charlie brown in the 'hood

Blake took the day off work so that he could join Garrett and I as we went trick-or-treating around the neighborhood. We all had a fabulous time. The weather was perfect, allowing even for us to let Charlie Brown go without a coat. I mentioned last year that in Brooklyn a lot of the trick-or-treating is hosted by the shop owners down the busy avenues, as opposed to at homes in residential areas. So first we hit up a few of stores near our home, including the copy shop, the grocery store, the pediatrician's office, and the laundromat. Then we headed to a residential street we had on good authority was a great spot to clean up. They weren't kidding. We walked up and down both sides of one street visiting the neighbors, who were waiting on their stoops with cauldrons full of treats, and built up a candy supply that will last Garrett for months. Everyone got a kick out of Charlie Brown and his Snoopy, while Charlie Brown was bewildered at the fact that people were so freely doling out goodies.



Back at home, we dumped Garrett's stash onto the living room floor to inspect it. For a sixteen-month-old who only stopped at a few places, his collection was not shabby at all -- much better than the rocks his cartoon counterpart got. Garrett enjoyed wading through his goodies, testing out how crinkly the packaging was, attempting to eat suckers that hadn't yet been unwrapped, and, of course, sharing a little with his parents. He was happy, we were happy. I'd say it's been a devilishly good holiday.

Happy Halloween!

sweet sixteen

Garrett is sixteen months old today, and in honor of that, I thought I'd share some of his latest shenanigans.

• He barks at dogs, squirrels, and pigeons.
• He builds towers with his little alphabet blocks (which has made me seriously consider asking Santa to bring him a set of bigger blocks for Christmas).
• Without any prompting, he folds his arms and gets ready to pray whenever I put him in his high chair.
• When he's finished eating, and I ask him to give me his hands so I can wash them, he holds them out and gives them to me. (This gesture, however, doesn't ensure that he won't scream and dodge the washcloth when it's time to clean his face.)
• He now holds his hands up to his eyes (palms out) to play a game of Peek-a-Boo. He starts spontaneously and hopes you'll notice and join right in.
  
• He helps clean up his toys.
• He thinks it's so funny when he beats on his bare chest like Tarzan.
• He also thinks it's funny to, when he finds me kneeling on the floor doing something, sneak up behind me (a phrase I use quite loosely) and hold onto my shoulders for a giggly game of You Don't Know It, But I'm Right Behind You And Ha-Ha -- You Can't Even See Me.
  
• He understands that binkies are only for bedtime and will rip his out of his mouth and chuck it into the crib whenever I retrieve him in the morning or after a nap.
• He helps me sort laundry (i.e. he does a good job of emptying the hamper, whether or not it's laundry day).
• He says "hello" and "night-night" and appears to now have attached meaning to his "mama" and "dada." My favorite is when he cocks his head to one side, looks up into my face and says, "Hello? Hello?"
  
• He babbles conversationally, and will even occasionally throw in a fake laugh just to liven things up.
• He also reads books out loud to himself. His current favorites are Moo, Baa, La La La; Freight Train; and Blake's book on Piet Mondrian.
• He can now also turn lights ON.
• He does GREAT walking,
• and likes pushing his own stroller.
• He is mesmerized by Charlie Brown cartoons, Veggie Tales, and obnoxious iO cable commercials.
• He not only waves to that kid staring back in the mirror and/or piece of reflecting glass, but he also waves to family photos seen posted on our fridge and on the computer.
• Speaking of, though he's never met him, when I ask him where Henry (his newborn baby cousin) is, he points to the photographs of him hanging on the refrigerator.
  
• He moves items from one spot to another (i.e. toys from the red box to the blue box, from the toy basket in the living room to shelves of varying levels, or blocks from their plastic container through the bars into his crib).
• He is attached, Linus-like, to his silky blue blanket and loves to hold it up to his ear and snuggle right in.
• He is still obsessed with airplanes.
• When I hold out a pillow and say, "Go night-night," he plops his head down and pretends to sleep.
• He dances (i.e. either bobs up and down or sways back and forth) to whatever groovy music I have playing.
• He turns on and off the TV, as well as changes the channels. (And all without asking.)
• He still drives cars, only now more vigorously.
• And, as always, he is still my sweet, super happy, little boy who I love more than I can ever describe to you.

best friends forever

I first met Sarah when we were classmates in Mrs. Nelson's Kindergarten room. We sat at the same table, where I got a great view of her awesome Smurf glasses frames. We played together on the teeter-totter at recess. Our mothers arranged for us to have after school play dates.

