Sophie's farm, part 1

Do you remember those beautiful fresh eggs I told you about last month? Yesterday, Karis and I went on a field trip to meet Sophie, her family, and her entire brood of chickens.

Tall, beautiful, and serious about her work, Sophie gave me the tour of her homemade pen and coop. She and her brother personally chased down the hens and rooster so that I could meet and photograph each one. With the authority and pride of a mother, she told me about each chicken that she'd raised from birth. I snapped away, all the while asking embarrassing questions that outed me as a city girl.

I was really inspired by our visit with this Swiss-American family of 7 and seeing the creative life they've built for themselves. Enjoy the photo tour of Sophie's work, and stay tuned for more photos of their Swedish-farmhouse style home (!), treehouse, and family gardens.

Dads and ditties

Music is important around this house. My husband has an ever expanding instrument collection. Need an expensive guitar? No problem. An old horn from the middle school years? Yep. A shaker in the shape of an orange or avocado? Ditto. Karis is following suit quite nicely. She stands on a stool in the kitchen while I cook and directs imaginary masses of musicians. She dances to the first hint of a melody being played.

As I was making plans for her third birthday party this year, I asked myself one thing: What does she like? Music came to mind readily. So a backyard music party it was. A lawn full of friends, a bouquet of balloons blowing above a table full of summer fare, and a special music guest to sing to Karis and her friends, instruments in each hand. It was fun and hot and oh-so-memorable, at least for Karis who has continued to reference her party on a daily basis.

Lately, I've been putting Karis to bed to Andrew Peterson and Randall Goodgame's Slugs and Bugs and Lullabies cd. Last night I laid in bed with her for a few minutes and listened to the songs she's been falling asleep to. Tracks 16 and 17 are beautiful love songs from a father to his daughter, and Karis really resonates with those two, knowing a good bit of the words. I played them for Matt later so he would know them and be able to sing them with her when she references them.

I have to admit, I felt a little jealous thinking about all of the great father/daughter songs out there. There's John Mayer's "Daughters" and Loudon Wainwright III's "Daughter". Both so sweet. There is something special about that connection. It's different than mother/daughter relationships which haven't inspired quite as much poetry. And don't get me started on how many Disney movies portray loving fathers and absent or mean mothers. (Has anybody else noticed?)

But then again, who wouldn't love a father who comes home from work, slaves over the hot grill on a hot day, and then moves seamlessly to the guitar and harmonica to entertain a group of excited toddlers? He deserves a few good songs.

All photos courtesy of my talented brother-in-law Ande.

A friendly face

Last week Keller scarfed up a chicken bone off the kitchen table while we weren't paying attention. As you dog owners know, chicken bones + dogs = bad, bad news. I sat slumped in a chair, crying over the vision of Karis' favorite four-legged friend going to doggy heaven in a slow, painful way.

A call to the vet revealed the usual, pricey diagnosis: we should bring her in for x-rays and potential surgery. We love our dog, but that's an investment we knew we couldn't make.

Fortunately, she weathered the storm just fine. No harm, no foul. And I do mean that quite literally--no more roasted foul in my oven for a good, long while.

I spy something purple

She's three and she's free

Happy Birthday, Karis!

I love you, little baby Karis.
I love you, little baby Karis.
I love you oh-so-much,
I love you oh-so-much.
I love you, little baby Karis.

-Lullaby I've sung to Karis since she was born. Simple, but it says it all.

Hands on

My latest article for EU is hot off the press, and it is a restaurant review of a local Ethiopian restaurant in Jacksonville. I enjoyed writing this piece, and I'm making plans to go back with a group of friends to enjoy this delicious food in the next couple of weeks. Since many of you expressed interest in reading the article, I'm going to post it here on my blog. Also, if reading this piques your interest in Ethiopian food but you aren't sure how to find it in your area, check out this website to search for Ethiopian restaurants by state.


When Tony Gelaye decided to open up an Ethiopian restaurant in Jacksonville, he knew he was facing a pretty big obstacle: most Americans have never heard of, much less tried, Ethiopian cuisine. In fact when I first heard about it, I had literally no idea what to expect. But being a curious mind with an adventurous appetite, I rolled up my sleeves and gave Tony a call.

Open since January of this year, Queen of Sheba is a labor of love for Tony, his sister Melat, and mother Yeshi. It's a family affair, mom and Tony cooking and Melat helping outside of the kitchen. I made my way to this restaurant on Atlantic Boulevard and arrived to find it tucked away in humble, nondescript strip mall. I sat down and spoke briefly with Tony while his mother prepared the meal. Within a few minutes, a large platter (think 16 inch pizza pan) was placed before me, a vegetarian and meat sampler platter.

