Weekending

It's a verb. Something you do at the end of a week. Two and a half days of freedom, and on the rare occasion such as this past weekend, it lasts four and a half days. Often times it involves manual labor in and around the house. But it isn't so bad as when you were a kid and mom kept telling you over and over to turn the t.v. off and start working. No, this work feels voluntary and satisfying.

At other times, jumping in the car with a little bag of essentials and heading to the beach is involved. Wave riding occurs. Running around like a lunatic in the sand certainly takes place. A trip to the calzone place where we successfully sit in the same spot we always do and the college girls that work there talk to Karis like they know her and comment on how we come a lot and sit at that one table every time.

One thing is for certain when weekending...there will be good food, no matter what. A roasted chicken dinner with sweet potatoes on one night, a rib eye steak with Boursin cheese on top and Jamie's potato salad for another night. Every once in a while, weekenders might attempt to make the recipe for Jim Lahey's No-Knead Bread. Twice, even. And perhaps it will be a failure. Twice. (Truth be told, I think it turned out the second time. I just think we didn't like it.) Oh well. Dust the flour off, and let's keep going, we say to ourselves after choking down a bite of the hard, yeasty loaf. I'm at 0-3 for bread making these days.

So if you are around us any time in the near future, know that our favorite verb is no longer something like "eating" or "sleeping" or "cashing" paychecks. Goodness knows those verbs are all good contenders. Instead we've discovered the action verb "weekending". I'm sure there are a dozen good country music songs about the weekends and family time and yadda, yadda, yadda. (Cue that song in your head now.)

Truth is, we are hooked on our weekends. And it seems I am hooked on writing about them. I'll try to expand my blogging repertoire in my next post. Really, I promise. I'm gonna try.

A rainy day schedule

It has rained and rained the last few days. Just a few minutes ago I actually saw the sun's reflection on our backyard. It's a fickle friend, though, that sun. Here for a couple of minutes and now long gone. The winds have picked up again, flapping the tent around in our backyard. If it's not full of mold and mildew by now, I think it could stand up to a hurricane. Turns out it was bad timing to put that tent up a few days before a week of rain.

The cabin fever arrived in our home yesterday, perhaps more so for me than Karis. Anytime I stepped outside yesterday under the covered part of the home to do laundry or take out the trash, she was right behind me, ready to inspect the rains. She's taken to calling the rain "car wash." I think it stems from her recent experiences in a drive-thru car wash and the fact that I actually mentioned how the rain sounded like a car wash as we backed out the covered garage. She either got the joke I was making or is convinced the rains are just a larger form of the paid car wash she sat through with her dad. Either way, she sat on the front step of our door, stared out at the falling rain, and proclaimed, "Yay, car wash! Yay, car wash!"

Whenever the boredom kicks in high gear, I often turn to something I love to do and bring Karis along for the ride. I pulled out my cookbook, and we went to town making some crackers. I've been reading about crackers, and the recipe books all assure me that any bread dough can be used to form a nice cracker. I figured it would give us something to do together, provide teachable moments, and yield a healthy and homemade snack. Karis got a little carried away with the flour, and I had to pull out the camera. I love the footprints she made in the black chair with the white flour. It was a mess I didn't mind cleaning up.

I'd like to say the crackers turned out. Really, I would. But they did NOT turn out. Apparently, you could use any bread dough for crackers, except this one. They were dry. Oh so dry. I nearly choked on my first piece, and a crumb stuck to the back of my throat far longer than I care to admit before I realized it was there.

So what is a girl to do? As I always say, when the oven gives you dry crackers, you make thin crust pizza. (don't we all?) The dough wasn't much better as pizza crust, but all the toppings overshadowed the dry blah-ness. In fact, I used fresh basil from the garden, ground up walnuts, added olive oil, salt, and pepper, and we had ourselves a marinara and pesto pizza. It was a savory end to the whole rainy day.

A happy accident

I got to ride as a backseat passenger in the van ride home yesterday. I'm rarely a passenger, and I'm even more rarely one that gets to chat with my daughter face-to-face and then play around with blur and light. I felt the urge to create, and fortunately, the camera was at an arm's length and my hands relatively free. This little green, gray, ivory, and pink number was sitting in the mix. It was an accident, I'll admit. Right place, right time. And just the right amount of movement.