During that school year, our class went on a field trip to the BYU dairy farm. I was thrilled when this event's use of the Buddy System allowed for us to choose our own buddies because I, of course, wanted Sarah as my partner -- desperately. We sat next to each other on the bus and probably held hands so that no one would try to split us up. As the bus pulled into the drive at the farm, Sarah turned to me and told me she thought she'd just swallowed a bug. Moments later, blood came gushing out of her nose. Mrs. Nelson having been informed of this unfortunate occurance, I, too, was informed that I'd have to find a new buddy for the field trip. I was devastated. Sarah, who had to stay behind until her bloody nose stopped, was paired up with someone else at the rear of the group. I survived, of course, but I'm pretty sure that I would have found the photo of the two-headed calf even more awesome if she'd been by my side.

After the close of our Kindergarten year, Sarah moved with her family all the way to far-away New Jersey. Not wanting this enormous distance to disrupt our friendship, we became penpals. We busied our mailmen with letters written back and forth from then until the advent of email, at which point we continued our communications electronically. We filled each other in on our new, more immediate friendships, we wrote of how great our baptism days were, and we shared what activities we were involved in at school and in our communities.

Occasionally Sarah would come back to Utah with her family, often so they could attend Education Week at BYU. Whenever she came to town, we arranged to get together. On one such visit, Sarah, with her mother's blessing, invited me to come see her in New Jersey the following summer. Over the next year, I saved and pinched pennies like nobody's business. I babysat nearly every child the neighborhood had to offer and hoarded nearly all I earned by doing so in my bank account. Miraculously, I saved enough to go.

That trip, the summer I was fifteen, was one of the most memorable I've ever taken. Her mom saw to it that we packed in as much of the East Coast as we could in the few days that I was able to spend with them. Sarah gave me a walking tour of her small, colonial-era town, and introduced me to water ice. I watched as a few New Jersey youths, Sarah included, were interviewed for the New Era magazine. We took a few day trips: to the Jersey shore at Ocean City; to Washington D.C., where we almost met the activing president of El Salvador on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, and where my apparently amazing map skills got us out of the city after we'd gotten lost in rush-hour traffic; Philadelphia, where we got a "Monday-view" (i.e. views from the outside because they were all closed) of the historic sites and wolfed down the most delicious street meat Philly cheese steak sandwiches ever; and the Statue of Liberty, where we were followed around by a determined bushy-headed, cowboy/rancher amputee from Florida and his Hispanic cronies.

Our paths didn't cross again for a long time after that. After high school, I went to Ricks College, she went to BYU. Just as I was preparing to transfer down to BYU, she married and transferred to Utah State. Eventually we both did end up at BYU simultaneously, and to celebrate, we took a class together (History of the Civil War....we were both history majors).

It's been over twenty years since we were Kindergarten BFFs, and we still haven't lost touch. We keep tabs on each other through email, occasional chat conversations, blog posts, and most recently, zoo trips. I'm sure our lives will continue to lead us down varied and distanced paths, but I'm just as equally convinced that it would take a power far greater than ourselves to destroy this friendship.


PS: And if memory serves me correctly, today, actually, is Sarah's birthday. Happy birthday, friend! I hope it's a great one!

pumpkin carving

Happy Halloween from our haunted house to yours!

oh, baloney!

When we lived in Indiana, I heard friends of mine rave on more than one occasion about the deliciousness of fried baloney. I was skeptical, and let's not mention a little disgusted. So I was surprised when, the other day as I was thumbing through my Home Cookin' with Dave's Mom cookbook, feeling rather homesick for Hoosiers, I came across Dorothy Letterman's recipe for David's Fried Baloney Sandwich and found myself itching to try one. (I know, weird, huh.) In an effort to tame the tickle, I bought a package of baloney during my weekly grocery shopping trip and, today for lunch, made Garrett and I both one of Dave's favorite sandwiches. And, quelle surprise, it was tasty. And so here I'll divulge the recipe to you.

David's Fried Baloney Sandwich
[Dorothy's note: "One evening I got a call from David when he was still doing his show at NBC and he asked me on the air how to make this sandwich. It had always been just about his favorite lunch, but I didn't know how fondly he remembered it until he called me that night."]

