frank is my neighbor

Out with a ring

2011-01-10T20:03:00.000-08:00

2010 went out with a bang. And a ring. A rosewood ring, to be exact. My sister Annie is engaged to this lovely guy and the two have happily started planning for the day, tentatively set for early October.

When your wedding checklist starts with Pickle cucumbers for the reception and ends with Bake communion bread you know you'd better start planning early. Annie and Adam are eager to share their schemes for a homemade wedding, and Peter and I are just as eager to listen in and cheer them on. So the four of us had a double date last night on Skype, just to dream a bit about the day.

In the midst of it we threw a couple hand-tossed pizzas in our oven and Adam stirred the Lebanese beans and rice on their stove. Miles apart, but just a table top away, our simple Skype date brought new meaning to the idea of Sunday family supper.

Christmas cheer

2010-12-24T14:43:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

Welcome, winter

2010-12-01T21:35:00.000-08:00

It's the first of the month. Snow arrived gracefully, silently in Canton today. Then it melted. Downtown, the shops were lit up and the trees sparkled with Christmas lights. Welcome, winter in the North Country!

Good Story

2010-11-22T17:29:00.000-08:00

The sun was beaming and I was going bonkers inside. I grabbed my book and walked over to SUNY Canton and made a perch in the grass. This fallen oak leaf lay on the trail with a good story to tell.

Higher, Colder, Wilder

2010-11-07T08:43:00.000-08:00

Peter and I headed into the Adirondacks for a hike up Azure Mountain. It was our first time there and we were greeted by the breathtaking site full of snow. It was a winter wonderland; the mountain was alive and in transition. From fall into winter. The sound of melting snow dropping onto papered leaves activated the trail on our way up. Tiny rivulets of running water were trapped beneath ice, and the streams formed dark shadows of slipper movement on rock face. The bursts of water swam with hurried ambition, like eager sperm. On top of the mountain the sun sparkled over the tinseled birch tips.

In Wandering Home, Bill McKibben talks about the Adirondacks with neighborly familiarity and respect. Comparing the area to his other home in Vermont he notes that "the Adirondacks are higher, colder, and wilder - people have lived here for fewer centuries in fewer numbers, and have never been able to make farming work for long. And so, over time, huge chunks have been left to rewild themselves, till in places it approaches the primeval."

While driving home, we noticed a sign on a diner door within park limits. It read "This is no park. This is where we work, this is where we live." Surely we - the recreational visitors - were the clueless patrons they meant to inform. Yet weren't we - the recreational visitors - the customers who sustained their small business? The irony reminded me that the Adirondacks are a great wilderness preservation experiment unfolding right in our backyard. Once, the Adirondacks were heavily logged, but those very areas are rewilding now. It may not be pure, virgin, unspoiled forest, but its recycled wildness speaks the language of redemption.

Atop Arab

2010-10-27T13:24:00.000-07:00

Wind hums a hollow song in my ears. I notice a low rustle, too. It’s the sound of tissue and paper and crackle. I look in its direction and see rust-orange leaves quaking with equal measures of terror and determination. I know that movement. I can feel it in my upper body. It’s the same quiver of my arms bent in a right angle, hanging from the pull-up bar in the Northfield Middle School gym. My seventh grade biceps thin, taut, shivering with fatigue. Ms. Steffen keeps a slow, growling tempo, “fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…” and I hear my Reeboks smack the vinyl mat beneath the bar. It’s the sound of defeat and relief.

The landing sensation brings me back to my surroundings. I’m glad to be here alone. No Presidential Fitness Exam. No competition at all. I’m lying on the summit of Arab Mountain, a 2,500 foot peak in the northwest pocket of the Adirondack Park in northern New York. The open, rocky clearing is hemmed in by mountain ash, whose exposed branches look tatty on this late October day. A few red spruce cluster together, obscuring a bare naked birch. I prop myself up with one elbow. My other hand acts as a visor to block the afternoon sun and bring focus to what’s below. I’m facing southwest. Mount Arab Lake and Eagle Crag Lake lick the valleys, leaving bright, irregular slurps on the landscape.

The sun is sinking slowly and I notice the shadows have shifted on the gray rock face all around me. They’re just a bit longer, darker.

I stand, stretch upward and take one last gaze at the smoky foothills and High Peaks in the distance. With my back to the setting sun I bound down the mountain. I cross rocky outcroppings, lichen-covered branches and a slurry of mudslides and muck. I’m following a gold snake. We’re both skirting the trail in an attempt to stay dry along the ledge.

