Permission to Be

All Rapunzel's mother desired

Was a taste of rampion

While all I crave is a perfect blackberry

I'm willing to earn it

Winning its sweet flavor

By tiptoeing, reaching past brambles

Waiting for the witch to startle me

And ask for my firstborn

An agreement to which 

(if the flavor be sweet)

I just might succumb.

I gave myself permission to lose track of time today. Nowhere I needed to go or be. Nothing I needed to do. I meandered to the lake - stopped and told an older Indian couple how much I admired their flowers and was invited further into their sanctuary to smell the fragrant jasmine. Heavenly.

Swam for unknown numbers of laps and emerged in a contented daze, following the sound of bagpipes wafting to the water from the path and continuing on to a park bench where I observed the myriad walkers, runners, bladers and bikers.

Stopped numerous times on the way home - to rub rosemary or lavender in the palm of my hand. To capture a thought with pen and paper. To pick a perfectly sweet berry. Or to sketch the buildings of Tangletown.

A tiny part of me remained conscious of tomorrow's return to ordinary time - but not enough to ignore the succulent hours ahead. When I returned home, 2.5 hours had passed in an infinite instant.

Camping at Cougar Rock

Last weekend, we escaped the city and joined a group of friends at Mt. Rainier. While we've camped with many of these friends over the last decade, this was only the second time we'd been camping with kids - four of them to be exact, ages 4, 3, 2 and 7 months. Don't get me wrong, I love playing auntie - singing songs, bouncing babies, playing peekaboo and telling stories - but I wasn't sure how well they'd fit into a hiking adventure (or a good night's sleep for that matter). Fortunately, the adults outnumbered the kids (and included one set of grandparents and some grown-up cousins), so we were able to divide and conquer. We had a great time (and only were awakened once or twice in the wee hours by our small neighbors). Rather than regale you with the entire trip, let me share some of my favorite moments.
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Pressure cooker curry has been gobbled, s'mores have been toasted (why does food always taste better when you're staying in a tent?) and darkness has fallen. The fire is crackling and the smell of smoke and evergreens fills the air. Time for a bluegrass jam! I was instructed to bring along my guitar - talent beyond the ability to play C, D and G not required - to go along with the banjo. Phil's parents are in a bluegrass group in Eastern Washington and I am nervous to play along, but eager to test out some of those bluegrass harmonies that I've been learning in class. There's nothing sweeter than singing and playing near the campfire, though we keep our instruments out of the direct line of cinders and sparks - especially since the "good" banjo mistakenly journeyed to Cougar Rock. We sing "I'll Fly Away" and "Bury Me Beneath the Willows" as I've been practicing in class and I learn some new tunes. I finally abandon the guitar to Lisa (one of the grown-up cousins), swearing that some day I'll learn better fingering to transition from G to C, and concentrate on melding our voices. We sing until exhaustion takes hold (and we are told in an imperious tone by the four-year-old to "stop singing!").
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Trent, Phil (whose daughter is safely joining her grandparents for the day), Lisa and I have hiked Eagle Peak, 7 miles round trip with about 3000 feet in elevation gain. An eagle circles our head, as we snack on our sack lunches that we packed back at the campsite. A daring gray jay begs for crumbs. We hear Trent calling and see him across from us on the actual peak (rather than the saddle) much higher up still. We circle around and see Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens (which three of us summited three years ago), Mt. Hood and the Paradise Lodge. There is still snow on the ground, which we scrunch up in our hands and place on our necks to cool down from the 85 degree heat. While we are enjoying the moment, we eagerly anticipate a return to Longmire for ice cream sandwiches.
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Two of the little ones have crawled onto my lap on the camping chair. The oldest looks at the rings that I've carefully placed onto my necklace (I've learned that hiking makes my fingers grow into fat sausages and I prefer not to cut off their circulation) and asks if she can wear them. I tell her that Trent and I are not going to share and prefer to keep our wedding bands safe. She replies, "I want my daddy to get me a ring just like this". When he hears this, he decides that a trip to Claire's is soon in order. The younger waves my empty water bottle at me. We sing and bounce to the tune of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik".
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All too soon, it is time to leave. Though we're tired and ready to return home, we also are all a little wistful that the experience could last just a little longer before going back to everyday life. A week later, my hair still smells a bit of campfire smoke, a souvenir from the trip - or perhaps just wishful thinking. Ah well, there's always next year.

