A Change Of Heart

 

^ One of the medics and the nurse. My new friend is already inside the truck. I hope she is warm.

It's Valentine's Day.

I'm driving home from a few early errands and my mind excitedly turns over the trimmings of the day.

Hand-drawn cards.

Foil-wrapped chocolates.

Heart-shaped meatloaf.

I've laid careful plans and I'm prepared to celebrate in fine style. I'm a big believer that Valentine's Day is all about expressing love to friends and family, and my heart buzzes with a happy excitement for the festivities to come. 

As I turn from the highway onto a residential street, I see several cars ahead of me swerving to avoid something in the road.  My reverie shatters.

What's this? It's a woman.

An older woman. Well, older than me.

In a second, I assess the situation. She's clearly been walking down the sidewalk along the highway, pulling a nylon covered shopping cart but here, where the sidewalk gives way to a dirt path along the residential road, several sections of rough and tumble pavement make for some serious tripping hazards, and this poor woman has apparently taken a header.

She's literally lying in the street, struggling to get up.

Three or four cars ahead of me zip past her, swerving around her, pausing only so slightly in their rush to get to wherever they're going. 

I'm horrified.

By reflex, I carefully inch around this poor woman and park my car on the shoulder nearby. I rush over to her - she's still struggling to stand up or even squirm her way off the road. My first objective is to help her to safety.

I say hello.

I ask her if she'd like me to help her up.

I don't really wait for an answer. 

Drawing on the lessons I learned when helping my mother stand up, during her hard times, I step into  position, clasp her hands, and gently pull up.

Our first attempt fails and she sits back down. I realize she is more dazed that I first thought.

"Let's try again," I encourage.

And this time, as I pull and she struggles to stand, a miracle happens.

From nowhere, a younger woman wearing a rainbow-striped puffer vest and a beanie materializes out of the ether, and positions herself behind the woman, lifting her as I pull. In a heartbeat, the woman is standing.

"I'm a nurse," our new friend informs me. I cannot possibly be more delighted.

We talk, the three of us. The fallen woman is terribly confused. She has a strong eastern European accent, a small scrape on her chin, and absolutely no idea where she is or what has happened. 

Bless her heart.

The nurse speaks aside to me. "She's concussed. I'm calling 911. Can you hold her steady?" 

Yes. I can do that.

So we stand in the cutting wind, under steely skies. I listen to the nurse talk in medical acronyms and abbreviations to the medic dispatcher. I see her stealthily take the woman's pulse, peer at her pupils, and ask the woman over and over, "Did you hit your head?"

In the meantime, I hold onto the woman for dear life as she trembles, twitches, shakes like a leaf. She looks up and down the street, twisting and turning in my grasp to look around behind her, wondering over and over again, "But how did I get here?' I brush some stray bits of bark and mud from her white fleece vest and lilac ear band. I try to imagine what I could possibly say to comfort her, and do my best to stumble through.

The medics pull up. More angels. They're smiling and kind and endlessly reassuring. The poor woman is still confused, and now begins to apologize for her accent. We ascertain that Polish is her first language, and as the medics promise to call for a translator right away, I keep holding her arm and whispering encouragements to her: "Don't worry. We can understand you. Your English is just fine."

Now the medics are ready to move her to their truck for a full assessment. She's scared, especially when their gurney makes an appearance and they ask her to sit down. "No," she says. "Don't take me to the hospital." But these folks are prepared for her resistance and promise that right now, all they're going to do is take her to the truck so she can sit inside where it's warmer.

She sits down..

They belt her in and move her off. The nurse walks with them, still dispensing information and swapping medical data.

There's nothing more for me to do.

So I get in my car and drive home.

Along the way, I gradually recall my Valentine's Day plans. My pretty red hearts and chocolate candy don't seem quite so important now. Yes, I still believe in Valentine's Day as an opportunity to shower my nearest and dearest with tokens of my love. But maybe it's something much bigger than that.

Maybe this holiday is well celebrated by standing on the side of the road, shivering in the wind, holding up a confused, concussed woman and wondering what she will remember of this adventure with me. 

