The Quest

I have been on a quest. Around the beginning of July, when we first arrived in Beaverton, disoriented, the TV happened to be on. Martha Stewart was poking holes in cupcakes with a fork. Martha is generally inscrutable to me. (This means I don't get her at all.) But deliberately disfiguring fresh cupcakes was intriguing enough that I turned up the sound and started paying attention. She was making tiramisu cupcakes. Ah, tiramisu.

The first time I heard of tiramisu, I thought it must be some Japanese dish made with tofu and seaweed (isn't that what it sounds like?), so I didn't inquire. But then on one of our visits to California before she passed, my mother mentioned that tiramisu was her very favorite dessert. She must have come into this love later in life, or she kept it a deep secret from me, because I swear I never heard of it growing up. Anyway, we went somewhere and had some and now it stands up there with my other favorites, which is pretty much everything on the Olive Garden dessert menu, and creme brulee.

So here's Martha, dabbing espresso and rum into her little ladyfinger cupcakes and I suddenly need tiramisu. Out of the blue, just like that. I can't explain it. As I expected, the recipe on her website looked like a lot of work. If I'm going to labor anyway, let's make the real thing instead of messing around with tiny cupcakes. I found the recipe I wanted, and The Quest was On. I needed marscapone, rum and ladyfingers.

Martha said you can find marscapone cheese at Trader Joe's. How fortunate I now live within two miles of a Trader Joe's! It took about a week, what with moving and boxes and a few other matters, but to the store we went. Marscapone, check. They did not have ladyfingers. "That's a seasonal item," the checker said. It wasn't until we got out the door that I asked Rick, "When is it ladyfinger season?" The question gnaws at me.

I figured I could solve the cookie dilemma later. Now what we needed was rum. I could not for the life of me think of where a liquor store is. There used to be one in frumpy, tired Beaverton Mall, years ago, but now it's Cedar Crossing and thinks it's cool and the liquor store is gone. Alaska has giant Liquor Barn stores, can't hardly miss 'em, but Oregon doesn't trust anyone with the responsibility to sell alcohol but themselves. Therefore the stores are unadorned, matter of fact and unobtrusive. Rick knew where one was. I looked at him with narrowed eyes so he explained, "It's right next to Starbucks." Oh. No wonder, then.

We headed to the state-run store. I don't know about Rick, but I was trying to look like I have a clue. It must have worked because the guys behind the counter barely gave us a glance. So there we're standing, looking at a whole wall of rum. Light, dark, spicy, clear (clear?), kiwi, mango. Apparently you can do a lot of weird things to rum. Naturally we chose based on the coolest bottle. We made a show of checking them all out, but once we saw the one with the pirate on it, it was all over. I hesitated only because some small rational part of me was suggesting rum with a jolly pirate on it might not be top quality, but it had a quality price, and come on, it was a pirate, so we bought it. The stupid boys behind the counter didn't even card me. I ask you.

Anyway, yesterday was the day. I figured (rightly) the marscapone probably has a "use by" date and Rick would give me an earful if I ended up throwing it out. But the ladyfinger problem still loomed. So I found a recipe online and made them. They're pretty much whipped egg whites and sugar. I couldn't find the beaters for the mixer, so I ended up doing it by hand. I couldn't be having with the mess of a pastry bag, either (and mine is in a box somewhere anyway), so I made a solid sheet, like a jelly roll and cut it into strips afterward. Came out great, but those ladyfingers sure slurped up the rum. I gave Steph a bite of ladyfinger after it was dipped and she made an awful face. "Man, that's strong," she said. Worrying. But I followed the recipe. It wasn't until later I realized I probably should have accounted for an absorption difference, since my cookies were fresh and most ladyfingers are dry. Maybe Martha knew what she was doing, dabbing rather than dipping. Shoot.

I assembled it anyway. Couldn't find a 9 x 9 baking pan, so I grabbed a round cake pan. When the first layer filled the pan to the brim, I realized I might be in a little trouble. No problem, use foil to make an extension for the towering tiramisu. Afterward, I realized I could have used a springform pan. Martha would have thought of that. Shoot.

I took my beautiful mess to Vic and Dana's last night: if you can't experiment on your friends, who can you experiment on. We sliced it up. A certain alcoholic odor was wafting up from my demure looking tiramisu. "Oh, dear," I thought, but handed the pieces round, anyway, my eyes watering slightly. We bravely bit in. The cream part was great, but then those drunken ladyfingers asserted themselves. They had given up dancing with the pirate and were prone, overcome, swooning and woozy. They were probably at the blubbering "I love you, man" stage of inebriation. They definitely wouldn't pass a breathalizer test. We kept eating, though. Suddenly we were laughing a lot more.

My quest is fulfilled, though I don't know how long it will be until I live down the "drunken dessert" incident. Martha never would have let Captain Morgan kidnap her like that. She'd have whipped him into shape in no time.

love,

cat

What a Difference a Day Makes

Wow - air conditioning is nice. Really, really nice. So nice I could keep talking about how nice it is for about an hour. Though I'd be repetitive.