2 slices bread
2 slices baloney
2 slices fresh tomato
mustard (hot dog variety)

In a small nonstick skillet, heat the baloney slices (do not overcook). Make 1 cut from center to edge of baloney slice so it doesn't cup. Spread 1 slice of bread with mustard [or 2 slices, if you're like me and love mustard]. Put on the baloney and tomato slices. Top with the other slice of bread. Enjoy! Makes 1 sandwich.

There's another baloney recipe in the cookbook that I just might have to try. It's called Baloney Breakfast, and is basically just a piece of baloney heated in a skilled until it cups, and then served with scrambled eggs inside. A little strange, yes, but I'm intrigued just the same.

Anyway, so go fry up some baloney and feel as famous as David Letterman.

bronx zoo revisited

My longtime friend, Sarah (more on just how long in a future post), and her cute daughter, Olivia, came up from New Jersey yesterday to visit the zoo with us. Here's a photo essay of how the excursion panned out:

The Asian Monorail, Congo Gorilla Forest, and the African Plains and the animals they housed were all fun to see, but what I enjoyed most was getting to spend my day with Sarah and Liv. (Yes, I loved their company even more than I loved the fact that a peacock joined us for lunch.) Hope to see you guys again soon!

sugar and spice and everything nice

photo courtesy of 16 Bit Love

Today I was privileged to meet Elizabeth, newborn daughter of our friends, Emily and Adam. She is quite possibly the most beautiful baby girl I've ever laid my eyes on. A truly perfect blend of both of her sweet parents. She was born on Sunday, weighing in at just 6 lbs 12 oz -- only one ounce bigger than Garrett was. As I cradled her itty bitty body and held those long, skinny arms and legs this afternoon, it was hard to remember that Garrett was also once this tiny. It made me realize that my baby boy isn't so much a baby anymore. Where did the time go?

you little hooligan

I recently finished reading Hooligan: A Mormon Boyhood by Douglas Thayer. It's a memoir of Thayer's childhood and early adolescent years growing up in Provo during the Great Depression and World War II. I took to the book almost immediately, partly because I also grew up in Provo, and also because my grandfather, though he raised his own family in Portland, Oregon, was a Provo boy himself, growing up in those same years.

The book is written not so much as a story, but as an assortment of various memories organized by season more so than by age. It is still, however, a delightful read. He writes in a straightforward manner and in doing so conveys a subtle sense of humor. For example, this passage, which earned a chuckle from yours truly:

"Our mothers often warned us to keep our clothes clean and not to tear them or wear them out because she and dad weren't made of money and did you think money grew on trees, which we never thought, but we kept our eyes peeled."

My grandfather was a few years older than Thayer and the Depression hit his family a little harder, but, as he recently shared with me, Hooligan pretty well tells it like it was.

In the early '30s, my Grandpa Earl was living in Provo with his mother, father, and two older brothers. Just before Thanksgiving in 1933 the Schramm-Johnson drugstore, which his father, a pharmacist, managed, burned down, leaving his father so depressed, he abandoned his young family a few days later. Of course, this turn of events made already troubling times even more difficult, and with the holiday season just around the corner, no less. As Grandpa later shared with his descendants:

"At the height of what has become known as "THE DIRTY THIRTIES" or at the depths of the Great Depression in 1933, it was nearing Christmastime. More than anything in the entire world I wanted a real Cowboy Outfit from Santa Claus, just like Tom Mix and Gene Autry would wear. Our family was poor but we didn't know this, as everyone else was poor also--so, material things are purely relative and transitory.

"My dear mother, realizing my profound wish, spent countless nightly hours while I was asleep sewing a cowboy suit for Santa Claus to bring. Bless her heart, she made me the happiest six-year-old in Provo (or the entire world, for that matter) when I awoke that Christmas morn to find my dream come true. Can you imagine a happier look on a little boy's face than the one on mine in the accompanying photo of me and my big brother Clint?"

I've long loved this little slice of my family history. Can you imagine the sacrifice my Great-Grandma Irma made to make her youngest boy's Christmas dream come true? We are entering hard economic times and things are going to get worse before they get better. Though I can't speak for the future, I feel safe venturing to say that they as yet pale in comparison to what our grandparents and great-grandparents experienced. I get the feeling that until we learn how to put ourselves aside and sacrifice -- truly sacrifice -- to show how much we love those most important to us, we'll have a harder time than our forebears did as we watch and wait for the economy to improve.