My nose catches the dark smell of earth and rot. I spot a cascade of ruffled mushrooms on a fallen tree and note the ovate leaves nestled around it. “Yellow birch,” I guess out loud. The fungus looks like Hen of the Woods, but these edibles usually grow up around oak and maple. Gently tearing a few from the soft trunk, I cup a handful of the cool mushrooms. Their undersides are honey colored and spongy.

As I cross the paved road heading toward my car, four female pheasants edge quietly into the woods not far from the trailhead parking lot. When I start the engine the radio engages. North Country Public Radio’s fall fund drive pushes on and the hosts keep me company as I backtrack 62 to 3, 68 to 56. These strangers’ voices, like the bridges through Colton, the sharp curves in the highway and the houses that line Pierrepont’s only artery, are beginning to feel familiar.

Outside, inside

2010-10-26T07:06:00.001-07:00

Fall in the North Country has been exceptionally wet. Outside our kitchen window, soggy maple leaves are puddled, muddled.

Inside, these gingersnaps are just the opposite. They crinkle, they crunch, they crisp and crack! In anticipation of our trip to France this summer, I've been tracking David Lebovitz's blog "living the sweet life in Paris." This is his recipe for gingersnaps, shared by his pals in the Chez Panisse kitchen.

Wildness

2010-10-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

This day shall go down in my personal history as the day William Cronon arrived and made an indelible impression on the way I think about wilderness... or wildness. Thoreau said "... in wildness is the preservation of the world." In Cronon's essay The Trouble with Wilderness (1996), he fears that humans' conception of what is and what isn't wild could destroy us. He begs us to rethink wilderness, particularly through an awareness of a "common middle ground" in the wild spaces we already revere, and also the backyard, the garden, the city.

"If wildness can stop being (just) out there and start being (also) in here, if it can start being as humane as it is natural, then perhaps we can get on with the unending task of struggling to live rightly in the world - not just in the garden, not just in the wilderness, but in the home that encompasses them both."

This blew my mind.

Cronon is making me look differently at my surroundings. My everyday walk from home to the ODY Library on the St. Lawrence University campus suddenly seems wild and mysterious as a hike in the back woods. Today I started collecting one fallen leaf from each tree I passed on my walk. Just as I might try to identify out there, so could I learn right here.

Grasse River

2010-10-10T12:53:00.000-07:00

Leaves crunch underfoot as Peter and I walk across campus. Entering the wooded path just south of town, flecks of light surprise the damp ground and startle the dark canoe shack, our destination. With empty pockets (no cash, no bothersome phone) we push off into the river. Burnt maples and yellow birches hug the way, dropping leaves onto the still surface of the water.

Woodpecker, muskrat. They see us too, and they suspend activity to watch us glide by.

Water-logged leaves find their way to the easy current in the middle of the river. Pulled like sinew, they move together. Are they migrating, looking for a winter home like the five Canada Geese honking above us? I think their intentions are more like ours. Enjoying one last ride in the Grasse, absorbing the sun, hoarding the warmth of autumn.

Five on October First

2010-10-04T12:00:00.001-07:00

Last weekend we celebrated our fifth anniversary. Here's what we did and saw...

Mapping

2010-09-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

September has found me back in Minnesota... and with some time to spare. Yesterday, I headed north for my family's cabin. The cabin at Lake Inguadona is still new to us, so I'm still learning the area, its shapes, its contours.

"Mapping" the lake seemed like a step in recognizing and familiarizing, so I unfolded a regional map and made a little woodcut of Inguadona. Taking time to carve away its shoreline was an intentional gesture to pay attention to this new landscape. It was also repetitive, quiet, even meditative. A good activity for this rainy day.

Then while out on a walk I found this piece of bark in the very same shape as Inguadona. A perfect mate for the woodcut.

Harpers Falls

2010-09-14T12:46:00.000-07:00

From an afternoon on the river...

My focus is interrupted by a visitor. A wiley and mischeivous insect, six legs, a slender body, antennae. She lands just inches from my left hand (she's about the size of my thumbnail bed) and observes the river with me. I stop to watch and she seems to notice my intrigue. Dramatically, even theatrically, she rubs her front legs together slowly as if plotting her next move. The fine hairs on her legs scratch like stubble. Then, with a quick and precisely articulated movement she lifts off and zips downstream into the afternoon glare on the river. I lift up, too, and find a slightly different perch, pulling my legs closer to my body and settling my bare feet into the rocks and small pebbles of the creek. As I lean back a hand lightly brushes my neck where my pigtails are pulled away. The fingers belong to a mass of foliage with arching, lanky copper stems topped with flat green phalanges. If I were ever to learn the names of these riverside plants, I think I would do best to memorize their silhouettes.