Portland's all time record high temperature is 107 degrees. The news stations all went on about how we were going to hit that record Wednesday. Portland news stations are like that. In Alaska, the wind would be howling around the house and I'd search all over the news to see if it was safe to go to work, and they'd finally say something like, "It's gusty in the valley this morning. It's pretty slick, too." Winds to 60 mph and more on an icy day and that's all I'd get. In Portland, every year at least once all regular programming stops for hours because two inches of snow fall, with reporters standing ankle deep in slush in an intersection, pretty much saying, "Yep, look, snow!" except with a lot more words.

And don't laugh so hard about two inches of snow, Alaskans. I say this with love, but I've seen how you drive. Portland has, like, two snow plows, and most of the vehicles on the road are rear wheel drive with regular tires. Portlanders aren't complete babies.

So back to summer - sorry I got distracted. It's easy to do when you are sitting in air conditioned bliss (it's SO nice). So Wednesday the weather doesn't even bother to get up to 107. We got 106. It's miserably hot, who asked Portland to turn into Phoenix, and it doesn't even hit the record high. We hit the high for July 29. Oh, and we hit the all time high night time low, if you can follow that. Lame.

Monday evening I ventured out to the vegetable garden to water my seeds, and amazingly, I had sprouts! And after all my whining about how it was all going to shrivel up and die on me, here are seeds coming up in less than a week. I had to show everybody. I nearly ran out into the street and dragged pedestrians to the back yard so they could see, too. My theory is that the ground is so hot the little guys wanted to throw their jackets off and pop out of the ground. I definitely need to remember this for spring planting. Those warming pads for seed trays could make a big difference. And so far, the seedlings are doing just fine. I'm watching over them like a mother hen.

The vet didn't buy my "my son made the dog sick" story. But he did prescribe her Robitussin DM and Benadryl. I kid you not. He took pity on our unemployed state and did some conversion math in his head so we could use OTC people medicine on our dog. She doesn't like the taste of Robitussin any more than I do, but I don't make near as much fuss. I don't think. No, I'm sure I don't make that much fuss.

Rick applied for a job with the FAA (seriously) and I sent off my soon to be famous children's story, "The Moose Ate My Broccoli." We'll keep you posted.

love,

cat

Hot Expectant Summer

We are melting. Ridiculously high temperatures this week. But we love our friends! We have been offered two portable air conditioning units so we can survive the week. What a gift! Just yesterday afternoon I asked Jesus for an air conditioner. Within a few hours, we got a call from our friends offering not one but two! See how well we are cared for?

My son was born in heat like this, in late August. You have never seen a more miserable pregnant woman than me that summer. Our doctor actually kept us both in the hospital an extra day when he was born just because it was so hot outside. I blessed him repeatedly for the kindness, for that extra day of cool air bliss.

I’m working hard to keep the newly planted bed moist. We have a nice little wire fence around the area to prevent trampling by clueless tongue-lolling doggies and Rick suggested we put a tarp over that when I found my “brilliant” sheet idea didn’t work. Perfect! Now the seeds have a fighting chance. I’m misting several times a day and waiting. It’s a little like that hot pregnant summer, waiting for Chris – the seeds are incubating in the ridiculous heat, too, and I wonder how they will fare. Chris was in trouble while I was pregnant with him. I had to stay still for nearly three months while he was growing, because my body kept trying to be done with being pregnant and go into labor. So they made me lay (lie? – English major in college, but that lay/lie thing still confuses me) in bed day after day after day. After day after day after day… Three stinking months. I was thoroughly sick of reading all the time but daytime TV was worse. And then toward the end, when I could get up and we all thought Chris would come early, he just nestled in to my overheated belly. Nearly ten pounds when he was born, full term. I think it was 102 degrees that day. He’s always hated hot weather. I can’t imagine why.

Next month he turns 21. Outrageous. I’m inclined to refuse to believe it’s been that long.

How is he now? Our house has become the House of Hacking, thanks to him. Chris was home sick all last week with a dry cough. Two days after he started coughing, our dog started in with the same dry cough. Chris says he could not have made the dog sick because she is a different species. To this I said, “Swine Flu, buddy.” He had no answer, but he coughed and then the dog coughed. I win.

And we’re trapped in the house today. I had planned to go to Powell’s or somewhere equally cool (in both senses of the word) today to hang out, but of all days, this is the day the county chose to repave our street. The big roller trucks are driving back and forth in front of our house right now. So we can’t get out. Even if we tried to walk, we’ve been warned the asphalt will stick to our shoes and ruin them until it’s had some time to ‘cure.’ But I can wait. At least I’m not pregnant. And there are a couple of air conditioning units out there waiting to come live at my house. Oh, yes. I can wait.

love,

cat

Starting over

So I planted seeds tonight. I found myself feeling rather stressed about it as I leaned over the vegetable bed I made. Wondering why, I realized that my past experiences with vegetable seeds are affecting me. I know what can happen, you see. I have had seedlings die because I didn't water them often enough in the heat. I've had our dog trample the bed and kill everything. I've had the mystery seeds that just didn't come up. I've had bugs arrive and chomp down everything. And I've had little plants that just didn't thrive, just sat there sickly and pitiful, hating me. I want to feel hope and joy as I plant. But then the past sticks its tongue out at me and mocks me, telling me I am going to lose again.