It took me a long time to realize how much I love Provo and a bit longer to feel proud of the fact that I can claim it as my home. Though I was growing up there several decades after my grandpa and Douglas Thayer did, my siblings and I were, at times, little hooligans there ourselves. From riding our bikes from the canyon to the lake along the Provo River Trail and exploring the field next door to our house to walking up the Grandview Hill staircase to and from school and waiting on the corner of our tiny street for Dad to come home from work, we knew our town backwards and forwards and enjoyed every inch of it. Aside from the family that still resides there, one of the things I miss the most about it was summed up so beautifully by Thayer near the end of Hooligan:

"Outside, the mountains gleamed in their whiteness. The first skiff of snow had come to the top of Mount Timp, the valley's highest, in mid-September, then melted away with warm Indian-summer days. Timp might get a light snow by the end of deer season in October and certainly by mid-November, the snow line dropping lower and lower with each storm, until all the surrounding smaller mountains stood gleaming white against the dark night sky. When the fading light was right, Timpanogos and the east mountains turned various shades of pink and at other times blue, people on the streets stopping to turn and look, or being called out of their houses to come and look at Timp before the evening glory vanished."

slippery idea

Of all the questions I think up while I'm creating in the kitchen, the one that has plagued (and annoyed) me the longest was

How the heck do I clean shortening out of my measuring cups?!

Seriously. That stuff is so basic it just slip-slides over everything, and soap, being that it's also basic (see, I did learn something in my chemistry classes) doesn't help. Unless I can come up with something acidic to counteract the baseness, simply scrubbing it won't get me very far very fast, and I really don't want to deal with the mess of extra tools.

Maybe you have a dishwasher that lets you get away with not rinsing. Or maybe you invest in those pre-measured Crisco sticks. But we here at our house have to wash our dishes by hand and are too cheap to fork over the extra money for shortening conveniences. The internet taught me that if I rinse my measuring cup in cold water before spooning the shortening inside it, the shortening, once measured, will glide right out, leaving little or no residue on the cup, but I'm wary of this idea. After all, the shortening would still be touching the cup, and me, with fingers that are only occasionally nimble, would find some way to make it not work.

So today, as I pondered whether or not I'd bake some cookies, my mind reverted back to my shortening dilemma. There had to be some solution, but unless I could come up with something, I wasn't going to allow myself the luxury of indulging in such a tasty reward as chocolate chip cookies.

Apparently I was really craving baked goods because suddenly it hit me:

WAX PAPER

Why not line my measuring cup with wax paper? I could spoon the shortening into the cup, then lift out the wax paper and let the shortening just glide from the paper into my mixing bowl, leaving me with only a spoon to clean. I wasn't sure if it would work, but it was definitely worth a try. After all, a batch of chocolate chip cookies was on the line!

Well, folks, I'll have you know that I'm a genius. My idea totally worked. I foresee many happy days ahead for me in the kitchen. And of course, let's not forget, some warm chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven.

franken-garrett

Garrett is a tried and true walking boy these days. He's still a little wobbly, but he has slowly but surely come to prefer two legs to four. I'm not exactly sure what finally made it click with him, but I like to think had something to do with my decision to stop talking about walking, to stop coaxing him along in order to see if he'd just do it by himself. Credit definitely goes to my mom for that idea. She suggested I try ignoring his ability to walk once she left to go back home just to see what would happen. I did, and less than one day after she left Brooklyn, Garrett was exploring the apartment, totally on his own, like the good little biped I knew he had the potential to be. I still praise him when he does a good job, partly to keep him going, but mostly to convince him he's okay when he trips. But other than that, I've stopped asking him to walk for me. He seems to have figured out that I now I just assume he'll do it on his own, and he is perfectly happy with this independent arrangement. Also, he is always incredibly pleased with himself when he makes it from Point A to Point B without losing his balance, which I find charming, to say the least.