My daughter and I arrived to a freshly scrubbed home, thanks to the good man I married. He even cleaned the floors, a task so worthy of avoiding despite the relatively small square footage of tile floor.

The rain poured all night long. Big rain drops plopping on the already green earth. Matt took the trash out early, and when I took another bag out around 9, I dodged the rain bullets, unsuccessfully. The crickets and frogs sang in chorus, the base and tenors of the night. The neighbor's cat, Frankie, with the black and white coat, was sitting forlornly in the street under the light. He cast a long shadow toward the house. If he didn't poop in our garden so regularly, I might have called him over to be my friend.

It's windy outside right now, another night of rain and cooler temperatures. We're expecting a week of this weather. I'm sitting in bed, and I have a date with Abba's Child: The cry of the Heart for Intimate Belonging. I want belonging. I need to pick it up and read, but somehow it's so much easier to pick up the computer than a book. But, like the thirsty grass outside, my soul needs watering. This is a season where a whole week of watering would do me good.

More on hospitality

I hosted a bridal shower for my sister yesterday. My mom and I cleaned, planned, shopped, and chopped for 24 hours prior to the first guest arriving. As I prepared, I had some thoughts about hospitality. I guess you could say I had more thoughts on hospitality, a sequel to the discussion first begun here.

Hospitality is one of my favorite topics to think about and discuss. It involves food, people, history, creativity, cooking, stories, relationships, and memories. Providing a warm space for others is so important to me. When I was getting my master's degree in counseling, I remember one of my professors talking about hospitality. She said that we should have people over even if we're serving hot dogs on paper plates. It was at that point that I realized there is a difference between dinner parties and hospitality. I'd always thought of hospitality as a well-planned, fancy meal at a dinner table. Instead, I started to realize hospitality is a matter of attitude and availability. Don't read me wrong here, I love "fancy" meals. Fancy meals can be very hospitable, and the two aren't mutually exclusive of each other. But the important trait in hospitality, whether fancy or humble, is availability. Availability to talk, cook, share your life with someone else, not letting expectations for something impressive get in the way of connecting with others.

One of the most hospitable environments I've ever been in was a woman's home in St. Louis a few years ago. I had gone with some friends to a local church to visit a woman and her family who lived in the actual church building. Imagine this, 3-4 classrooms, side-by-side, part of a much larger building used by the church. That was her home. We walked in to her "kitchen", and she was sitting down ready to talk. Her kitchen was a complete wreck. I mean complete. At first I was put off and felt uncomfortable. There were no chairs, and I kept being distracted by the mess. But this woman's warmth and attentiveness to us was so superior to anything I'd seen prior. I left there telling my friend that despite all of the drawbacks (classrooms for home, messy kitchen, no chairs), that was the most hospitable environment I'd ever been in. That experience left a mark on me. While I imagine that woman's home doesn't look that messy all the time, she taught me that hospitality doesn't stop happening when life gets messy. Hospitality is a matter of attitude and the actions that flow out of that attitude.

Yesterday's party taught me that "enough" space is a relative term. My parents home is around 1300 square feet. I don't know the exact specs, but based on how hard I remember it being to find "alone space" as a kid in that house, 1300 may be too optimistic. As the rsvp's kept rolling in for the affirmative, I began to get nervous about bumping shoulders, seating shortage, and frustrated sighs from guests wanting their "alone space."

The day before the party, I gave the issue my full attention. Seating zones were the way to go. Groups of chairs throughout the house. They were perfect for conversation among friends who hadn't seen each other in a while or who knew each other very well. It was still somewhat tight, but I think it was cozy and fostered intimacy. I've been to so many beautiful, boutique-ish bridal and baby showers in gorgeous homes, and somehow that expensive style had crept up in my mind as the only way to host a shower. Once I kissed those expectations goodbye and blew them out the window, I felt free to let the party take on it's own personality. With more than enough food served, Cuban appetizers that were a huge hit, and people laughing in every corner of the home, I think we struck the personal and intimate cord just fine.