The bottom of the pan was covered with the traditional Ethiopian bread called Injera, a pancake-like sourdough bread which also doubled as the utensils for the meal. Atop the Injera lay a variety of thick stews (Wat) and sauces, varying in colors and textures. Upon first glance, I could most readily associate this meal before me with Indian food. It had a similar look: savory sauces made of legumes and vegetables, deliciously slow-cooked and well spiced.

I sat there and looked up to my native hosts to show me how to proceed. Without hesitation, Melat tore off a piece of the bread and scooped up a portion of stew she selected. I did the same, only slightly aware of the awkwardness of eating with my hands and sharing a plate with someone else. From there, I methodically moved from one delicious stew to the next, taking note of the complexity of flavors and textures. Each was rich and savory from the onions, garlic, ginger, and other spices typical in Ethiopian dishes. This was comfort food at its best.

While I enjoyed all of the offerings, a few really stood out. The lamb stew (Ye-beg Alicha) simmered with garlic, onions, and spiced butter was a favorite, causing me to dispense with my manners and ask outright, "What's this?" The split red lentils cooked in a red pepper sauce (Misir wot) was also delicious and suitable for a vegetarian yet having enough gusto to please even the most ardent meat-eater. The steamed collard greens (Yeabesha Gomen), garlicky and slightly tangy, cut through the spiciness of the other sauces. Fresh cheese, made on site, was served as a cool and creamy contrast. Finally, to wash it all down, Melat brought me a cup of traditional Ethiopian honey wine (Tej), sweet and refreshing.

As we ate and drank, we chatted about Ethiopian dining practices in contrast to those here in America. They described meal time in Ethiopia as a lengthy social activity. Practices such as eating with the hands, sharing platters of food, and feeding companions at the table to express affection (gursha) are just a few of the ways in which meals are a vehicle to express hospitality and foster community. Melat was being candid when she said, "Everybody's door is open in Ethiopia. Everyone is welcome. The first time I came here, I saw everybody's door closed and thought, 'Whoa, this is hard.'"

The doors of Queen of Sheba are always open for the coffee ceremony, an ancient ritual still practiced three times a day in Ethiopia. Tony and Melat encourage diners to order fresh coffee for the perfect conclusion to their meal. In this practice, Ethiopian coffee beans are roasted, ground, and brewed, the aroma filling the restaurant as you sit and talk. The coffee is then served in three rounds, inviting diners to relax, socialize, and experience that same hospitable slowing down that the Ethiopian people have perfected.

As I sat there, I was amazed and grateful how seriously this family takes their cultural practices, and I realized that this is perhaps one of the most quality examples of a authentic foreign restaurant I've seen in a long time. From the care taken in ordering traditional ingredients straight from Ethiopia to the making of fresh Injera bread, cheese, and wine to the roasting coffee beans on site--they've kept it as traditional as I would imagine possible being so far from home. And with prices ranging from $6-$12 an entree, this seems almost too good to be true. But somehow they've managed to appeal to more than just the adventurous eater looking for something different to eat. They equally welcome the meat-lover, vegetarian, gluten-free (Injera bread contains no gluten), and health-conscious (fresh, organic, never frozen ingredients).

I find Melat's words endearing. "If we didn't have a restaurant, we would eat like this anyways," she tells me, referring to the quantity and quality of work involved in preparing her family's native cuisine. But with food so fresh and tasty, I know I'm glad they didn't just keep it in the family.

The eatery is open on Mondays 4-11 pm, Tuesdays-Sunday 11-11 pm. Groups of six or more call for reservations. All major credit cards are accepted.

Queen of Sheba
10214 Atlantic BLVD
Jacksonville, FL 32225

July 6

I woke up this morning with a virus and a broken air conditioner. It was a "take a trip to the grandparents" kind of day.

Around the clock

::Morning

::Noon

::Night

The show

If neighbor Bob looks through his front window around 6 pm on any given day of the week, he's likely to see two dancing silhouettes through our living room window. Karis has dance recital fever right now, and when I'm feeling generous, I join in. A few weeks ago we attended cousin Evie's dance recital, and since then Karis has been twirling about, gracefully extending her arms, and "taking a bow" whenever and wherever the mood strikes.

What I hope Bob can't see is me "dressed up" in a hodgepodge dance outfit that Karis insists I wear. I'm a 31-year-old woman twirling about my living room sporting a baby blanket for a dress, a few dolly clothes tucked in my waistline to simulate a tou tou, and a white towel draped over my head as a veil. You wouldn't know it, but dancing in that getup without pieces falling off isn't easy.

I walked into Karis' room this morning to find the female half of her Fisher Price Little People sitting in a random mix of toy seats (toilet, stroller, chair, etc.) lined up in a row as the generic Cinderella doll danced before them. Apparently, all the princesses got together and put on a dance recital. Not surprising, the Little People were smiling from ear to manufactured ear.