To keep his balance as he moves, he holds his arms outstretched before him. He also has that early toddler tendency to wobble from side to side as he goes forward. These two motions, along with the determined blank stare he occasionally sports as he walks makes for an hilarious Frankenstein impression. At the request of my family, I captured his unwitting impersonation on film. I thought I'd share it with you as well, as a sort of early Halloween treat to you all from my spooky little Franken-Garrett.

just call me crafty

For heaven knows how long I've been lugging my laundry detergents and supplies back and forth to the laundromat in an ever-increasingly slimy plastic Ziploc bag. Tired of how disgusting and sticky it was, and not particularly wanting to just start the scummy cycle over again by opting for another plastic bag, I decided to pull out the big guns and sew myself something that didn't gross me out every time I used its contents. And so a bit of creativity, determination, one cloth placemat marked down to $1.49, and an old pair of blue jeans with holes in the knees later, I have this:


It's big enough to hold my small, reusable containers of Tide and Clorox, my dwindling bar of Fels Naptha, my quarter purse, and a book.


If you're hankering to make one for yourself, please know that if I can do it, you can do it. These bags are seriously incredibly easy to make. With only the most basic of sewing skills, you could whip one out in about an hour. In fact, I was successfully able to teach my 8- to 11-year-old Activity Day girls back in Muncie how to make them, and I am far, far from what anyone would even think of calling a seamstress.

To make mine, all I did was take my standard-sized cloth placemat, fold it in half (right sides together), and sew up the two sides. I then folded the bottom corners into triangles and sewed across to help open the bottom of the bag. For the handles I cut two long strips of denim from the less-worn back side of one leg of the blue jeans. I folded each strip in half, right sides together, and sewed them to create two tubes. I then turned them right side out, ironed them flat, and hemmed up the ends. (You can also just use ribbon for the handles, but since I didn't have ribbon, but did have an old pair of blue jeans, I opted for the cheaper, yet slightly more involved route.) And last I attached the strips to the placemat to make handles. Turn the whole thing right side out and voila! A bag!

Go make one (or two) for yourself. They're inexpensive and easy as pie, and they make great scripture/church bags, laundry totes, knitting bags -- whathaveyou!

i (heart) ask-a-nurse

On Wednesday Garrett came down with a little cold, which he swiftly (and oh-so thoughtfully) shared with his mother. What started out as nothing more than a nuisance, by Friday had us both down on our knees begging for mercy. Garrett, most likely because he is much smaller and less able to make his coughing productive, seemed to be faring worse than I was. The mucous in his throat made his breathing sound wheezy and his general malaise was making us both cranky and miserable.

Still, though, I was hesitant to call the doctor. A $20 co-pay isn't cheap, especially when they require 1-2 follow-up visits, and let's not even mention the prescriptions they'd send me to the pharmacy with. And this is what would happen even if they made me feel like an idiot for bringing him in, because everyone knows you can't cure the common cold. So, while my son's good health is very high on my priority list, taking him to the doctor, I feared, would prove to be nothing more than a big waste of time, dignity, and money. (Seriously, there is something mighty wrong with our health care system if this is my line of thinking each time my child gets sick.)

I reasoned that Garrett was probably okay. Though he felt a little warm to the touch, his temperature was not reading through the roof (like it does when he's very, very sick), and his breathing and coughing didn't sound nearly as bad as it did in the spring when he had bronchitis. I didn't, however, want to just sit idly by, doing nothing. And so, for the first time in my life, I dialed my insurance company's free Ask-A-Nurse hotline.

Have you ever called Ask-A-Nurse? Because I highly recommend them. The registered nurse I spoke with was kind and patient and, through a series of questions, was able to determine whether or not I needed to pay the twenty bucks to let Garrett be seen by a doctor. She gave me some home remedies to try and told me what to watch for should he not improve over the next day or so. And, perhaps most importantly, she made me feel confident in my ability to take care of my sick son. I hung up feeling good about easing Garrett's symptoms at home until they, if ever, took a turn for the worse.

We're still both snot-nosed and far from 100% (and, consequently, staying home from church today), but we're definitely on the mend. Our health care system might be a mess, and I know it will take longer than between now and the next time Garrett gets sick for it to be repaired, but at least the folks at Ask-A-Nurse are doing something right, and for that I'm incredibly grateful.

and today we're going to talk about dinosaurs

The other day my sister sent me the link to a website that forced memories of my childhood to come flooding back. When I was growing up we had this video in our collection called Dinosaurs! which starred an adolescent Fred Savage (also known as "Kevin From The Wonder Years") and a bunch of claymation dinosaurs. You may be familiar with it. Basically, it's the story of a boy who loves dinosaurs and who gives an oral report on them at school. We loved this video, partly because we thought dinosaurs were really cool, but mostly because it was funny, especially the last part. Because it was only about 30 minutes long, it was easy to watch over and over, which we often did.

