forever.

The first time I heard a CD . . . it was a Christmas morning in Idaho Falls. The song was Corey Hart’s remake of Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” The clarity of the sound burned the moment in my brain and I had to hand the earphones over to my wife so she could hear the latest wonder.

But it’s not just the music or the new technology. What it really comes down to is the generosity. Someone else always had the good stereo. And they were always willing to let me borrow it.

Finally, just before I was headed to serve a mission, I had a Christmas where I received white shirts, ties, shoes, all of the gear I needed for two years in South America. I truly and deeply appreciated each of these things. They were practical and needed and I was truly grateful. Then my brother gave me a pair of old school battery-powered FM headphones (complete with retractable antenna). Completely frivolous, unnecessary, ridiculous and exactly what I needed. He knew I couldn’t take them with me but wanted me to have the joy of music up to the last possible minute.

That’s why I love headphones. But let’s just keep that between you and me. (You can borrow mine, if you want . . . but just for a minute.)

She also bought me a book called All of My Friends are Dead but that’s a story for another day.

Stars and Pelicans

Let’s just say 2012 has not been the best year when compared to many that preceded it. And, for some odd reason, I really don’t feel like blogging when a lot of what I have to say will sound really whiny. Let’s face it; that’s not what you want to hear nor is it what I want to have recorded for the years to come. And besides you get enough of that when we’re together in person. But I thought I would share a couple of moments from this past summer that were definitely awesome and worthy of remembrance.

So for our family vacation we travelled down to Tampa, Florida to visit our longtime friend Jessica and her awesome mom, Diane. They let us stay with them, showed us some great places to eat Cuban food, and lent us their abuela’s (grandmother’s) Ford Taurus to tour the Gulf Coast. We made our way down to Sanibel Island, renowned for its shelling (as it sits at an optimal angle to the gulf and thus catches all of the good stuff on its shores).

There were so many shells there that you become really choosy about what you would pick up and carry around. And then, at the end of the walk, you carefully edit through to decide what to keep. We would wade and sometimes venture out to swim in the surprisingly warm and shallow water. The birds did not seem to mind our presence and would walk the shore and pick up shells right along with you. Ibises, great blue herons, gulls, and other, smaller birds would scavenge and only spook if you got right up on them. But the massive pelicans were the ones that would really steal the show.

When the boys and I were out in the water, either hauling up dinner plate-sized live sand dollars (which Julie deemed much too big and alive to keep), throwing a football around, or just swimming or splashing, the pelicans would occasionally hurtle from the sky and dive bomb right into the surf, plucking fish out of the waters around us. It seemed like they were only feet away in some cases, not caring how close we might be to their impressive descent. Sometimes the prehistoric-looking creatures would tuck their legs and float on top of the water nearby for a moment . . . but when we would stalk them, they would flap, kick, and sail out of reach with ease. Really cool birds.

Another moment that stands out was the first night at Alturas Lake this past summer. As Alex and I drove up and over Galena Summit to our favorite lake in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho, I was concerned that it would be a bad year to visit my childhood vacation stomping grounds because of the smoke generated by a forest fire near Stanley. But while it was hazy most days, that first night was clear. The second we pulled into camp, some Drakes were headed to the lake. So we hopped in their van and headed on down. I am forever grateful that we did.

We walked out to the end of the dock and looked up into the night sky. I have never ever seen so many stars nor felt that I could see so deeply into space. The Milky Way, the Big Dipper, that One Dude’s Belt, galaxies, and planets . . . it was truly incredible to view our place in the universe and to feel so blessed to live on this planet. It was humbling but also empowering to think that each of us are also one of God’s creations and of the potential and promise that holds for each of us. I did not get a photograph of that sky but the image remains in my mind and fills my soul with its infinite glimmering. (Yeah I’m not gonna write the word “twinkle” . . . I’m just not).

No coincidence that the memorable moments are when I am with family out in nature and have a moment to reflect on what’s important. Gotta find more opportunities to do that.

That’s all I got. Hope it was something. Have a great fall.

“All of this has happened before and it will all happen again.”

