Moving: Overview

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Recently, we sold our house (yay!). With a 30-day escrow (yikes!). Without having a home to move into (ouch!).

Normally, there would be a contingency placed on the sale that could allow us to stay in the house until we had somewhere else to go. In our case, we had plans to move into a rental home instead of buying a new one, which is (usually) easier to manage than the home buying process. With a 30-day escrow, the time for the buyer to commit is shorter, but it also means that there is a small window of time between the commit date and closing date. This didn’t give us a lot of time to find a home that was move-in ready. As soon as the commit date passed, there was a flurry of activity to look at homes, choose one, put in the application, provide the deposit, and sign the paperwork. This was all done in a matter of days, but the home that we found would not be available two weeks after the sale of our house closed.

Here are some of things that we have done to help our move go smoothly:

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Roasted Golden Beet Soup with Apple and Ginger

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Beets have a very earthy flavor that is not appreciated by all diners. Golden beets have a pretty color, and tend to be sweeter in flavor than their purple counterparts. The ginger and apple in this recipe cut the earthiness down just enough, while keeping the essential flavor of the beets intact.

Ingredients
About 2 lbs. Golden Beets
1 Tb. fresh ginger, peeled and minced
1 Granny Smith Apple, diced (peeling is optional)
1 Leek, sliced thin, including some of the green (save some of the green slices for garnish)
4 Cups Broth (chicken or veggie) – more if you prefer a thinner soup
1 TB finely grated Lemon zest
2 TB Butter
2 TB olive oil
Salt and Pepper to taste

Roast the Beets
Wash and trim the beets. If you prefer to peel the beets before cooking, do so; some people like to peel after roasting. (Peeling in advance retains more of the drippings.)

Place the beets on a large piece of aluminum foil and drizzle with a little olive oil. Sprinkle a pinch of salt and pepper over the beets, and fold the foil into a pouch. Roast at 375 for about 45 minutes, or until the beets are tender and can be pierced by a fork.

After roasting, if you need to peel the beets, let them cool enough to peel. Then, slice or quarter the beets and set aside.

Make the Soup
In a medium-sized pot, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the ginger, apple, and leek to the butter and saute until soft, 5-10 minutes. Add the lemon zest, beets, and broth.

Simmer for 20-30 minutes.

Cool the soup and run through a blender in 2 batches, or use a hand-held blender in the pot until the soup reaches the desired consistency.

Reheat before serving.

Serve the Soup
Serve warm soup garnished with finely cut leek greens.

Optional: swirl a dollop of half-and-half or cream in the center of the bowl before serving.

 

Summer Solstice – a Time for Healing

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June 20th, was officially the Summer Solstice for 2012. Typically, the Summer Solstice, the one day when the sun reaches her highest point in the sky and shows her beautiful self for longer than any other day of the year, occurs on June 21st, but I guess 2012 was just different.

I woke up slowly quite early in the morning today, to involuntary yoga. It was about 4:30 a.m., and the morning light was starting to show through my bedroom window. There was a bit of a chill from the open window, but I was warm, snuggled under the covers, firmly pressed back to back with my husband, the Human Furnace. Every once in a while, I would poke an arm or leg out from under the blanket and allow the cool air to soak in, until I felt the chill enough to retreat again to the comfort of my heated sanctuary.

I yawned. Not a typical yawn, but one that was obviously trying to capture as much oxygen as possible; the kind of yawn that requires a series of long gasps, closes your ears, and makes you worry that your jaw will pop. Initially, quite unsatisfying. It was followed by another of the same type. This time I moved my body a little in order to make room for the head stretch that was necessary to allow the yawn to run its course; and I heard, more than felt, my jaw pop. More than satisfying; it was good to feel my lungs expand; I’d been plagued with a “reactive airway” and cough for weeks, which required the occasional use of an inhaler.

One yawn was followed quickly by another, and I spent a few minutes indulging my body’s need for oxygen. At the same time, I wondered if all the yawning could lead to hyperventilating; would it go on all day? Could it become a problem? As I was considering the need to change my schedule for the day, the yawning subsided, but was replaced by a round of lung clearing coughs. These were different from the coughing caused by my reactive airway. These coughs felt as though they came from the dark recesses of my lungs, as though someone were sweeping the dust out of them and allowing more room for the good air. Good coughs.

The coughs settled, and I thought I would drift back to sleep. But apparently I wasn’t finished yet. My arm decided it needed to stretch, so I moved it. I made a great arc from my hip, to an invisible point well above my head, back down and around to my back as far as the muscles and joints would take me. I arched my back to get more out of the stretch, and I could feel and hear my spine, shoulder, and wrist bones crack. After I folded my arm back under the covers, my neck decided it needed to stretch, then my hip, down to my ankle.

