Over the River and Through the woods…

This is a song about going to grandfather’s for thanksgiving… but in my family it was always Grandma’s house, even though Grandpa was living.

Now in fairness, the basement was the MAN domain and grandma only ventured there to pull buns or cake out of the freezer, but overall I would say that my Gram ruled the roost. And while we all knew this underlying truth of matriarchal familial ruling, we all pretended that Grandpa was the final word… that is until he passed away last year on the 4^th of July.

This past week my phone rang and Grandma said, without a hint of flinching, “So when are you coming?” She meant get your butt up here soon and I was not confused by the politeness of the question or the tone of her voice. She is very clear about all things in her life.

She makes me laugh in ways now that I never would have thought in growing up with her as my Grandma. She was so formal, so proper and now she is so… well… sarcastic, and prone to little nip-like comments that seem innocent from her small old woman face. Don’t let the grandma looks fool you, she is one sharp and tough cookie. She told me this year that she had considered leaving her rambling rambler for an apartment, but as she walked around the house she thought that if she could take care of my grandpa and the house for all these years, certainly she could manage just the house. After seeing her deftly stun people around her into doing things for her I am confident that she has this delegation thing under control. The kicker is that they are glad to do it; so masterful is her “direction”. She asks for things in a way that makes you want to offer to do whatever you can for her. That refrigerator delivery kid did not stand a chance in getting out of there without dragging the old freezer up from the basement.

I used to think that my mom was the master of manipulation and guilt, but now I can clearly see that my Grandma is the Yoda-like sage my mother learned from.

Case in point, as I write this my dad is under her bathroom sink. He’s been under there all day. She’s been hinting she wanted it replaced to match the tub she had painted this year.

There are many things about my grandmother that I could write about, including her relationships, her work ethic, her Margaret-isms. She is a brilliant, self actualized and lively woman. She doesn’t craft and she makes no bones about it. Baking is a duty not a passion. She is a master book keeper and the ruler of numbers, dates, times and directions in general. She is a modern day grandma. My affection for her goes beyond obligatory love and respect; I admire her. I enjoy her. I value her. I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to know my grandmother as an adult. There is so much about her that was completely lost on me as a child.

As I look at how people manage in times of trouble or heartache it is her that I look to for guidance. She is the one who has figured it out. She has shown me by example that if you don’t get on living you are just getting on dying.

So, at 86 years old she is updating her house, dressing in cute little trendy jackets, having her jewelry redone and updated and making decisions that show she is planning on being here for awhile…

and enjoying herself why she’s doing it. She will not settle for less.

Viva North Dakota!! Those new potatoes are just grand!!!

Says me.

Jalapeno Poppers… Baked.. not fried…

So I’ve had this whole garden thing going on and I’ve been LOVING serving dishes that are full of things I myself watered. Tomato salads with fresh herbs, salsa that is all from my garden and now a new dish has made the grade.

I am an experimental cook. I will try random things that I think in theory should be good and I never want to hear how great or bad or mediocre it is… I just want to know if I should bother making it again or not.

I’ve had a few meals that will not be repeated. I’ve had a few that have been asked for more than once. (viva veggie lasagna!!)

Last night I modified an Emeril recipe to fit what I had in mind and baked up some stuffed jalapenos from the garden. It was a mess. It was time consuming. Instructions calling for “dredge in flour”, “dip in egg wash”, and “roll in panko” translates to “HUGE MESS IN KITCHEN”. I had modified the recipe, mixed my own seasonings, added bacon (of course I added bacon… duh.), baked two sheets at a time on convection instead of regular oven heat… it was a hotbed of open doors to disaster.

I nervously set the plate in front of my jury of family and friends and waited for spitting to occur.

They had a crunchy coating and a nice front of mouth heat that was not overwhelming, the cheese was not too runny and the flavor was satisfying without being obnoxious.
I have found a use for hundreds upon hundreds of hot peppers from my garden!!!!

Saved from overwhelming quantities of produce!!!

Says me.

***** Note to readers:

Please do not disregard the massive hint of sarcasm in my conclusion to this posting. There is no way that I am going to make a regular habit of destroying my kitchen over an hours worth of work and 30 minutes of heating up the kitchen with the oven just to find a use for peppers that are taking over my life in their massive levels of production.

The poppers were good though.

To tell you how my week has been…

I need to pay homage to another individual I’ve lost in my life and I’m sorry to be horribly morbid two days in a row.

Life is not fair, my mom used to tell me.  So this is how it goes…

August 20th, 1995 my friend Kerby Kalakian died in a car accident.  He was just a month away from his 20th birthday.

Every year around this time I get a little impatient and frustrated.  I feel like I’m not DOING enough.  Kerby filled his life with laughter, friends, fun and general rowdiness.  He was a skier, a musician, a loudmouth and a hairball.

He was the guy at the party that made you feel included when you didn’t know anyone.  He was the guy who told the bad jokes with the hugely contagious laugh and smile.  He could belch and fart with the best of them… and did.

He was the guy who at 12 years old told me that people thought that I thought I was perfect and his tickling was merely a way in which to humanize me for the masses.  Seriously.  12.  I learned a lot that day from a punk ass skateboarder.  He had a knack.

I talk about him now as he shook my world in his living and in his death.  He taught me immeasurable amounts by just being himself and saying what he thought.  He made an impression on everyone he met with his bright smile and carefree take on things.  He was so generous with his love.  I miss him more often than it seems I should after all these years, but that is just how it goes.  I have Kerby stories up the ying yang.  I’ll spare you the details.