Probably nothing.

But I will remember her forever. 

Happy Valentine's Day.

You Belong With Me

^ I mean, wearing stuffed animals on your feet isn't exactly Bright and Shiny behavior, 

but I found a guy who appreciates me for exactly who I am.

I'm standing in the pasta aisle at the grocery store, mulling over my gluten-free shape options and tapping my toe to the catchy beat playing overhead when I suddenly realize tears are streaming down my face and dripping off my chin. 

What the actual heck is going on here?

And then the correct synapses snap into place and I put the pieces together.

If you could see that I'm the one who understands you

Been here all along so why can't you see

You belong with me

Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time, how could you not know, baby

You belong with me, you belong with me.

Uh oh. Taylor Swift's angsty teenage love song is making me cry. 

Which is weird because I'm not a Swiftie. And I'm not a crier.

So what's going on here?

This song has always tapped deep into the heart of my teenage emotions. I was that girl who was friends with the boys, and while I knew what we had was genuine and true, there were times when I wished that one or another of them would see how perfect we were together, and take our friendship to a different level.

But I realized at a very tender age that many men - many many men - suffer from what I call Bright and Shiny Syndrome. They are attracted to females who use shakes and shimmies, peals of laughter, hair flips, and a not-so-subtle blend of flirting and fawning to draw these men in. And sadly, these men are so dazzled by the Bright and Shiny ladies that they often overlook the other women in their lives who may actually be a much better fit for them in the long run. 

To be fair, I really don't blame the Bright and Shiny girls for doing what they do. Unarguably, their strategies work. And I can hardly blame the men - especially the teenage man-boys - because they really have no idea how effortlessly their attention can be shifted away from all the other girls to the irresistible forces of the Bright and Shiny types. 

But it was heartbreakingly hard for me to be that often-overlooked teenage girl who cried her own version of You Belong To Me out to the night skies over her fair share of distracted teenage boys. 

Still, those days were a long, long time ago. It's been decades since I learned how to put just enough tinsel on the tree to attract the right kind of attention. So why was Taylor making me cry?

There's another layer to this story. 

* * * * *

Last week, I went for a walk with neighbor of mine. Let's call her Betsy. Betsy was struggling with a devastating decision. She'd gone out for coffee that morning, and caught a glimpse of her sister Jenny's husband Todd, who was sitting across the room in the same coffee shop with a woman who was most definitely not Jenny. This woman looked to be about college age, as opposed to Todd's mid-forties, and they were giggling, nuzzling, holding hands. They were not behaving as any platonic friends would behave. Stunned and sickened, Betsy slipped out the door and bought her coffee elsewhere. But not without snapping an incriminating photo. 

Now, as we walked through the morning's snow flurries, Betsy was trying to decide what to do with her newfound knowledge. She could show and tell Jenny what she saw, and almost certainly blow up their otherwise happy and functional marriage. Or Betsy could keep her mouth shut, allow Jenny to live in the bliss of ignorance, and trust that sooner or later, Todd would either confess, get caught (again), or stop his idiotic behavior. White flakes filled the sky as Betsy cycled endlessly through the pros and cons, imagining what she would want if this were happening to her, and bemoaning the fact that she'd come to witness this folly in the first place. 

As I listened to Betsy talk, I watched the soft clusters of snowflakes drift onto my red ski jacket only to be blown off by the gentle winds swirling around us. And this is what I was thinking.

Todd had fallen under the spell of a Bright and Shiny lady. Shoot, this young woman didn't even have to make an effort to be Bright and Shiny; she's likely less than half his age; probably free, unencumbered, and filled with the lively spirit of youth; apparently lit up by his practiced wit and the tousle of his only slightly grayed hair. I've known Todd for longer than I've known Betsy and Jenny, and it's only fair to say that he's otherwise a stand-up human being and an all-around good guy. I had not seen this coming. 

But all the same, it was happening. Jenny, poor Jenny, was perhaps about to be thrust into the role of the overlooked woman. For almost two decades, she'd been there for Todd, steady and reliable, and her heart would surely break to hear that her husband was, at least temporarily, turning his back on her steadfast love.