Internal Landscape

2010-09-07T11:52:00.000-07:00

I just read Barry Lopez's "Story at Anaktuvuk Pass" and his description of two types of landscape (internal and external) made my imagination run wild.

"The [internal landscape] is a kind of projection within a person... deeply influenced by where on this earth one goes, what one touches, the patterns one observes in nature, the intricate history of one's life in the land, even a life in the city..."

If our interior is a reflection of our place, is there an aesthetic quality to this internal landscape? Even if it's deeply subconscious, I like to think that our homes - past and present - leave an imprint on our internal landscape.

I take pleasure

2010-08-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

There's a crevice in my oak desk that catches my pencil when I draw. Rubbed with graphite it makes a long, tidy row.

I take pleasure in orderly crop rows, lines of young peas arching lyrically over a hill, tasseled corn tops like sentinels prepared for march. These patterns are marked deeply in me. They’re the aesthetic of my first 22 years.

Home was south-central Minnesota. At 19 I spent three months employed by the agricultural superhero of the Midwest. The Jolly Green Giant handed me a set of keys to a pick-up truck and a map of colossal proportions. I was sent out to collect writhing, fluttering specimens from a patchwork of fields that blanket the lower third of the state.

My job title was Pest Control Technician. On less aggrandizing terms, I was a lowly bug collector. I hunted corn borers, stink bugs and cutworms, then plucked them from their homes on the underside of cornstalks and pea shoots. With the glass jar beside me in the passenger seat, I rattled back over gravel roads, through sleepy townships and back to headquarters in Le Seuer, MN.

Bark-eaters

2010-08-29T19:00:00.000-07:00

Before we left Seattle Stef gave us guidebook to the Adirondack Park. It made good reading during all the long hours in the moving truck. We learned that Adirondack takes its name from the Iroquois word ha-de-ron-dah which translates as bark-eater. It was an insult; a name for the Algonquins who lived in the region where the Iroquois travelled to hunt, fish and gather plants. So, our new local wilderness area was named after a late prehistoric slam. But you've got to give those Algonquins some credit; they were resourceful.

Today we took our first hike in the park. We started out in Wanakena and walked the flat path (a former railroad bed) to High Rock. We picnic-ed on the river and saw five canoes during our short lunch break. To our dismay, the wild blueberries we'd read about had already been found by some other resourceful hikers.

bag o' hearts

2010-02-02T07:11:00.000-08:00

Today is February 2nd. This can only mean one thing. Actually it can mean a couple of things:

1. I am wearing red, and I will wear red, pink or purple every day of February until the 14th.

2. It is Groundhog's Day...not very important.

Last night the Valentine festivities began. I opened a bag of cherry juju hearts, cut out hundreds of hearts from red, pink and brown construction paper and set out my favorite valentine books, cards and other treasures. My girl, Sarah, and I brainstormed all the details of our "2nd grade Valentine party" which includes, but is not limited to:

-invitations that are to die for (photos to come...)

-heart garland hanging from the windows and chandelier

-a mobile of flying cupids (cupids found at AxMan and attached with fishing line)

-tomato cilantro soup (Orangette) with grilled cheese stamped with I <3>

As I sat at the table with a pile of pink and red paper scraps, my heart felt like tomato soup boiling over. I have my mom, dad and sister to thank for this nearly irrational love of the heart-holiday. It was always a time to express love and appreciation for each other, not a time to give red roses or boxes of waxy chocolate.

xoxo

That's Amore

2010-01-24T21:42:00.000-08:00

For Annie, Ani and Ann... and their endless pizza-making quest.

Pizza Dough
Adapted from Jamie Oliver

1 3/4 c. white bread flour
1 1/2 c. fine semolina flour (or white bread flour, same as above)
1 tsp. fine sea salt
1/4 oz. active dry yeast
1 tsp. sugar
1 1/4 c. warm water

Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Transfer to counter and knead for 10 minutes or mix in stand mixer with dough hook for 10 minutes. Form dough into a taut ball (pinching dough on the underside to create even pressure across the top of the ball). Sprinkle with flour, cover and let rest for 15 minutes. Divide into 6 equal pieces and form each piece into six taut balls. Cover and let rest for 15 minutes, or refrigerate for up to an hour. Pinch and pull balls until large enough to toss into large circles. Top sparingly with your favorite pizza toppings and bake in 450 degree oven for 6-8 minutes.