Keeping Cool in the Summer Heat

I freely admit it, I am a weather wimp. As a native Seattleite, I am most comfortable when the temperature hovers in the very civilized 68-72 degree range. Sure, I'll cheer for the first few 80 degree days, but when they stretch on and on with no end in sight, I pray for respite. Last night, we had the tiniest sprinkling of rain and I rushed outside to revel in the smell, sound and feel of it. All too soon, it had passed and I wilted again. I was so lethargic, that I couldn't bring myself to read, write or compose my post-camping blog post (which is still forthcoming - imagine, Mt. Rainier with four children ages 4 and under).

Currently, my house is 83 degrees on the main floor. Normally, I would escape to the far cooler basement, where we have bedroom, t.v. room and weight room - however, I'm sitting in the living room with guarding the open door from next door's devil cat (the one who peed on my couch cushion when I was enjoying my front yard and who continues to mark my yard every time I'm out there for more than a few minutes at a time) trying to cool it down before bedtime.

But enough complaining! Here are my top 5 strategies for staying cool even if you don't have air conditioning or an electric fan:

1. Use a paper fan. I still have a paper fan that was given out as a souvenir at our friends' wedding. I pulled it out yesterday and madly started waving it on myself and the surprisingly unannoyed Trent.

2. Wrap a wet handkerchief or scarf around your neck. I learned this trick on my first trip to Japan, when temperatures hovered in the 90s and I lost my appetite for several days. This, combined with drinks from the many vending machines situated in alley ways, at shrines, and every other corner allowed me to enjoy sushi breakfast my last few days there.

3. Enjoy the outdoors. Go swimming in an outdoor area, such as my beloved Green Lake or sit in the shade of a tree.

4. Eat soups or salads for dinner. One of my favorite sandwich recipes is a reconstructed, non-vegan, non-fat-free recipe, modified from a vegan, fat-free recipe for Deconstructed Vietnamese Ba'hn M'i Salad Sandwiches.

Ingredients

• BBQ pork
• 2 tablespoons of low-sodium soy sauce, divided
• 2 tablespoons of hoisin sauce
• 2 teaspoons sriracha sauce (aka Rooster Sauce) Note: use less if you prefer less heat
• 2 tablespoons seasoned or plain rice wine vinegar
• 3 cups of finely shredded cabbage 
• 1 large carrot, shredded
• 1/2 English cucumber, peeled & chopped (optional)
• 1 cup fresh cilantro leaves
• 1/4 cup minced green onions
• 1/2 baguette, cut in half, & sliced into 4 serving size

Preparation:

• In a small bowl, combine the 2 tablespoons of soy sauce with the hoisin sauce, sriracha sauce, and vinegar, stirring well to blend. Set aside.
• Spread the shredded cabbage ona large platter, sprinkle evenly with the carrot, cucumber, cilantro, and scallions. Arrange the BBQ pork on the top.
• Serve with sliced baguettes & pass the dressing to spoon on top of the salad. These are messy, so make sure you have napkins handy.

5. When all else fails, follow my great-grandmother's advice - there's nothing like an ice cold beer on a hot day.

How do you beat the summer heat?

Green Lake is My Playground

When we first moved to our Tangletown house, I was disappointed that we didn't have a larger lot. I grew up in a house with a lot 1/3 of an acre (which presents its own difficulties) and to me part of home ownership was having a big back yard to retreat to on sunny days. I've since realized that I have something even better - a whole lake to call my own.

Green Lake is a short 3/4 mile distance away and I make the journey 3-4 times a week, either by bike or foot. Last week when the temperature reached the 90s (hot for Seattle, though nothing compared to most of the rest of the country), I sauntered to the lake with sundress over swimming suit to swim a few laps. What an absolutely perfect activity for a record-breaking day of heat. The first dip was tentative, walking up to chest level before pausing to shiver, dunk and shriek - then bliss. Most of the water was downright warm (far enough away from the other swimmers that I didn't have to worry that I was in a pee patch), but every once in a while there'd be a cold patch. I'm noticeably out of swimming shape and I was tired after just 15 or 20 minutes, so I wrapped a towel around me and meandered back home. There were plenty of sights to see along the way, including an adventurer on a slack line stretched between two trees across the water, the crowd cheering him along. By the time I walked through my door, my hair was almost dry.

