Yakima Tomatoes Galore

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

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

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

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

"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

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!