Nothin' Fancy (a guest appearance)

2010-01-13T19:05:00.001-08:00

Wanting to stay more closely connected, my little sis Annie and I have started sharing recipes and little inspirations with each other... from her life in Minneapolis, MN and mine in Seattle, WA. Her last email to me was so delightful I thought I'd post it and try to start an ongoing conversation with her. Nothing else going on with Frank as my neighbor. Annie, you out there? Keep 'em coming...

1.12.2010

Well, my life has officially changed. After dinner last night I watched Julie and Julia. It is everything I love in one movie…I guess I’m not sure if that is a good thing or bad…My life can be summarized in a 123-minute movie? Either way, this is the pasta I enjoyed before my life changed. It was pretty tasty and used up the squash that has been hanging out in the vegetable bowl since before Christmas! I’m no Julia Child, but once and a while I give myself a pat-on-the-back after dinner.

Butternut Squash, Spinach and Lemon Pasta

Ingredients:
1 medium butternut squash, cubed

1 large onion, chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 T fresh rosemary

5 cups torn spinach

Juice of ½ lemon

Dried whole-wheat pasta

Fresh Parmesan

Peel, quarter and cube squash. Cook in olive oil in a large soup-pot over medium-low heat for about 20 minutes, or until softened. Boil salted water for cooking pasta. Cook like you always do. Remove from pot and let sit in large bowl while sautéing onion. Add garlic and chopped rosemary (dried rosemary has nothing on fresh, so don’t even think about it) once onion has softened slightly. Add squash. Lastly, tear spinach into rough, edible pieces and mix into squash/onion mix. Squeeze the juice of ½ a lemon to finish and season with salt and pepper to taste. Cook until flavors have mixed, about 7 minutes. Drain pasta, top with squash topping and parmesan cheese. Enjoy!

PS-I actually thought that I wouldn’t want to use the entire squash in the pasta (duh! Can you ever have too much squash?!), so I reserved half of it and cooked it in a covered baking dish with real apple cider, a pinch salt and oil for 25 minutes. I ended up putting it in the mix with the squash that I’d sautéed. It was deliciously sweet.

"M" is For...

2009-05-10T11:24:00.000-07:00

Today's Sunday phone call home was especially sweet. Mom and I each sat outside enjoying spring, she in a breezy porch in Northfield , and I on a sunny patio in Seattle.

She reminded me of a fun tradition in elementary school, where thoughtful teachers organize a craft to surprise their students' moms for Mother's Day. I suppose most teachers know how much a homespun gift means to a parent. Just think about your basement or attic for a minute. Surely the things that remain include that clumsy acrostic poem from 3rd grade, the tinsel Christmas ornament (made on the top of a peanut butter jar), and a faded "Thumb-Bunny Loves You" finger print card.

Mom, on this our 28th Mother's Day as mama and daughter, here's a little poem for you. Clumsy? A little – but what acrostic isn't? I guess you'll have to print it and add it to the box downstairs.

"M" is for the mountains of love you show me,
"O" is for your "eau" - perfume of gold,
"T" is for the terrific songs you sang me,
"H" is for your hugs, which never grow old;
"E" for your exuberance, which leaves me pining,
"R" means right, and right you'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell "MOTHER,"
A word that means the world to me.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.

Oh, and here's the link to the veggie burger concept we tried last night. Give them plenty of time to cool in the fridge and they'll firm up. You and Daddy will love them.

February, I love you.

2009-03-02T20:33:00.000-08:00

28 days just isn't quite long enough for me and the lovely month of February. Somehow, she slipped by and I didn't make a single mention of my affection.

I love how the days creep forward, gathering daylight, and how the gray skies, gray clouds and gray sidewalks get a pinch in the cheek from the all the red and pink for Heart Day. And here in the Northwest, I love that spring (yes, spring!) begins to make its first move.

During the month of February, I was astounded to see vibrant green shoots of galanthus (those nodding white snowdrops), daffodils, tulips pop up. Over this past weekend, all those brave bulbs made flowers.

But, can I step back for just a moment to make mention of February 14? Peter and I went to Cannon Beach, Oregon for an amazing weekend trip. What made our stay so strikingly unique were our accommodations (was our accommodations? Mom, help, grammar troubles). In a wind-blown 1920s corner store and inn, with an undeniably shabby exterior, a man named Hank runs an incredible business. His inn, a nine room guest house, is a hold-out from a different era. And Hank is a remarkable host! He's a James Beard recipe award-winner (bread, I believe), was the lead rose gardener in Portland (the City of Roses, no less) before retiring and purchasing the Wave Crest several years ago. He first discovered it as a guest in the 1970s, and he became friends with the elderly owners. Before he knew it, he was spending nearly every weekend in Cannon Beach.