I realize that this post sounds a lot like some others from the past. But it never ceases to amaze me how a game so simple can always feel different and how some moments in basketball continually make me grin so big my face hurts. Yeah, that’s right, my face hurts and, I know, it’s killing you. (Ha.)


So Wednesday we are playing ball and, truth be told, we are getting beat up pretty bad because I was attempting to play defense on the other team’s best offensive player. (And I’m a horrible defender.) In the last game—because that’s the only one, historically, that really matters—we are down by three points when it becomes apparent that we are about to be kicked off the court we are playing on; about 60 or more boys attending a BYU basketball camp had filed in and were about to start their drills.

As we were losing, and time was limited, I did what I had to. I hollered out, “Next point wins,” called for the ball as I drifted to the left side of the three-point line, tossed up a shot, and buried it. The reaction from the boys on the sidelines was audible, almost palpable. I just turned away from the line and walked away like Jimmer after he made his half court shot against Utah. No big deal. :)

A Wurpee at the 10-11

So spring has arrived here in Provo. The bulk of student activity on campus and the roads I travel most is at its annual minimum (at least until the terrifying, thunderous herds of minivans descend on campus for women’s conference tomorrow). I won’t even mention that the ladies are using my basketball court for a service project. (What are they thinking?) I had my first Slurpee of the season this week and am now addicted to the sugar rush and obsessed with the purple specialty cups in all of their rolled aluminum purple glory. When our boys were little we used to take them to 7-11 often but I guess not often enough. One day Alex asked in his little boy soprano voice, “Can we go get a wurpee at the 10-11?”

So for the first time in weeks (months?) I feel like I can write something positive. If I had blogged before this today, you would have heard a lot about our cat dying unexpectedly, my back going out painfully, and a lengthy and gloomy laundry list of why life was pretty sucky. So you and I have both avoided that bit of unpleasantness.

All of the gloom of late winter reminds me of a story of another dark day a couple of decades ago. I was driving our gray Toyota Camry on the road that circles around the south end of campus. I was feeling pretty low and actually had the thought in my head, “Can it get any worse than this?” At that precise instant, a fist-sized blob of bird poop hit the car’s windshield right in front of my face, obscuring my vision and answering my rhetorical question to the heavens. Yes, yes it can. This particular answer lightened my mood and I actually began to smile, then laugh, then count my blessings. In place of self-pity, suddenly there was gratitude, especially the thought that I come from a family with a history of depression coupled with a healthy sense of humor. Despair can be covered with poop but poop can be erased with laughter.

With leaves on the tree and a fresh blue sky (sans poop), I feel a little more optimistic and am really trying to enumerate life’s positives. We have a new cat named S.C. (slender cat) and/or Rescue Panther. While this strange auburn-black creature does not replace the eight years we had with our gray puddle of cat, Ixi, this new one is another feline source of amusement. Today my back is well enough that my opponent in noon basketball remarked that I was trash talking during a play (not just before and after, as is usual). My Celtics made the finals when, at the beginning of the season, they were really playing poorly. And a few hours ago, I got a text with four of my favorite words in the English language, “Clair box on porch.” I highly recommend liking the same sport, same teams, and growing to be approximately the same size as my big brother. Such stature and predilections have some truly cool benefits. I did have some trouble deciding to go with classic Jordan Bulls red or modern Celtics green for our trip to the 10-11 tonight. Decisions, decisions.

And, biggest blessing of all, in just one week, I will have been married to the love of my life for 25 years. And I can tell you right now, the first 25 years are the hardest. (And if you get that joke, you understand that it can extend to 40 and beyond.) Here she is in the place I found her, somewhere near 5th North, just a few years back. A tall drink of water, not a wurpee, . . . but cool and wearing purple.

It's Not How Big You Are . . .

Today I played some mediocre basketball. But it was still great fun. And as I went down to play and as I returned back to work, I thought once and again of the games of one-on-one I used to play with my big brother Justin. (Bigger in spirit, it turns out; I grew a little bigger in stature). He would have been 51 today but he gave up this earth more than 16 years ago. I wish he had been there today, to play on my team, to help me be better. Like I've said countless times, brothers and basketball are synonyms in my mind.