“You need to stop moving,” my husband’s deep morning voice whispered in my ear. My movements had woken him up. I apologized, but didn’t stop moving. For a while there, I would have sworn that upon rising, I would measure the 5’7″ that I was originally supposed to be. Not likely.

The oxygen from all the yawning and stretching finally made it to my brain. I opened my eyes, clearheaded, and gazed around the bright room, illuminated by the rising sun. I felt better than I had in a long time.

It was the third day after the loss of my job. I’d been unhappy for too long. Time for a change, some healing, and perhaps a rebirth of sorts. I felt a bit like a newborn deer, stretching and untangling my limbs, but now ready to meet the world and see what it has in store for me.

Ooh — one more really… good… stretch. Ahhhhh, yes!

 

The Parable of the Blueberry Bushes

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Once there were two blueberry bushes. They were brothers, as they had been purchased and planted in a couple’s backyard at the same time. Although planted in different plots of land, they were both watered, fed, and nurtured alike. Yet, both bushes grew quite differently.

The first blueberry bush was extremely focused. It wasn’t so concerned with growing big and green as it was being productive. It dug its roots deep into the plot of land, and worked to produce fruit. As a result, the bush grew slowly, but gave bushels of sweet fruit to the couple. They, in turn, praised the bush for its accomplishments, and enjoyed sharing the fruits of its labor.

The second blueberry bush chose to branch out and explore. It grew long branches with shiny green leaves that shot out in all directions in an attempt to break through its boundaries. It quickly showed promise of great size and beauty. The bush also produced sweet fruit, but in smaller abundance than his brother. The couple enjoyed the fruit and beauty of the bush, and praised its accomplishments.

 

All who visited the couple remarked on the brothers, noting that although they were remarkably different, they were loved and appreciated equally for their own gifts.

 

Summer Hike to Bearpaw Meadow High Sierra Camp

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Camping and Pampering Are Not Mutually Exclusive

I am the lone female in a family of runners, boy scouts, and soccer players. The men in my family think nothing of heading out the front door for a 5 mile run before returning home to play basketball in the driveway for another two or three hours. While I enjoy a nice walk or hike in the local park, a hip condition has always caused some limitations to the amount of physical activity I can handle. This can make it difficult to plan our family’s summer vacation. The challenge: find a hike and camping combination that is strenuous enough to satisfy the strong, yet not too difficult for someone, like me, who cannot carry a heavy load. The solution: Bearpaw Meadow High Sierra Camp in Sequoia National Park.

Bearpaw Meadow High Sierra Camp sits 11.5 miles in the backcountry of Sequoia National Park. The trail begins at Crescent Meadow among the shade of the enormous Sequoia Redwoods that give the park its name, and winds along 11.5 miles of well-maintained, picturesque trails until it reaches the granite ledge that serves as the base for the Bearpaw Meadow camp.

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Teaching Anxiety Dream – a Memoir

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Have You Ever Taught in Your Pajamas?

I’m on the second floor of what appears to be an old elementary or high school. An old fashioned, yellow pine teacher’s desk is in the front of the classroom, covered with the standard teacher paraphernalia – blotter, pencil holder, a stack of papers waiting to be graded. About 25 people are in the room, mostly milling about or sitting on a fuzzy blue rug just inside the doorway, talking and waiting. My boss is standing off to the side, looking at me expectantly. I see a blonde young man standing near the doorway. His phone rings with an obnoxiously loud rock song.

Suddenly, I realize that I am there to teach a class. I also realize that although I was responsible for developing the original material, it has been updated several times, and I haven’t reviewed it. There are no computers on the desks, which I now realize are the college-style arm desks (all left-handed), and there are no manuals laid out and ready to go. Suddenly, I notice that although I remember standing at my dressing table perfecting my hair and makeup, I am standing in the room in my pajamas – a short, tie-dyed frock that could pass for a summer dress. I have no idea if I have any shoes on, and I’m not in the mood to look. My boss is still waiting, but doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not properly dressed. The young man’s phone rings again, but he seems disinclined to answer it, so the loud rock song plays on.

Blink, and I’m in the back of the classroom with one of my students. She has been a training coordinator for several years, and could probably teach the class in her sleep. I know this, yet I also know that I am supposed to teach her the materials. We are methodically rummaging through the materials closet. The closet is larger than the classroom, brightly lit, with high shelves filled to the ceiling with training materials. This room is well organized, but try as we might, we cannot find any training manuals for the class I am supposed to teach.

Back in the classroom, some of the students have taken their seats. Somehow both computer and training manuals have materialized, but the room is still abuzz with chatting. As I stand in the front of the room preparing to begin the class, still in my pajamas, wondering if I can run home at break to change my clothes, the young man’s phone rings one more time.