Hank, and this view out our window, made me want to follow in his shoes... making the trek to the coast each weekend. At the very least, I hope we'll visit him again. I note the following for myself, as much as for you, dear reader: for our next stay, we'll rent one of the rooms with a private bathroom, not just the shared one down the hall. And I won't bring my own reading material, because Hank has the most wonderfully plump bookshelves and loves to share.

Here's a little video from the beach. That giant rock is called Haystack Rock.

Bouncy Biscuit Islands

2009-01-19T21:17:00.001-08:00

What a weekend!

Sunday came with sunshine and mild temps. Feeling emboldened by the shift in weather, we ventured a little farther from home, heading north toward Fildalgo and Whidbey Islands for a picnic and hike. "Deception Pass" is one of many spots in the region that retains the name assigned by Captain George Vancouver when he explored the Strait of Juan de Fuca in 1792. Aparently, he was fooled by the swift outward current, thinking he had discovered a major eastward passage. Feeling deceived when he discovered otherwise, he scrawled its name on his map and it's stuck ever since.

Deception Pass is an awfully disgruntled name for such a breathtaking area. None of the history gets at the incredible place we found. A pristine state park runs along the coast and sandbars link mounded islands with the main land. Because this area is in the rain shadow of the Olympics, it was noticeably drier than the soggy, green forests and fields we've gotten used to. Best of all, the sun was steady and determined. We perched on top of each bald island, just to absorb the heat from the sun.

When we got home, we made a cozy dinner. I have to show you a picture of our dinner, because the quirkiest thing happened.

The biscuits atop our pot pies bore a strange, but very striking resemblance to the domed islands that popped unexpectedly out of the Sound near Deception Pass. Bouncy little things just bobbing on the surface!

How often can you say there was a dominant sculptural form in both your landscape and your dinner? I might have to make a goal of that more often, just for the sheer satisfaction in it.

In the Arb

2009-01-11T23:13:00.000-08:00

It's been raining in Washington. A lot. We were lucky to have weekend that was merely damp, which gave us the chance to get outside for a walk today. We explored the UW Arboretum near Lake Union. Our favorite part was the "Winter Garden", which showcases the shrubs and trees that look and smell more interesting than their summer-oriented friends.

As we entered the Winter Garden, we were nearly knocked out by a perfume that smelled of jasmine or magnolia... or some tender sweetheart we assumed wouldn't dare send out blossoms during this cold, dark season. The tender yellow petals of the Witch Hazel flowers dripped with moisture. And curled inward toward the branch, a trick this tree has for keeping its precious flowers warm even on cold days. We also learned that the horticultural name, Hamamelis virginiana, means "together with fruit": the tree's fruit, flowers, and next year's leaf buds all appear simultaneously on the branch.

Snow

2008-12-14T21:11:00.000-08:00

The most amazing thing happened last night. It snowed. While we were reveling with friends inside, two inches of snow fell silently outside. After our guests left, Peter and I went out for a midnight walk. I'm quite certain Ballard has never looked so enchanting*.

On a chilly night when it's snowing outside, nothing beats Jambalaya. I heard Seattle is expecting more snow on Wednesday... and I know Minnesota already has plenty. So go get your groceries now. When the snow comes again, you can stay in with a spicy, steaming bowlful.

Jambalaya

3/4 lb smoked andouille sausage, sliced into rounds
1 red pepper, diced
1 green pepper, diced
2 celery stalks, chopped
4 scallions, sliced
3/4 cup coarsely chopped parsley
3 cloves garlic
2 Tbsp fresh thyme
1 1/2 cups rice
1 1/2 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs, cut into chunks
1 28 oz can diced tomatoes
2 cups chicken broth
3 bay leaves
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/4 tsp cayenne pepper
1 lb medium shrimp, peeled and deveined
1 Tbsp lemon juice

Saute the sausage in a Dutch oven over medium-high heat until browned. Remove the sausage and set aside. Add the bell peppers to the Dutch oven and saute for 2 minutes. Add the celery, scallions, parsley, garlic, and thyme, stirring well. Cook 3 minutes, then add rice, still stirring. Add the chicken, combining well. Reduce heat to low and cook 5 minutes. Stir in the sausage, tomatoes, broth, bay leaves, salt, pepper, and cayenne. Cover and cook for 20 minutes, or until the rice is done. Try to resist the temptation to lift the cover to smell your simmering stew. Once the rice is cooked, stir in the shrimp and lemon juice and cook until the shrimp have just turned pink and are done, about 3-5 minutes.