My abuelita and her childhood friend from Cuba making toilet paper flowers for the wedding dress game. I've played this game many, many times before, but watching them participate in this standard American bridal shower game was my favorite part of the party.

Telegram from home

Visiting parents. Quick visit to help mom. (STOP). House all set for party tomorrow. Food shopping still to be done. (STOP). Ominous clouds in afternoon. No tornadoes. Just warm tropical rain. (STOP). Good to visit. (STOP).

Say (grilled) cheese

It's been hot here. H-O-T, hot. And hot means summertime, and summertime invariable means shady outdoor fun, at least when the cooling but stuffy air conditioning is getting particularly...well, stuffy. So what's a girl to do while hanging out 10 hours a day alone with a two-year-old? She remembers a great idea her sister-in-law had and pops the small tent. Not the big one; that one can sleep an army. While we're an energetic and noisy duo, we are certainly not an army.

Yesterday, I packed a basket with grilled cheese sandwiches, noodle salad, chocolate milk, and chocolate yogurt (yes, indeed), and we headed to our outdoor dining spot. Karis was thrilled at first meeting of the tent. She ran from one corner to the next, and with six corners in it's hectagonal shape, she bounced around a lot. Then she inspected the mesh windows and decided it was a squeal-worthy coincidence that we could be both indoors and outdoors at the same time, but still have a view of the back of our house from our new piece of real estate. Very fun.

I finally put my camera down from photographing the event, only after she had looked at me in the midst of my snapping pictures and said, Cheese! I don't know why I was so surprised she knew exactly what to say. She is, after all, going to grow up empathizing with the rich and famous on this issue of being photographed. We then lay there and stared up at the tree tops through the open roof. It was a rare, relaxing moment between us.

I knew it was time to head indoors when she tried to cuddle with the picnic basket. I'd say the walk home was reasonably convenient, given the quick pace at which she showed her true nap-worthy behavior.

Signs of life, part 2

"Couples friends." These are the kind of friends where wife is friends with wife and husband with husband...and all get along in between. A seemingly easy concept, a somewhat difficult status to achieve given all the variables in personalities. Mexican Friday lived on this week, and it provided relaxed friendship with two such couples. We gave thanks at the night's end.

The vigor of skim boarders at Mickler's Beach this evening. We visited a place south of our normal beaching spot. The sand was not as fine, but the wave athletes were in rare form.

A brilliant prelude to a sunset, the sun stretching its lazy rays across a bedtime sky, and one lonely little window in a house along the shore.

The Shore

She's been washed over by the waves,
safe in her father's arms.
Danced her heart out to the Beastie Boys.
Like the seashore, life is gritty.
Like sea shells, we get smoother with every new wave.

It's been a busy and rough week around here. When Matt called me from his car yesterday asking if I'd throw some clothes in a bag and meet him outside to head to the beach, "Heck yes" was the first thing out of my mouth.

We never thought we'd be beach people. Not the surfing, displaying your pasty body, bake in the sun type of people. But when the thermostat reads 90 inland, it reads breezy and satisfying on the Jacksonville shoreline.

While I watched the surfers and hunted for shells, Matt and Karis rode the waves near the shore. That little girl is a natural-born beach bum. Loves the water, the sand, the chill in the air. Even purple lips and an all over shiver doesn't stop her from asking for more wave-riding. She gets her adventurous spirit from him, and I love to watch it flourish.

When the appetites and exhaustion soared beyond the point of ignoring them, we headed down A1A in search of a little beach diner. We found a pizza joint we'd been wanting to try. We stepped in, our clothes wet, my feet bare, and my head shaking in disbelief that I'd left my shoes outside my car door back at the beach. My "good" sandals. At least the bare feet added to the beach bum attitude. While waiting, a fun little ditty by the Beastie Boys came over the speakers, and I invited Karis to join me in an impromptu dance off. She beat me with a very sophisticated dance number involving standing up half way in her high chair. I laughed and clapped while Matt walked up and scolded her for standing up in her chair. I couldn't blame him, and I should have done the same. It was fun to get caught up in the moment.