“OUT!” I shout at him, pointing, straight-armed, at the door. He looks at me, bewildered, and shrugs, tossing his blonde locks at me as he exits the room. He is followed by his yellow Labrador.

 

Just Being Nice Can Make Someone’s Day

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A Trip to the Bank Ends in a Touching Experience

I went to the bank to open a new account for my Avon business. As I walked into the bank, the first representative who I saw was on the telephone and not looking very happy at all. His voice was low and he was trying to keep his voice quiet as he expressed his frustration to the person on the other end of the phone. I moved on. At the next desk, a woman was speaking loudly into the telephone; she appeared to be with another customer. She was also not very happy.

As I looked around, I didn’t see a place where I could sign in and wait my turn, so I finally walked all the way to the back of the bank and asked the first non-busy person I could find for help. She smiled, got up and walked me all the way back to the first desk with the gentleman still on the phone, still frustrated. They made eye contact, there was a quiet hand signal, and I heard him tell his caller that he would have to call him back. He hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and turned to greet me.

I could tell that his nerves were on edge, and he was trying to rapidly pull himself together so that he could be of help to me. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “That’s okay,” I answered, “it happens. I can tell you were frustrated. Would you like me to give you a minute?” “No,” he smiled, turning his full attention to me, “I can tell you are a nice person, and I’m really glad you sat down here. We’re going to have a very different experience than the one I just left.” I looked at his name tag — JOSH, it said, in bold letters.

As we began to speak, the woman on the other side of the partition began to speak louder. Josh started to speak, and then stopped to wait for a pause. As he began again, the volume on the other side rose again. He stood up and quietly looked over the partition. The raised voice continued, and Josh sighed and sat down again. He looked at me apologetically and said, “she just finished yelling at me, too.” “It sounds like you’re really have a bad day,” I said, feeling very sympathetic. “I really hope it gets better!”

I explained what I was looking for, and we discussed a few different options. After agreeing on a course of action, he mentioned that he would also give me two movie tickets, and recommended the latest “Horton Hears a Who” movie, which he had recently seen. He left me to sign several checks while he checked some paperwork. When he returned, he entered my information, creating my account, and was very careful to add “Avon Acct” so that I could distinguish this new one from my regular account. He asked me what products I sold, and I mentioned that Avon sells a variety of products, including skin care, makeup, jewelry, and toys and other items for children. He suggested that I give him a book, as he was married, and his wife may want a few things.

When I mentioned that the latest catalog had several Mother’s Day gift ideas, he was quiet for a minute. He smiled and shared that he had recently lost his grandmother, and their Mother’s Day tradition was to go out to a nice restaurant together. He was going to miss it this year. We talked a bit more, and I learned that he had a small daughter with Cerebral Palsy; I could see how much he loves her.

“You’re a really nice person,” he said again. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you sat here at my desk after that last phone call.”

He got up to make sure that my checks were deposited correctly. In the meantime, I returned to my car to pick up the brochure I had promised. But I also wanted to do something special for Josh to help him through his day. So I picked up one of the boxes in my Avon bag and brought it in with me.

When Josh came back with my receipt, I gave him two brochures — one to keep and one to give away, as well as a few business cards. “More importantly,” I said, “I really want to give you something, because I think we really made a connection.” He agreed. I handed him the bracelet — blue, with a small infinity symbol on it. Just a small trinket, really. “This is Avon’s Women’s Empowerment bracelet. It’s a fundraising item, which you can read about on this small card. But I want you to wear it, and think about your grandmother, your wife, and your little girl whenever you look at it. And when you call the previous customer back, as you invariably will have to, just touch the bracelet when you begin to get frustrated, and know that it will all get better.”

My voice caught when I mentioned his loved ones, and I could see that he was touched, too. He asked if he could give me a hug, and told me again how glad he was that we had met.

“God Bless You,” he said quietly as I got up to leave. I knew he already had.

 

Please Don’t Thank Me for Your Life

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My child THANKED me. For not aborting him.

I know he was making light of the commercial he had just seen on TV, and I initially responded in kind. But then, the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. This is something that is difficult to put into words, but I am determined to try.

My children did not ask to be born. While I suppose there could have been a conversation between their cherubic forms and God, I was unaware. But they were wanted. I wanted them. Their father wanted them. So much so that we both underwent a total of four and a half years of medical treatments by some rather expensive specialists. We asked… No, we begged and prayed for them.

As a child born with hip dysplasia and a few additional complications, doctors told my parents they were uncertain whether I would ever be able to carry a child to term. In the spirit of “never give up,” my first child was born on his due date. My second, the day after his due date. No C-Section required.