*Speaking of enchantment, it's worth taking note that Linda, our neighbor, has created a colorful holiday display in her front yard. Tinsel, blinking lights, sculpted shrubs. It's very, very festive.

Pile of Pancakes

2008-11-29T16:35:00.000-08:00

If you're like I am, the days after Thanksgiving are filled with nibbles and left-overs. By Sunday, I'm usually ready for something that doesn't resemble turkey, yams, or cranberries.

And that's precisely why I became fixated on pancakes yesterday. I had gotten a taste of these last weekend when our friends, Matt and Elie, joined us for brunch. I pulled out a recipe I'd printed a year ago and stashed away: Mark Bittman's Whole-Grain Pancakes. For those of you who don't follow the Minimalist, I highly recommend his cheeky videos on nytimes.com; his recipes happen to be fabulous, too. This recipe yields a big batch of fluffy, moist cakes, despite the whole-wheat and buckwheat. The secret is in the eggs, which are separated... the whites are whipped into stiff peaks.

Sunday Morning Pancakes
(adapted from Mark Bittman's Whole-Grain Pancakes)

3 Tbsp butter (plus more for serving)
1 cup whole wheat flour
2/3 cup buckwheat
2 Tbsp sugar
1 Tbsp baking powder
1/4 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
2 large eggs, separated
1 cup buttermilk
1 cup milk

Melt 3 tablespoons butter. In a large bowl, combine flours, oats, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and salt.

Beat egg whites until stiff peaks form (I prefer to let my electric mixer do this job.) Don't overbeat. In separate bowl, beat milk and buttermilk, yolks and melted butter until foamy - about a minute. Add milk mixture to flour mixture and give a couple of good stirs, but don't overmix. Fold in egg whites and stir until batter is just evenly colored and smooth; the lumps are okay.

Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Add butter, heat just past white foaming stage, then add batter. Drop walnuts onto batter rounds. Cook until bubbles form and pop, about 1-2 minutes. Carefully flip and cook until well-colored. Keep them hot in the oven while you finish the rest of the batch.

Serve with a bowl full of colorful fresh fruit... or caramel-y sauteed apples, as we did yesterday. Please don't skimp on the maple syrup. And if you're feeling decadent, whip some cream and add a generous dallop to your steaming heap.

Full-Time Thanks

2008-11-24T22:32:00.000-08:00

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I'm feeling the urge to give a little thanks.

I'm delighted to report that I accepted a wonderful job offer yesterday... at the Swedish Medical Center Foundation. In my new position, I'll be working on a variety of events that support one of Seattle's most well-respected and established medical centers. I'll be tied closely with the brand-new Center for Advanced Brain Tumor Treatment, and a fascinating pianist-turned-neurosurgeon named Dr. Greg Foltz.

I was pleased to hear from my dad (I wonder how many other Minnesotans read the Seattle news?) that there was a lengthy article about the new Brain Cancer Center in today's Seattle Times! Click here to view the article.

I'll look forward to sharing more details soon. But for now, I just have to say, "thank goodness."

Tasty Morsel

2008-11-12T21:04:00.000-08:00

So, you probably want a juicy update, don't you? I'm inclined to blather about our stunning Sunday hike near Snoqualmie Pass, but I'll give you a few scraps to chew on rather than wax poetic about a yellow maple.

I started a part-time internship at the Seattle Art Museum today. I'm working in the development department, spearheading a fun, new corporate membership project. I should mention that this new internship complements my part-time work at the University of Washington and my other part-time work at a charming restaurant in Ballard. For those of you who aren't great with numbers, three part-time jobs = a lot of work.

When I walked into the museum this afternoon, it smelled of peanut butter sandwiches and wet tennies. I rounded the corner to find a herd of fourth-graders, lounging on the steps and feeding from rumpled brown bags. It sounds odd, I know, but I envied those students and their squishy sandwiches!

I made my way up to the 5th floor and met Jeanine, my supervisor. She showed me to my glamorous cubicle. It's quite nice, actually, save the enormous computer monitor that makes my eyes jitter and twitch. Once I got settled, Jeanine took me on a grand tour and introduced me to the whole cast of characters, the people who make the Seattle Art Museum tick. It's good to be there and I'm happy to be connecting another group of interesting Seattleites.

That's your morsel for this week. Almost as tasty as PB&J from a sack lunch you didn't have to pack. I know.

Close of October

2008-10-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

It's nearly the close of October and fall just keeps on coming. The trees are blazing with color; everything underfoot goes "crunch, crunch."