I'm always surprised if I don't see someone I know when circling the lake - either from the library world, church or the neighborhood. Some days I see 2 or 3 people from different parts of my life converging in one place.

And what a great spot for people watching. I keep a running tally of things "seen & heard at Green Lake" including:
Tired mom: "Kids, don't eat the rocks" And again in a slightly more desperate tone, "please don't eat the rocks".

Boy to Dad: "Dad, I don't mind getting my pants wet," as he wades deeper into the water.
Dad: "I mind".
Whining ensues.

Man bicycling with a large cat on his shoulder.

A sad older woman carrying an 8 x 10 framed photo.

A guitar player busking. Initially I am inspired to learn more guitar so that I too can play outside on a sunny day without hurting anyone's ears. Later, I hear him spouting obscenities and insulting people as they walk by. "I'm going to have to take a short break before I go insane," he mumbles.

I love this lake! So much in fact, that I couldn't even write this post in one sitting - I had to take a break to run around it.

Farmer's Market Fun

In the summertime, I receive a weekly box of produce from a CSA. You'd think that would be enough, but the pull of the Farmer's Market remains strong. In fact, this is the second time in a week I've been to a market.

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The weather is so variable. I realize two or three blocks after leaving home on the mile-long trek that I probably should have brought along a jacket or umbrella. But the temperature is warm enough that I decide just to relish the smell and feel of the rain, singing and whistling as it alternates between pouring, sprinkling and disappearing altogether. I have sympathy for one farm stand, where there is a stream of water cascading from their produce bags. One of the men taps the awning and it is as though a faucet has been turned on. Apparently a reservoir of water builds in between the sign and the tent itself. Fortunately, it looks as though the nearby customer is escaping unscathed.
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This afternoon, I'm on a mission for berries - a few weeks ago I picked up one of the last half flats before Hayton Farms sold out. This time when I trade my empty box for a dollar off a new half flat of raspberries, the young woman counters, "I'll give you 2 for $20". After confirming that I can mix and match I take her up on it with strawberries and raspberries, but no blackberries - they're never as satisfying as picking my own.

This is madness - Trent hates all fruit that grows on bushes (though bogs and trees are acceptable), so I will need to eat every berry on my own - but I'm sure that by Wednesday's market, I'll need another box or two. Later on, I run into a college guy with a similar stack of berries. "So she upsold you too?" I ask. He responds that with his love of berries he just can't resist. A kindred spirit.
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Waiting in line to buy apricot jam, the farmer encourages the woman ahead of me to try the tayberry jam. One of my coworkers was chortling over her acquisition of this unfamiliar berry earlier this week, so I sample a bite. Delicious! I learn that many flavorful berry crops can't be machine-picked and these are in danger of disappearing. I hope the farmer is successful in his encouragement of his son to fight against this and carry on the family farming legacy with crops that require such individual attention.
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Walking in the market in the warm rain, nibbling on raspberries (by the end of my trek, only five of the six cartons remain). A stoner standing in the middle of the pathway is entranced and approvingly says "oh yeah". I suspect he enjoys watching someone savor the delights of the harvest.
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The group in front of me at LaPasta debates the merits of the various varieties of pasta. Though one person in the family dislikes gnocchi, they decide to purchase some to serve with salmon. The Italian vendor advises them on the best method of preparing it. While it sounds delicious, I know that I'll be buying the smoked salmon ravioli to serve with a beet-cream sauce, a recipe I learned years ago from the same stand. This is fortunate, as they purchase the last two boxes of gnocchi.

My next stop is at Sea Breeze Farm to purchase the necessary cream. The gnocchi-woman is directly behind me and we talk about our dinner plans for the evening. She's intrigued by my pasta plans, especially when I tell her about the lovely pink color of the sauce, and has me repeat the recipe a couple of times so that she can recreate it another week.
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Buying sausage and bacon from Skagit Valley Ranch, another farmer comes up behind me and says to the owner, "I've got some shitake for you". She politely declines, but offers him bacon ends.

"How much?"
"For you, nothing."
"No, I can't - I want to trade or pay."

She still refuses and presses the bacon on him. He reluctantly agrees, and adds "okay, but I'm going to remember that you have shitake credit."
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A couple is sharing a crepe. "Nutella?" I ask.
"With banana - so good," they say, she daintily licking her fingers and he with a light layer of hazelnut spread on his cheek.