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Searching for Chocolate Cake in South Lake Tahoe

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A Search for the Right Dessert Ends in a Lesson on What Girls Really Want

We had just finished a lovely dinner of delicious Meatloaf Gone Wild and salad. Conversation began to die down, and it occurred to me as I was swirling the end of my glass of wine that a slice of chocolate cake would really top off the meal.

So, I mentioned the desire for chocolate cake and was soon launched on an adventure in search of chocolate cake – just me and my dear sister.

It’s the off-season in South Lake Tahoe, and it was after 9:00 p.m. This means that Fire and Ice, the restaurant/bar downstairs, was closed, much to our dismay. We were not to be deterred. We left the Marriott Timber Lodge and went across the way to the Stateline Brewery/Restaurant. Also closed. The liquor store was closed as well, so even a package of Ho Hos was out of the question.

We were considering crossing the street for grocery store cake as a last resort when we noticed neon signs just a bit further down from the Stateline. A step or two closer and I could see the dim light that assured me a television was on. Yes! The Echo Restaurant/Lounge at the Embassy Suites was open! Quickly, we skipped toward the lights and as we approached, slowed to a walk to at least appear somewhat dignified as we walked into the fine establishment.

The room was dimly lit, and a small bar was situated on the right. A young bartender was serving three men, and we could see they were drinking shots as we approached. As the only other people in the restaurant, two women walking in quickly captured their attention.

“We are on a quest for chocolate cake!” I stated.

The bartender leaned onto the bar and replied, “We have… chocolate cake.”

I raised my arms in the air to signify “SCORE!” My sister did a happy dance.

“We were finishing our dinner, and I was sitting there drinking my glass of wine and I thought, ‘I need chocolate cake!'” I explained to our now-captive audience.

“Of course, you needed the finishing touch.” One of the three patrons agreed.

The bartender spoke again, “Would you like a White Russian with that?”

“Ooooh! That sounds wonderful!” gushed my sister. “But, what kind of shots were you doing?”

“MADONNAS!” came the chorus.

“What’s that?”

The bartender poured a small shot. “It tastes like fruit juice,” he said, “although it has about 10 different types of alcohol in it.”

We both tried it. YUM! “Never mind the White Russian,” my sister decided. “I think this will be just fine.”

The cake arrived in a recyclable to-go container. I opened the container and peeked, then let out a happy sigh and a smile. Curious looks from the other end of the bar prompted me to open it all the way and turn it for proper viewing. One perfect slice of chocolate fudge cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, a strawberry, and a drizzle of raspberry sauce.

“Thank you!” I gushed to the bartender, “especially for the raspberry drizzle!”

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, “Thank her.” He pointed behind him to the chef who had followed him out of the kitchen. I thanked her.

“I’ve never seen people asking for chocolate cake at a bar before,” said one of the fine young gentlemen.

“Really?” I said. “Two women walk into a bar and ask for chocolate cake. Not a common occurrence?” I directed my question to the chef. She smiled and indicated that it wasn’t that unusual.

“The next time a young lady captures your attention at a bar,” I began…

“Hello there… can I buy you some chocolate cake?” finished my sister, in a deep, sexy voice. “You’ll be golden!”

The young man next to me turned and called over his shoulder to the imaginary waiter, “Oh, and can you be sure to drizzle some raspberry sauce on that?”

We smiled. “They’re invincible now. Our work here is done.” I stated.

The room was silent as we departed the bar.

 

Pull Up Your Pants!

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A Struggle Against Fashion Norms

There used to be a page on Facebook titled Pull Your Pants Up, You Look Like an Idiot. Now, I’m not one of those people who “Likes” Facebook pages simply because they exist; I try to be a little more discerning. Sure, I’ve been tempted to “Like” them – people create and “Like” these pages because something resonates. For example, there was the Cookie Monster page (titled Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom Nom) – that brought back fond memories of Sesame Street, my childhood, and the early toddler days of my own children. Not to mention, I just love cookies. And I totally related to any of the many pages about Chocolate (who doesn’t?) or one of my favorite TV shows. However, I only laughed and showed them to my kids. But Pull up Your Pants! You Look Like an Idiot!– now there’s something I’m passionate about! I “LIKED.”

I’ve got to admit that my boys aren’t as bad as some of the kids I’ve seen around the neighborhood. I’m sure you’ve seen them, too – underwear showing, pant waistline sagging low around the hips, and sometimes even completely below the butt. Usually beltless, but sometimes the kids who wear their pants really low use a belt to keep their pants from completely falling to the ground. You would also recognize the shuffle-walk. In order to keep their pants up, these kids have to walk like a penguin, swinging each leg out, one at at time, to keep the “waist”line of the pants taught so that they don’t fall down. Honestly, it looks ridiculous, and isn’t at all practical. I’ll bet chiropractors everywhere are raking in the bucks!

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