I did a quick search on YouTube to find you guys a clip so you, too, could get all educated about dinosaurs. Turns out someone (who may very well be my new hero) has uploaded the entire film in four segments. Part 1 includes the music video, "Mesozoic Mind," which is incredibly catchy and which occasionally still gets stuck in my head. Part 2 gets a little scary at the end, so if your young children are watching with you, be warned. Part 3 is my favorite. If you have time to watch only one segment, watch that one. It's hilarious. Part 4 is a continuation of the oral report given in Part 3 only with more claymation.

So gather your children and learn about dinosaurs this weekend. It's on me. (And YouTube.)

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

Part 4:

yours 'til the kitchen sinks

As I'm sure you're aware, New York City is somewhat of a shopping mecca. If you were to ask me what my favorite store here is (go ahead -- ask me!), I'd pretty firmly tell you Fishs Eddy (followed closely by Anthropologie...oh, how I covet their inventory!).

Fishs Eddy, located in Manhattan on 19th and Broadway, is filled to brimming with funky dinnerware, vintage dishes, and other kitchen doo-dads. Plates, bowls, and mugs are stacked on tables, shelves, and even in piles on the floor; flatware is displayed in barrels, and serving dishes wherever room can be found for them. The overhead music is groovy and loud, and the employees are genuinely happy and nice. It's just a fun place to be.

I've lost count of how many times I've stepped in, but last Thursday, when I was there introducing Fishs Eddy to my mom, I purchased something for myself for the first time. (My sisters-in-law have been the recipients of plates from their New York City collections, those lucky girls.) Please join with me in welcoming the Brooklyn plate and the Central Park plate to my kitchen:



I recently got the brilliant idea to slowly weed out the boring white dishes we've been using since we were married and replacing them with a varied assortment of different plates and bowls that technically don't belong in the same immediate family but which just as well might be distant cousins. I want the colors to coordinate (I'm thinking of sticking with bold, bright, primary-ish colors, but I'm flexible), but the designs can be as wide-ranging as I dare to let them be. The plates above, however, I'd like to hang on the wall in my kitchen. There's also another New York plate that I will hopefully soon add to my budding collection in order to turn it into a trilogy.

This collection is ideally supposed to be one I can build on the cheap. Buying one plate or bowl at a time and limiting the majority of my browsing to places like Goodwill, antique shops, and the clearance shelves in various department store housewares aisles should help keep me in budget. But then I find more treasures as I weave in and out of the delicate displays in Fishs Eddy, and it's hard not to wish I had a few hundred dollars to splurge on collections like Alice in Wonderland, Birds on a Wire, and the nursery rhyme glassware. (And let's not even talk about the dinnerware dreams I have while browsing around in Anthropolgie.)

If I get carried away in my dish collecting, I very well might turn to dedicating one wall of my home as a plate wall, but it'll be a while before I reach that point. I do foresee, however, that it won't be long before "doing dishes" becomes more of a quirky and enjoyable pastime than a painful procedure at the sink.

garrett: a study in movement

the mother lode

I don't know if you guys missed me or not, but I've been gone for the last few days. Well, technically I was still here, but I was absent from cyberspace. And it was wonderful. I mean, you guys are great, and blogging is great, but sometimes I just need a break, you know? Especially when that break involves hosting company in the form of my mother for a week. We seriously have had a blast. From the moment I picked her up at Grand Central after her bus ride from the airport last Wednesday to early this morning when I sent her back to JFK in a car service, it was pretty much non-stop fun and excitement.

We shopped around in Chelsea with my Aunt Colleen. We visited both the American Museum of Natural History and the Metropolitan Museum of Art (on the same day, with a walk across Central Park in between). We ate street meat -- twice! -- and Brooklyn pizza and bagels. We walked the boardwalk at Coney Island and ate hot dogs at Nathan's. We got views of Lower Manhattan all lit up at night from the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. We stopped in some tourist traps, like the NBC Experience Store at Rockefeller Center, Dylan's Candy Bar, F.A.O. Schwarz, and a souvenir shop at Times Square. We even watched some of the Columbus Day parade along Fifth Avenue. Oh yeah, and we were a part of Martha's audience. That was awesome. And I'm not even much of a Martha fan.