In April 1995 my wife, oldest boy, and I went up to visit with Justin and my folks. At one point Dusty and I played basketball out in front of the house in Mountain Home, and for a while, it was just like old times. Vestiges of his former personality came out while we were playing—as we dribbled and hustled and took one-handed “horse” shots from the old green Chevy pickup. He even laughed a little as we talked, but then, the shadows of his illness would obscure his smile and he would disappear again. It was the last time I would see him, and I am so grateful for those brief, beautiful moments.

When short guys complain about tall guys having the advantage in basketball, I always tell them that I would gladly trade in a few inches for some skills. And occasionally I will mention my brother who would consistently beat me because he was a step quicker off the dribble and had an underhanded “scoop” layup that he undoubtedly saw and borrowed from another even older brother. The scoop can only be stopped with a hard over-the-shoulder clobber foul or a good hard flagrant shove; and I often did what I had to. In the end, he taught me that it’s not how big you are, it’s how good. I learned to foul hard and to keep a defender in front of you lest you be pressed to clobber his head.

So speaking of "a ringing in both ears," Dusty Dan sent me a few audiotapes while I was down in Ecuador (in the 80s) and, regrettably, I recorded over most of them … but on one of the last ones, he is talking (and laughing) with his wife Janet, explaining the wonders of stereo recording on his fancy Sony Walkman . . . a device which he later let me borrow anytime I wanted.

Here is the short clip I listen to when I need to hear some “straight” talk. It's not a lot but sometimes you hang on to whatever you've got left.

P.S. Dusty also let me consume nearly all of his Sour Cream and Onion Lays potato chips purchased with his paper route money; I consider this to be one of the great examples of sacrifice observed in my youth.

Ode to an Apple

Yeah I know that Mom just blogged about apples so you may or may not appreciate another riff on doctor prevention. But I really can’t help myself as I just polished a sample and it sits here reflecting dimly the light from my Apple computer display. And now it is sliced, photographed, and being eaten as I write this. It’s a baking apple and not terribly sweet; obviously a kindred spirit.

As fall frosts into winter, I am glad that I have a box of apples to remind me of the crisp days of the past few months. I have not been able to find really good cooking apples for a while but I stopped by our local orchard retail outlet (where we get all of that sweet corn in late summer) and they had harvested a crop of plump, burnished-red Jonathans. Usually Jonny’s are smallish and you have to peel a lot of them but these are almost Rome-size. There will be pie. And likely an upside-down cake or two coming out of this find. (Mmmm. Cherry apple mixed, we like to call it “chapple.”)

As prelude to fall canning marathons, we used to road trip down to Utah to pick fruit. We would load the back of Big Red (our spacious GMC suburban) with bushels and bushels of apples, pears, peaches, apricots, plums, cherries, grapes . . . I would sit in the back seat, flip the ash trays, then bask in the sweet amalgam of odors rising up from our fruiteous bounty. Then I would get to work because canned or frozen goods are tasty but there is absolutely nothing better than fresh, hand-picked fruits or vegetables. For some inexplicable reason, I was never hungry for dinner when we got back home in Idaho.

When I was young, it seemed that any time I wanted, I would ask mom or one of my sisters to slice me up an apple and they always would. It was always such a treat, made better by the knife-wielding hands of beautiful women who loved me. Today I keep a knife and cutting board in my desk drawer at work and eat apples all through the fall. Without fail, the tart and earthy flavor sends my mind back to “borrowing” unripe undersized green apples from neighboring orchards or to a framed mental picture of my dad “scrumping” an apple or other fruit off the ground near, I believe, any and every fruit tree he ever had proximity to. The look on the man’s face, no matter his age, was youthful, mischievous, and unforgettable. He was always glad to pay for boxes or bushels but he also believed that if it was on the ground, it was a free sample. I completely agree.

This year I begrudgingly planted another apple tree out in the wild part of our property, and a pear tree, one of my wife’s favorite fruits. She got the little starts on clearance, of course, and we finally threw them in the ground. We’ll see how that goes.

I’ll admit it. I love huckleberries because of their rarity, their amazing color, and flavor. But I love apples because they take me home.