Later, in line for a ham gruyere crepe at Caravan Crepes, another couple stands behind me watching the preparation. The young black man shares in a confidential tone, "When I was in France, I ate so many crepes I almost got sick. That's all I would eat - that and french fries - that's all I could afford."

Trent and I retreat under a tree for shelter to share a few bites. It's 2:00 and the market is officially closed. Around us vendors roll up their signs and pack up their wares. Time to go home.
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Salmon Pasta with Beet Cream Sauce
Prepare salmon-filled pasta as directed. While waiting for the water to boil, heat a bit of butter (approx. 1 TBS) in a pan. Grate 1/2 - 1 beet into the butter and saute. Add about 1/2 pint of cream (half and half will work too in a pinch, but the sauce will be thinner) and simmer until sauce is thick. Remove from heat and add fresh grated parmesan to taste. Toss with pasta. Add additional parmesan at the table if desired. Serve with plenty of crusty bread to sop up the sauce.

Summer solstice

What a start to the summer! I hope that yesterday's fun sets the tone for the rest of the season. Running, walking, biking, sailing. Herons, Brewer's blackbirds and crows. Painted, nearly nude bicyclists with parade watchers darting through the throngs in search of a better viewing point. Friends, fabulous food and Farmer's markets. A perfect strawberry - the taste of summer. Grilling paneer and andouille on Rock Lobster, narrowly avoiding deep-sixing the food or the grill into Puget Sound. Sun shining 16 hours before slipping below the Olympics, while we sailed towards the sunset. The sweet gloaming time with the last remaining rays sparkling on the waters.

I am sleepier than normal today though, feeling hungover by the sun (minus the headache and nausea, but with the nagging feeling that I might have overdone it). My nose, forehead and shoulders are red, despite the sunscreen I applied. I'm slowly waking up to a new glorious day though, with a cup of Assam with allspice and a bacon and gouda breakfast sandwich. A vanilla candle flickers near my mug, reminding of my intention to meditate every day (though in reality, I've probably only done so 10-15 times in my life). I'm contemplating the potential adventures of this bright new day. Some writing, weights, church and more tea and after that, no concrete plans reminding me of the luxurious summers of my youth.

How did you spend your first summer day? What will you do on your summer vacation?

Bluegrass Living

Monday night is now music night! For the past couple of years, I've been a "sailing widow" on Monday nights. While Trent is off winning beer glass trophies in the Ballard Cup to add to the fireplace mantle, I dine or knit with friends. This year I'm throwing something different into the mix. My choir takes a break during the summer months - it's just too hard to get a consistent group together - and every summer, I feel a sense of loss. So this year, as choir wrapped up, I decided to look into voice lessons and came across a Bluegrass Harmonies class at Dusty Strings. Now I'm no bluegrass expert - in fact, my knowledge is limited mainly to Alison Krauss, the O Brother, Where Art Thou sound track, and a couple of c.d.s purchased from buskers at the University District Farmer's Market. But I do love to sing along to the soulful tunes - and the price, time and location were right, so Monday after arriving home from our Orcas adventure, I set off to Fremont for the first class in the six-week series.

There were two other students in the class - a mom who played piano in college that wants to sing with her kids and a returning student who is taking the class so he can harmonize with his wife (who will be attending some of the future classes as well). Jason, our earnest instructor, has a long country beard and a bluegrass accent. He started the class by asking if we wanted to work on any particular songs, which we met with doe-in-the-headlights silence. Undeterred, he pulled out three songs for us to work on: In the Pines (which I recognized from Nirvana's cover, Where Did You Sleep Last Night?), Bury Me Beneath the Willow and Love Me Darlin' Just Tonight. I enjoyed singing with others, especially for the few lines where we actually were able to belt out a harmony, rather than quietly mumbling and hoping that one or two of the notes would actually work with the melody. Part of the challenge is trying to harmonize in a song whose melody is unfamiliar, which should be less of a problem this week, since I've been practicing these songs at home, in the car, on my bike and walking down the street. By the end of the class, each of us chose songs to work on in future weeks (mine is I'll Fly Away).

What excites me most about taking this class is that it really is just for me. I tend to be open to trying on the passions of friends and family - sailing, climbing, trapeze - things that enrich my life and give me an opportunity to connect with others, but this is an opportunity to follow my own heart, whether it leads to a bluegrass career, or (more likely) better technical skills and a new group to sing with.