But then I realized that past experience is not necessarily any indicator of the future. There's nothing wrong with trying again. And that is what I did, doggedly continuing to plant and telling myself that I am trying again and it is ok.

I'm glad about that, since trying again is what Rick and I are doing in ministry, particularly. It is hard to "love like you've never been hurt." But we're trying.

I know it will be a challenge to get those seeds sprouted and growing well in this summer climate. I think I'm ready.

love,

cat

Just Like Wuthering Heights

I don't know when Helena Bonham Carter got into our backyard and scattered seeds around, but I know it must have happened... See, I decided to plant a fall/winter vegetable garden. I actually decided before we moved, and I thought about it while we were driving down the dreamy Alcan. I want to plant leeks, spinach, beets, kale and other things that will handle our winter pretty well. I was daydreaming about making spanakopita (you're on the Internet; look it up) and Olive Garden's Zuppa Toscana with vegetables from our own back yard. I knew where I'd start: the 8 by 8 foot square I planted with flowers and herbs a couple of years ago. It's gotten weedy since - because I didn't maintain it or even plant it very well - and it's right by the back door. I'd just have to clear the bed and prepare it for my shiny new kitchen garden.

So we got here and we've been moving boxes around like ants in the rain, no time for gardens yet. But recently I actually got outside for a bit and started ripping up the garden area. You know what was growing there? Three foot tall thistles with inch long spikes all over the leaves, belladonna (deadly nightshade) and morning glory - sweet name and pretty flowers paler than the most ivory complexion, but morning glory is a vine that has roots that go down to China, and it creates a net that covers and chokes to death every plant within reach. I designated it the Goth Garden and started wondering if Tim Burton and his dear Helena would like to pull out deck chairs and sit under a black parasol to admire it.

I also thought I could probably pot up the little monstrosities and sell them on the streets in Portland. Would probably go like hotcakes until the Goth community realized they'd have to let light into their apartments if they wanted the plants to live. So I filled the yard recycle bin with it all instead.

With it cleared, my next step was to smother the garden area. Smothering sounds like the sort of thing Tim Burton probably approves of, at least in theory. Speaking of, are you ready for him to take us down the dark, twisty rabbit hole? I admit I am looking forward to Alice in Wonderland, though we have to wait until next spring for it. That's probably good. Maybe by then we will have jobs and can afford to go to the movies. :)

I covered the weed roots with a thick layer of cardboard, newspaper and old towels. I found free topsoil on The Great River of Stuff (Craigslist) and Rick and I moved it to the house in 5 gallon buckets in the back of the Subaru. Then we got a free load of wood chips from a tree trimming service, so my driveway is inundated and I've been moving those, mulching all over the place. It's about 10 yards of wood chips! And I'm still digging the rest of the garden. Ever toiling like an ant...

In honor of the demise of the Goth Garden, please feel free to watch this You Tube vid about the plight of those who loathe the Daystar: Goths of Summer

I'll write again soon.

Love,

Cat

We Cover the World

So what have I been doing lately? So glad you asked!

First, on our way from Wasilla, Alaska, to Beaverton, Oregon, we drove up to the Arctic Circle, so as to say we've been there. I'll say it now: we've been there! It was two days before summer solstice, when the sun does not set at all. It did not get dark. That part was very cool. The mosquitoes - the swarming fogs of mosquitoes - were not cool. We therefore spent an uncomfortable"night" under the midnight sun and jetted out of there at 6 in the morning.

We drove all across Alaska and into Canada. We drove across a huge corner of Yukon Territory. We drove deep into British Columbia. We drove for days and days and we were tired. We looked at our map and were dismayed as we realized we were barely halfway. For a while there we though we'd never get home.

We enjoyed our trip immensely. We saw a lynx hunting a ground squirrel. We saw elk and buffalo and lots of bears - even a grizzly mama with her two little 'uns. We drove through a forest fire no one seemed to be worried about. We looked at glaciers and waterfalls and lovely mountain vistas. We found a ghost town called Silver City. We drove through Smithers, BC, which turned out to be a remarkable place. We met interesting people. For the last leg of our wilderness journey, we had a wonderful couple of days wandering around civilized Vancouver and Victoria and then got off the ferry in Port Angeles, Washington. And finally, after 3700 miles on the road exactly (according to our odometer), we were home.

It's very surreal to be back. It's been a year since we lived here, and we did not expect to come back. I couldn't figure out where to put the plastic grocery bags we'd accumulated on the trip, and then in the laundry room, I looked up and saw bags stuffed in the same place I've stuffed them for over twenty years. It felt weird that I'd forgotten. I watered the front lawn in the evening, and when I stepped out the door to shut off the faucet, it was such a familiar summertime evening thing I felt almost dizzy. This confusion will wear off as we engage and reestablish our presence.

I'll write again soon.

Love,

Cat