Peter and I spent the weekend close to home. Our free hours were filled by long walks around the neighborhood, making a few prints from collected leaves, weeding the small strip of garden next to our patio, potting some evergreens and chatting with neighbors.

Linda (aforementioned neighbor and Open Mic organizer) has a friendly exchange going with us. After she lent us her stock pot for our tomato endeavor, we returned it with a jar of sauce and a note of thanks. A few days later we found a squatty silver pot and a note on our door step: "Thought this would help with your cooking addiction. Lids are 99 cents at Goodwill." Yesterday afternoon, she brought over a little boxwood, some grasses, and a spidery climber from her backyard.

Clearly, now it's our turn to reciprocate with a neighborly favor. Perhaps, dear reader, you have a good suggestion. Toss out an idea and I'll keep you posted on this budding relationship.

Fall Visitor

2008-10-02T22:51:00.000-07:00

I'm back. While Seattle saw rain, this blog saw a serious drought. The reason for my distraction? We had a visitor! My sister, Ann, was here for two fabulous weeks. If you ever find yourself in the Pacific Northwest with a dear sister (or brother, mother, father, or friend), I highly recommend the following agenda:

1. Cut yourselves some slack. Sleep in.

2. Take lots of hikes. Collect leaves of elephant proportions, as well as other interesting specimen you may find along the way (moss, lichen, branches from a monkey-tail tree).

3. Go for a run in the rain along Salmon Bay - you'll feel like a true Seattleite once you're drenched.

4. Head to Pike Place Market and buy the freshest, best-looking salmon and veggies you can get your hands on.

5. Find a happy hour location that boasts good micro brews and live coverage of the vice presidential debates.

6. Take a ferry to Bainbridge Island. Wander through town to find the Harbour Public House. Get out of the rain, cozy up under the outdoor umbrella and order yourself a tasty beer and some fish and chips.

7. Drive north along the Chuckanut Trail toward Bellingham. Along the way, enjoy the craggy coastline and stunning views. Pull over at the Oyster Bar for a delicious lunch and the best Puget Sound views in the state. May I suggest that you a) look fancy or b) bring a dramatic scarf to divert the other diners' attention away from your hiking boots and dirty pants? It'll make everyone more comfortable. Trust me.

8. Pick fresh apples at one of the many orchards near Samish Bay. When you get home, throw a crisp in the oven. Nothing nudges you into fall more gently than the smell of cinnamon and apples bubbling in the oven.

9. Stay up late, dream good dreams, and, with a little reluctance, send your lovely visitor home.

Yakima Tomatoes Galore

2008-09-18T10:23:00.000-07:00

An ambitious moment at a Ballard produce shack resulted in a full night's work for Peter and me. Last week, I came home with 30 lbs of tomatoes from the Yakima valley: round, hefty, and ready for a little special treatment.

In order to give these tomatoes a run for their money, Pete and I had to round up a few tools. We managed to find the wide-mouthed funnel and tongs at the local hardware store (it was the fourth or fifth one we visited - apparently we weren't the only folks in search of tools we should've saved from Grandma's kitchen). The Kerr jars were easy to find. But getting enough large stock pots for all those orbs was a trick! We ended up borrowing an enormous pot from our neighbor, Linda.

(enter Linda from stage left)

Linda lives in the house right next door to us. She's probably in her forties. I'm not sure she "works" in the traditional sense of the word. But she probably says the same thing about us! Anyway, she's 100% dedicated to the Open-Mic Night she coordinates each week. She tells us about it every time she sees us and advertises it on the back of her car with white window paint. That's dedication.

As I looked online for a little assistance for our first canning endeavor, I came across a fantastic website from the National Center for Home Food Preservation - I highly recommend you check it out. We used their recipe for crushed tomatoes, which worked out brilliantly.

While we're chatting about good reads, I have one more tip. If you're lucky enough to live in the fine state of Minnesota, pick up a free copy of this month's Edible Twin Cities. In it, our good friend, Zach Hawkins, has a feature article entitled, The New Preservationists. But beware - it might just be enough to send you out in search of 30 lbs of ripe tomatoes.

You're special, because you're MTV Cribs

2008-09-16T08:16:00.000-07:00

Since 2005, MTV Cribs has featured home tours of over 185 celebrities, musicians, actors and athletes. In this most recent episode, Cribs crew-members check out the rad retreats of Peter B. Nelson at his new duplex in Seattle.