We got to the studio, which is located in the Fashion District, early Thursday morning. After we were revved up by the Warm-Up Guy, we were admitted to the stage. The stage director taught us how to clap appropriately, as well as how to follow his signals to know when to do so. The show was filmed live, so if you watched on Thursday, we were there. I'm pretty sure, though, that we were sitting too far to one side to ever get caught on camera.

In case you missed it, here's who and what was on the show: first some cute children's Halloween costumes made from hoodie sweatshirts were modeled. Then she interviewed the owner of the NYC children's bookshop, Books of Wonder (a store I love to browse around in and which I showed off to my mom later that day). He came bearing gifts for the audience in the form of five nice hardcover picture books dealing with different aspects of the presidential election. Then we learned how to make the hoodie costumes. Last, she had Bryan Batt, an actor on the AMC series Mad Men on to teach him (and us, of course) how to make an appetizer and a few cocktails, which I'm sure is something I'll find extremely useful someday. (Or not.) He also came bearing gifts -- a DVD of the first season of Mad Men. (We watched the first episode the next evening...I fell asleep.)

My mom and I were both not-so-secretly hoping to discover that the rumors were true, that Martha really does bark at her staff during breaks, forcing them to cower before her. But instead she was very pleasant and civil. She took questions from the audience after they finished filming and was asked by one lady what she liked to do when she hung out with her girlfriends. She stuttered so badly over that question that we were left to assume that she doesn't have much in the way of girlfriends, which maybe means the rumors are still true. Who knows. I guess I'll have to get tickets to be in the audience again someday.

Anyway, our action-packed days of traipsing around the city have wound down. Garrett's enjoying the fact that he can nap in his crib again. And I'm trying to get back to my own routine. But I had a fabulous time with my mom (and I'm not just saying that because she reads this), and I wish she could have stayed longer. I guess, though, I'll just have to wait for another visit in the spring.

audience member

Did you watch Martha Stewart today?


Because my mom and I watched Martha Stewart today.

oh, anne!

When I was about fourteen, I read Anne of Green Gables. It was delightful, and I finished the book firmly convinced that Anne was a kindred spirit. I had every intention to read my way through all of Anne's adventures, but got stuck about halfway through the second book. I never finished the series.

This summer I decided it was high time to correct the error of my ways and give Anne a second chance. She was, after all, a kindred spirit. To whet my palette for Montgomery's style, I turned to the recommendation of many friends, who suggested that if I had trouble with Anne, I should at least try the Emily trilogy. So I did, and am pleased to report to all of you who suggested I give Emily a shot that I was sucked in from the beginning and whipped my way through all three of the books.

And then it was Anne's turn. I happily chuckled my way again through Anne of Green Gables, but, I should admit, got a little nervous come time to start Anne of Avonlea. Would I struggle with it again like I did twelve years ago? Or would I instead find it as charming as the first book? Let's just say that my fears were pretty much completely unwarranted. Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, Anne of Windy Poplars....the library could hardly keep up with my requests for more, more, more! I spent this summer in a dreamlike state as I followed the lives of Anne Shirley Blythe, her beloved Gilbert, and her darling children, and I'm a little heartsick to think that, after finishing Book Number Eight the other day, my time spent with this family and their quirky friends and neighbors is over. I so enjoyed watching Anne grow up and evolve from a hopelessly romantic young girl to a steady and devoted mother.

Lucy Maud Montgomery really is a master storyteller. Her prose, with the exception of her descriptions of the beautiful Prince Edward Island and the wistful dialog Anne is prone to in the first few books, is not exactly poetic. But her ability to create unique yet incredibly believable characters whose lives intertwine so naturally in their small-town settings is unparallel. A lot of people know how to write, but not everyone can tell a story.

So sign me up with the millions of other devoted fans (or should I say bosom friends) of Anne Shirley. And if you haven't hopped on this bandwagon yet, just know that your life will be a perfect graveyard of buried hopes until you do.


My summer spent on Prince Edward Island was brought to you by...

The Emily Trilogy

• Emily of New Moon
• Emily Climbs
• Emily's Quest
  

The Anne of Green Gables series

• Anne of Green Gables
• Anne of Avonlea
• Anne of the Island
• Anne of Windy Poplars
• Anne's House of Dreams
• Anne of Ingleside
• Rainbow Valley
• Rilla of Ingleside
  

why our bathroom floor is soaking wet

Exhibit A:

refreshed and uplifted

I needed this weekend.

I needed the inspiring words. I needed time to tackle a few pet projects while I listened to them. I needed an excuse to not leave my house.