Take it One Cougar at a Time

This is for my nephew who is a prolific writer and kindly offered encouragement for me to blog more. Always be careful what you ask for. :)

Writing is a lot like being mentally ill. There are voices in your head and they all want you to document their existence, tell their story in such a way that other people can truly understand and relate to them.

And when you are working on one of those stories, all of the other ones start screaming, “My turn, tell my story!” So you close the document and try to find an excuse to take a nap. But you can’t because of all of the voices in your head.

That’s when I turn to Annie Lamott (who I just channeled) and the best book on writing that I’ve ever read, Bird by Bird.

When it’s a huge and daunting task and the deadline is already past (yep this sometimes happens), I first think of the advice Annie’s father offered her older brother as he lamented the impossibility of working on his report on birds (due the next day). “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.” For me it’s been “cougar by cougar” . . . but I really don’t want to talk about it . . . even though Cosmo’s birthday is tomorrow; I’m trying to focus on how I’ve survived.

Anyway, the most important thing, Annie says, is to just start writing. Get the words out there even if they’re “let’s-pretend-she-says” crap. Allow yourself to have a crappy first draft. And then hope you don’t die before you can revise what you wrote and make it into something less crappy because somebody will find your crappy first draft and think you really write that way.

The thing that gets in our way, she says, is perfectionism. And she devoted a whole chapter to it. I think this is applicable to more things in our lives than just writing.

Here’s how the chapter begins:

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a “crappy” first draft.

I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.

Besides, perfectionism will ruin your writing, blocking inventiveness and playfulness and life force (these are words we are allowed to use in California). Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground-you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it’s going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath or suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move.”

There’s some great stuff in between but this is how she ends it:

“Your day’s work might turn out to have been a mess. So what? Vonnegut said, “When I write, I feel like an armless legless man with a crayon in his mouth.” So go ahead and make big scrawls and mistakes. Use up lots of paper. Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist’s true friend. What people somehow (inadvertently, I’m sure) forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here—and, by extension, what we’re supposed to be writing.”

Good advice I think for those of us plagued with the compulsion to apologize for our areas of untidiness, both mental and physical. I’m not very good at making messes yet but thank you for letting me share some writing advice while I work to improve.

Oh. And happy birthday, Cosmo.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

Miss Dahlia with her great aunt Julie.

Every time I finish a creative project (usually writing) that I really care about, writing the last few lines—no matter how pedestrian or mundane—always brings tears to my eyes (either out of relief or joy or fear . . . or some similar combination).

The only thing I can really compare it to is meeting your own child for the first time. You just stare in awe at that brand new face. And continue to stare because it is almost impossible and incomprehensible that you, you of all people, somehow managed to get something right.

Okay, in reality, you didn’t do it on your own, and possibly you just happened to be distractedly doing something else when the miracle began. But in the end, you were a part of something truly incredible and well, important for once. And you can’t freaking believe it.

Last weekend, I got to see my great-nephew Harrison and my great-niece Dahlia for the first time. It’s so awesome to meet little tiny people and to realize that you likely knew them before and you are seeing them again at the beginning of the wild ride of mortality. We stare at babies because they are tiny packages of pure potential—raw, unrefined, and limitless. And we wonder who they will become, and how we can influence them for good, and whether or not they are going to spit up. Mostly we hope they are happy and can sense just how much we love them.

Upside Down Life

I was surprised but pleased when my youngest son requested my dad’s upside down cake for his 15th birthday dinner. So I scooped out a bunch of pie cherries from my bucket and whipped up one of the better cakes in recent history . . . the crust crisp and chewy almost like caramel, the cherries tart, and the vanilla ice cream smooth and sweet. And just now, I projected back to a cookbook I once put together and a few lines I wrote:

Just a few years back, after Austen arrived on the scene, I made a cherry upside-down cake. That night, as I was putting the ingredients together, I was struck again with the sense that I was a Dad and I began to understood how much love our parents had put on the table over the years, a labor that had gone on without much notice and even less appreciation  (at least from me).

When Dad and I were alone, a few weeks before he died, he told me “…enjoy that sweetness while you can.” And while he was referring to the love between a husband and a wife and that invisible force which binds a father and his children, I think it also applies to any offering which comes from your heart. Sometimes, when you scoop out a handful of Crisco, you can feel it.”