Strangers

2008-09-13T20:25:00.000-07:00

Oddly enough, Peter and I flew back to Minnesota this weekend. Not because of homesickness. Not because we're already experiencing Seasonal Affective Disorder (it's still sunny and 70). No, we had a Very Important Reunion Planning Meeting to attend at our alma mater.

I note this is because a peculiar and wonderful experience happened en route to the airport:

Peter and I boarded the #28, which runs out of Ballard and straight downtown. There, we would catch a transfer to the Sea-Tac airport. Still a bit uneasy as first-time riders, we clutched our suitcases tight on the bumpy ride. The bus driver came over the intercom, "Is anyone on this bus transferring to the underground tunnel at 3rd and Union?" We exchanged nervous glances and shot our hands up in the air, "We are!" Assuming he was announcing a detour or a warning, we wanted to be sure we caught on quickly.

As it turned out, we had volunteered to assist a young man in finding his transfer bus in the underground tunnel. The man walked down the narrow aisle, looking desperately from side to side in search of his appointed travel companions. Providing assistance was not something we were prepared to do, but our seat neighbors signaled to him and pointed to us. He sat down and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it over.

"Where are you headed?" we asked. He looked at us blankly. "Little English," he said meekly as he pinched a tiny sliver of air between his thumb and pointer. We feigned an attempt at interpreting the bus numbers and transfer locations, but the notes on the paper were as foreign to us as English was to him.

Noting just how desperate we were, the man across the aisle made an offer to show us all the way to the underground tunnel and our connecting lines. Peter and I breathed a sigh of relief and gave the Turkish man the signal that transcends all geographical boundaries and language barriers: two thumbs up.

At our stop, the man across the aisle stood up, extending to six and a half or seven feet tall, and led us all off the bus. In a single file, we followed behind him: first Peter, then me, then the Turkish man. As if following a pillar of cloud, our Moses parted the Red Sea of 3rd Ave and led us safely toward the underground Promised Land.

Total strangers, momentarily bound, we descended the escalator in silence. We wove our way through the crowds of hustling locals carrying groceries, jabbering on cell phones. Moses stopped under a bus sign and pointed to the Turkish man. Then he tapped his own chest and signaled to the approaching bus. Screeching to a halt and throwing open its doors, the bus boldly welcomed the two men.

Swift currents of bus riders flowed in and out of the open doors while we four stood still in their wake. In recognition of the oddly profound journey we'd just shared, we exchanged handshakes and earnest thank yous. The two strangers boarded the bus and held our gaze through the window. Giving a cough of exhaust, the bus accelerated, then vanished.

Namesake Next Door

2008-09-08T15:09:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like the aroma of warm chocolate chip cookies mingling with the smell of box-fresh IKEA furniture to make a house feel like home. Our first Saturday night in Seattle was spent creating this unmistakable sense of comfort.

The place we’re calling home is a sweet little two-bedroom duplex in Ballard. Just fifteen minutes northwest of downtown and situated right on Puget Sound, Ballard was a free-standing milling and fishing town until Seattle annexed it in 1906.

The neighborhood clings to its Scandinavian identity: Olsen’s Gift Shop on main street sells lefse, lingonberries and the works, the annual Syttende Mai celebration draws Seattlites from far and wide, and I got a hearty “Um Ya Ya!” on the bike trail in response to my St. Olaf t-shirt. So, I think I’m gonna like it here.

Back at the duplex, Peter and I had a chance to meet Frank, neighbor and namesake of the blog. Picture this: a vision of denim, plaid flannel, and the frizziest, bushiest, biggest red beard you’ve ever seen. That’s Frank. Lovely guy. Been in the front half of the duplex for eight years. Nice and quiet. Perfect neighbor? I’ll keep you posted.

Open Immediately

2008-09-05T17:06:00.000-07:00

"Open immediately upon arrival in Seattle" read the box. Inside, a package of Minnesota goodies from Sally. The most brilliant treat was a four-pack of Surly Furious. A toast to Minnesota! Cheers!

Prelude

2008-09-04T19:57:00.000-07:00

With our Honda packed full of the essentials and an i-pod plump with audio books and pod-casts, Peter and I set out across the western half of the continent last week. We left Minneapolis and wove our way through North Dakota, Montana, Idaho and Washington. Waiting for us at the end of the trip was a new home in Seattle (and a new neighbor named Frank).

The Seattle move was prompted by Peter’s graduate program at the University of Washington, but countless other discoveries have made us feel excited about trying on this new city for size. This blog is a way for me to jot down some of those thoughts for myself, and share them with you, dear reader.

The following photos are a prelude to Seattle, in the order in which they were snapped. In just five photos, you can see two and a half days of cross-country travel. Lucky you!