It was wonderful -- so refreshing and relaxing. So nice to have Blake and Garrett both all to myself for two whole days (with the exception of Priesthood Session, where I instead got my good friend, Emily, for two whole hours). Lovely.

But now it's time to take the energy I let simmer over the weekend and put it to good use. My mom is coming into town in a few days for a much anticipated visit, and I have much to do to prepare for her arrival.

But laundry list or not, there is always time for a bit of fun, a little "joy in the journey," as President Monson said yesterday. So this morning we stopped by the library for a Story Time hosted by some nice ladies from the Central Park Zoo. The topic, appropriately, was animals.



And then afterward we did some browsing in the meat and fish department of the Chinese supermarket next door. Most of the items for sale are not only exotic, they are also still living. Yes, think live fish, frogs, turtles, and eels. So, buy a cool pet, buy dinner -- it's your choice.

Okay, now. Back to work.

a visit to the doctor

This morning a travesty occurred when I, Lindsay, took my son, Garrett, to the doctor for his 15-month well check-up and actually let the doctor poke and prod and take measurements. And then -- and then! -- I let that same doctor give him two shots. Two! Can you believe it?! And I'm planning to take him in for his second flu shot in just one short month. I don't care if that crinkly tissue paper on the exam table was fun to crawl around on, I really am the worst mama ever.

It's a good thing experiences like this can be easily cured with some hugs, a dose of Tylenol, and maybe a few candy corns.

Here are his 15-month stats, for those of you taking notes at home:

Length: 31 1/2 inches
Weight: 22 lbs 10 oz

That puts him at just above average for length and just below average for weight. (Long and lean, that's how we like 'em.)

The doctor deemed him healthy as can be, but is a little concerned that Garrett can only say one word instead of the typical 3-5. He said he's probably fine (which I completely agree with), that perhaps he's probably just slower to start (which, given Garrett's milestone-marking history thus far, is to be expected), but just the same he wants me to keep a close eye on his speech habits (which, of course, I will).

But for now all I need to do is go join my traumatized son and that cure-all candy corn in the kitchen.

at home in the neighborhood: the corner market

Littered throughout Brooklyn you'll find countless mini-marts, corner groceries/delis, and convenience stores. Our neighborhood is no exception. Across the street from our apartment on the corner is the Green Grocery. Though their square footage is minimal, their stock is wide and varied. From canned and boxed foods and cold sodas to shampoos and pain relievers, they've got it all. Most of these small markets have some sort of niche: magazines, fruit, houseplants, etc. Ours is flowers. Beautifully arrayed year-round in the front and side of this corner store are buckets brimming with seasonal beauty. (During the cold months, temporary walls porch in this display.) I love walking past, breathing in the perfumed air while I ponder how different arrangements would look in my house.

I'm sure you can imagine how convenient it must be to have a place like this literally at our fingertips. They've come to our rescue on several occasions. Once I started making a batch of chocolate chip cookies before I realized I had no baking soda. Not a problem, though -- the Green Grocery had some! Last spring I came down with a miserable cold and desperately needed a decent night's sleep. The pharmacy had already closed, but the Green Grocery was still open. And wouldn't you know it -- they had individual packets of Tylenol PM for 75 cents each. I bought two and slept very well indeed. And a few months ago, while we were installing a new ceiling light in our living room, we needed electrical tape to cover a few ancient and potentially dangerous wires. It was a Saturday evening and the hardware store down the street had already closed. The drugstore near it didn't carry electrical tape. Blake returned home dismayed, but when I mentioned he go out and try the Green Grocery, he decided it was worth a shot. Lo and behold, they carried electrical tape, and we were able to finish our lighting project.

We have found other treasures at the Green Grocery: A cheap bag of chips or 2-liter bottle of soda to serve with dinner, deli meat for picnic lunch sandwiches, plants and flowers for gifts and decorating. Oh, and the miniature pumpkins we picked up last Saturday:

It's not a store I frequent on my weekly rounds of errands, but even so, I've grown slightly dependent on it. And it makes me sad to think that someday, should we ever find ourselves living in the suburbs again, this little corner market won't be able to move along with us.

october

In October
I'll be host
to witches, goblins
and a ghost.
I'll serve them
chicken soup
on toast.
Whoopy once
whoopy twice
whoopy chicken soup
with rice

--Maurice Sendak, Chicken Soup with Rice: A Book of Months