Peter Marshall, a former US Senate Chaplain, said once, “The measure of a life is not its duration, but its donation.”

That sentiment was the framework for the sermon at my mother’s funeral, but serves well for all of those we have lost before it was their time.  I think of that whenever I want to back out of things because I’m tired, or have had too much going on.  I think of that when I get lost in the day to day things that so easily consume us.

If I live to the fullest and die young, I will not have wasted a minute of this amazing experience and journey of life.  If I grow to be an old woman I can boast a long list of life participation.

I hate that I am impatient at times, but I am grateful for that life lesson, despite the great cost at which I learned it.

Kerby was one of those people who got that concept of cramming his life full.  He was the first one to show me how to do it right when it came to “going BIG” in life and this little posting is to just share the thought…

share his memory…

maybe keep him alive in this one little way.

So says me.

Something worth writing about…

When I was younger I did a lot of things that I no longer understand.  There must have been some thought or logic involved; however, since then, those actions have lost their meaning to me.  I have an entire box of pictures of only feet taken over the course of 2 years.  Why?  No clue.  I’m sure it made sense at the time.

When I was a junior, or at least I think I was a junior… I met a little guy, either a 7th or 8th grader that was just the cutest thing.  I don’t remember how we crossed paths.  I don’t recall why or how we became friends.

I’d love to ask him, as he had a knack for remembering those details, but I can’t.  Yesterday he died of injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident that happened on Sunday night. He was 30 years old.

I want to write about him and our friendship to give light to what an amazing being he was and to explore the concept of REALLY loving someone.

Rob was never Rob to me.  His name was Rob Schmidt, but I knew other Rob’s and this one was just the cutest little skater baby I’d seen.  I called him Lil’ Rob.  I called him Lil’ Rob when he deserved it as a skinny little foofy haired kid on a skateboard, I called him Lil’ Rob when he was a bulked up young guy, and I called him Lil’ Rob when he was taller than me and took on more bulk than hulk.  What is funny about this is that he took it and never once complained.  He took a lot from me over the years.  I even made up this limerick for him.. went something like “Rob, Rob my little heart throb… “

He was the little brother I never had and probably didn’t need.  He was the kid who called me to ask me to take him out for ice cream at every major life event.  I should point out that I always did, even if I had to come from Minneapolis. He always wanted a sundae, butterscotch, and it was over ice cream we talked about everyone and everything in his life.

We talked on the phone, talked via email, talked via text and always… always found odd times and odd places to talk in person.  We both drove a lot to waste an entire night sitting and staring at nothing discussing what needed to be discussed.  We have spent the last however many years talking about stuff.

For those of you who knew him… we talked about you.

I can’t say I spent a lot of time partying with Rob, although, he found lots of time to party over the years.  I can say that I met a lot of the people in his life.  I’m grateful to have met a few more even in his passing.  He was fun, took the time to make you feel important and he was true blue in who he was, what he believed and what he said to you.

He was a guy that could do anything with his hands.  He had an intrinsic knack for all things mechanical or relating to wires.  He was good with parts and tools.  On top of that he had crazy good body awareness that made him an athlete to be reckoned with.  He also had a love for the adrenaline inducing things in life.  Biking, snowboarding, skateboarding, motorcycles, cars, speed, etc.

He was smart to a fault and he was the biggest dumbass I know all at the same time.

He drove me nuts.

Here I am, friends with this amazing individual who is a great friend, loyal to a fault, supportive, caring, and he is somehow oblivious to the fact that he was all of those things.  He’d shrug and shoot you that gimpy little grin that says so clearly, “I’ll humor you, but I think you’re full of shit”.

He struggled with some of the normal things that people in life struggle with.  He excelled in ways that made you annoyed that he struggled with some of those things.

He was a gem.  One of a kind.  A true friend.  The one who always called you right when you were thinking you should really call him.

He was my Lil’ Rob and I loved him… all of him…. the good… the bad.. the ugly and the annoying.  This is where I want to talk about what it is to REALLY love someone as he loved so many of his friends.  Rob never loved someone “even though they.. (insert your own fault)”.  He loved the whole of them.  Loved their faults.  Loved their beauty.  Loved their potential.

He forgave often… if not always freely.  (Can you blame him? Sometimes you just have to be pissed for a while.)  He valued his relationships with his friends.  He cherished them for all of the things that they were and could be.

I tried to learn that from him.

I was proud of him.

Our relationship was often more like a big sis/little bro kind of a thing but I looked up to him when I wasn’t standing on a stair or telling him to safen up.  (that little shit got tall!)

I wish I could call everyone he loved and tell them what he really thought of them.  What he had to say about break-ups, heartache and victories.  I wonder if he told them as much as he told me.  I hope so.

I also wonder if anything I ever said to him about when he was being dumb sunk in.  It would be nice to get a little satisfaction of knowing what I said might have made a difference when it counted.  But I’m sure that’s just because I like to be right.  There’s no way in hell I’d ever get the “you were right” call from him.

I can respect that.  I wasn’t calling him to say that either.

While I’m not surprised that he has passed too soon and left us all furious that he is gone already, I am still shocked at this profound loss in my life.

I am grieving the loss of him in a very sobbing snot nosed girly kind of way and I can hear him laughing at me and asking if I wanted a beer or something.

The answer is yes… yes I would really like a beer or something

…and maybe a chance to talk about it…