In Three Amigos, one of the funniest movies ever, Steve Martin’s character Lucky Day says, “In a way, all of us has an El Guapo to face. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous man who wants to kill us.”

This has been a tough year for people I love and, on the edge of the storm, I have shared some of the turbulence and the tears. I am pretty sure they would trade in their unequal share of death, divorce, or disaster for the “big, dangerous man” in the comedy. At least El Guapo has a “plethora of piñatas” at his birthday party to help offset the pain (along with an attractive sweater). Though we are miles apart, I still feel as close as the kids in this photo and sense the unbreakable bond of true family.

Life has its downs but it also has an upside. My suggestion is to flip it over when you can and add whatever ice cream you can find in its icy cold freezer. You are also invited to come visit and I’ll do what I can to help, whatever your situation. I will also gladly make you a cake.

Round Pieces of Pie

Long time no blog. It’s been a busy August but now the boys are back in school and life is back into its painful fall routine (and its painful question, “Whose turn is it to get up at 5:50 a.m.?”).

In three weeks of the last month, we jumped in icy Alturas Lake, hiked to Sawtooth Lake, jumped into the not-as-icy but still brisk Pacific Ocean near Ventura, California, hiked around Jenny Lake in the Tetons, got splashed by cold whitewater as we rafted the Snake River, and crossed state borders so many times we couldn’t count. (Of course, every time we crossed into Idaho, we would belt out the state song, “Here We Have Idaho.”)

I could easily elaborate on each of those travel adventures but, suffice it to say, we had some good times with our tall boys (currently 6-four and 6-six).

Now to the main reason for this blog: to brag and to share a favorite family recipe (just in time for fall apples). Last Friday we had a neighborhood party/carnival. Part of that was a pie-baking contest and my wife signed me up.

A wise man once said, “I like my pie in round pieces, hot or cold.” I agree and add that I’ve never had a bad pie; some have been better than others, but there is only so much havoc you can wreak when combining pastry crust and sugared fruit. Am I right? And even the bitter rhubarb can be stomached if you have a scoop or two of vanilla bean ice cream.

So, I carefully followed my mom’s apple pie recipe, cooked it golden, and carried it over to the park fresh from the oven; it was the last entry handed over to the judge.

I was concerned because local apples are not in season and I had to use Galas and Golden Delicious, two varieties that I hadn’t included before. But the crust had rolled out better than ever before and it cooked up to be exceptionally flaky.

I thought I had a shot but there are some amazing cooks here so I figured I would get an honorable mention. So I still had pulled pork sandwich on my face when they called me up to the front and pinned a blue ribbon to my shirt. One friend said I looked like “a prize steer at the county fair” . . . that still makes me laugh.

Anyway, as I mentioned on Facebook, life is too short to not share (even secret recipes). So here is my take on my mom’s classic pie recipe. Please feel free to comment with your own recipes; I am hoping there will be another contest next year and I can win by stealing your crust recipe.

Verna Walker’s “Award-Winning” Apple Pie

CRUST

Sift 2 cups sifted flour (yep, twice sifted) and 1 tsp. salt into bowl. Take out 1/4 cup. Add 3/4 cup Crisco shortening (regular or butter-flavored). Cut shortening into flour with 2 knives (or pastry cutter). Mix 1/4 cup cold water with the 1/4 cup reserved flour to make a paste. Pour over flour. Gently mix together with fork, then form 2 balls with hands (add a little water if necessary). Do not overmix. Roll out one ball to fit your pie plate. Trim excess from edge.

FILLING

Mix together:

1/2 cup sugar

4 Tbsp. flour

1 tsp. cinnamon

Sprinkle over 4 1/2 cups of cooking apples. (Romes or Jonathans if available). Put apples into pie shell and dot with butter. Roll out second ball of dough for the top, fold in half, and cut slits or vents. Moisten edges of bottom shell. Press top down on edge, trim as needed, then crimp the edge together with your opposable thumbs (if available). Place foil under pie tin, bringing sides up to cover the pie. Bake 40 minutes in 425˚ F oven. Fold down or remove foil and bake 5 to 10 minutes more to brown the top. Happy baking!