The pizza was amazing. Matt called it our Lupi's at the beach. I said I was glad to have an "our Lupi's" anywhere near the Jacksonville area. Afterward, we headed back towards the beach area, and sure enough my sandals were sitting there covered in sand, unassuming, and having been most certainly run over by the SUV sitting over them. I was thankful to have them back, my "good" sandals. We decided since we were back at the beach again, it would only be prudent to take an impromptu walk. Of course, once out there, the gleam came over Matt's eye. In an instant, his shirt was off and he was riding the waves. I entertained Karis by playing a game of chase in the sand dunes. We both laughed hysterically and then walked back to the beach to watch Matt get tossed to and fro by the strong Atlantic winds and undercurrent. It was just the sort of relaxation he needed.

On the ride home, Karis sang about bridges, the beach, and her shoes. Matt and I listened to some country music, probably one of the only times I enjoy that genre (on our way back from the shore). I thought about how grateful I am for my life. It's been such a rough day (and week, for that matter). I'm trying to find a healthy balance for my body, mind, and emotions. It's slow going, and I'm not exactly brimming with hope at this point in my journey. But as the song on the radio reminded me, I've been washed in the blood not just the water.

She's been washed over by the waves,
safe in her father's arms.
Danced her heart out to the Beastie Boys.
Like the seashore, life is gritty.
Like sea shells, we get smoother with every new wave.

You envy me

You know you do. While doing the dishes tonight, I slipped on the wet tile floor with a wooden cutting board in my hand. I caught myself before I could so much as wobble an inch, but the dramatic side of me says I nearly died by way of a wooden cutting board that wreaks of onions and cilantro.

After the cutting board incident of '09, I went to switch the laundry to the dryer and accidentally banged my head on the door frame. I wish I could say this was the first time...this week. It's an outside laundry room, and regrettably my neighbors can hear "head-banging" reactions. Not pretty.

While brushing my teeth a little while later, the paste unexplainable fell (jumped, if you ask me) off the brush. I looked all over the sink and floor, but I couldn't find it anywhere. About the time I gave up looking, I began to feel something squishy inside the sleeve of my sweater. Sure enough, a glob of toothpaste was smeared all over my wrist, inside my sleeve. I went to unzip the sweater, and, wouldn't you know it but the zipper was broken. (I've had it for years and it's NEVER had a zipper issue). In my emotional despair over the tile slip, laundry door, toothpaste, and zipper, I walked over to my husband who was lying in bed reading, and with the toothbrush still in my mouth, I silently shook my fists at the sky and tried to mime what had just happened. He put the magazine down, looked at me weirdly, listened to my toothbrush-slurred explanation, and simply asked, "Was I supposed to understand that?"

No. No you weren't. I just needed an audience. And come to think of it, I really should have taken that drama elective in high school.

Things that

::Cause my neighbors to wonder if I'm crazy
While watering the plants this morning, I was inspired by the cool shadows cast on the front of the house. Fast forward five minutes...There is a large tripod set up in the front yard and I'm setting the 10-second timer, pressing "play", and then running to the hose and watering. Craziness. Just craziness.

::Enthrall Karis at the library
The water fountains in the courtyard of the Jacksonville Public Library.

::Enthrall me at the library
The "Grand Reading Room": two tone walls painted steel gray and orangish-red, brushed nickel lamps, sturdy wooden chairs, and framed old maps and documents covering the walls. Grand, indeed.

::Annoy me at the library
1. The "No food or drink" policy when I have a screaming toddler. I boldly disregarded this rule and let Karis munch on some cereal while I looked up some books. In my mind, it was a total catch 22...let her scream and disturb others or let her eat and I get a "talking to" by an employee. I chose the latter. Right as we were leaving, an employee approached and informed me of the policy. I said, "Yes" and "Thank you" and continued out the door. If I had done this in the 1st grade at Pelican Elementary during library time, the librarian would surely have told my teacher, Mr. Blue, and I would have gotten my name on the board. Then again, I wouldn't have been pushing around a 2-year-old who doesn't understand the concept of "inside voices, please!" So, I'm ok with it.