And this is why my heart broke when, standing with a box of large elbows in my hand, I heard Taylor sing.

Dreaming 'bout the day when you wake up and find

That what you're looking for has been here the whole time. 

* * * * *

I don't have any neat way to wrap this story up.

I'm not sure what Betsy, Jenny or Todd will do next.

Don't know if there will be a happy ending for them or not. 

I also have serious doubts that most teenage boys will ever learn to look beyond the Bright and Shiny ladies of the world and notice the wonderful girls who are already standing right in front of them, hoping to be noticed for who they are. 

Seriously doubt that that will ever happen,.

And that's why we need music, music that speaks to the tender places of our souls, to help us remember the truth about this life we live together. 

Even when we're standing in the pasta aisle. 

* * * * *

Go here to watch the music video for Taylor's You Belong To Me.

Friends In The World

So there we were, my dog and I, trucking around the back side of the local high school, as we do every single gosh darn day, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a man on a trajectory to intercept our path.

Just kidding. We see men and other humans around and about on our walks all the time. Nothing unusual about that.

However, this gentleman, by the logos and insignia on his jacket and cap, identified as a coach on the high school football team. And because the football practice field is tucked into the back corner of the school property, we don't often cross paths with the coaching staff. In fact, I've never noticed this particular coach before.

But I noticed him on this day.

Now, my dog and I have a deal. While we are walking along the streets where actual cars drive, she stays on her fifty-foot leash (who am I kidding; it's a rope with a clip knotted at one end and a loop at the other) and marches strictly on the sidewalk. But when we are walking within the school property along various lanes, paths, and footbridges, she is allowed off leash to run her little heart out as well as search out cast-off paper trays of Asian noodles and discarded chicken patties in the bushes. 

So it was during this off-leash portion of our adventure that the man approached us. 

Actually, as he intersected our path, he was much closer to my dog than to me. 

And as he crossed directly behind my dog, his head swiveled in her direction with nary a glance toward me, and he spoke.

"Hi, Gracie! How's your walk going today?"

Wait, what? How does this man know my dog? How does he know her name? Her habits? What is the root of this breezy familiarity he offers up to her?

I paused, hesitantly smiling, waiting for his attention to shift to me, for him to explain just how it is that he has some sort of standing relationship with my dog that I know nothing about.

But this is what happens.

He gazes at my dog for a beat longer, puts his hands in his pockets, and continues on his way with an absent-minded whistle. He doesn't so much as glance in my direction.

And I realize that my dog has more friends in the world than I will ever know.

Reading | Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs | Walter Isaacson

Edwin Land, Polaroid inventor

Bob Dylan, songwriter

Walt Disney, storyteller

George Orwell, author

Timothy Leary, advocate of psychedelic drugs

No list of 20th century geniuses is complete without the incomparable Steve Jobs. From his early days growing up under the watchful eyes of his doting parents, his barefoot and body-odor years working in an apple orchard and studying Buddhism, building the first Apple computers in his parents' garage (yes, he really did) to his roller-coaster ride in building and sustaining his place at the center of tech revolution, Jobs' life is documented honestly, compassionately, exhaustively in this biography. Isaacson thoughtfully spins out the dualism of Jobs' both tender-hearted and ruthlessly critical personality. The author also informs readers that Jobs loved to have critical conversations while walking around his Cupertino neighborhood, ate at cheap vegetarian restaurants, and obsessed over mind-blowingly minute details in every product he ever launched. 

What Steve Jobs wanted, far more than money or fame, was to create a gloriously elegant product. His designs were intuitive, minimalist, serene. In order to maximize customer experience, he insisted upon end-to-end control over his devices; every moment from opening the box to adding apps to transferring data between devices flowed as effortlessly and pleasingly as possible. And please, no on or off switches; Jobs' devices simply fell asleep and woke back up at the user's touch. 

Sadly, Steve Jobs' life was cut down by pancreatic cancer but not before his name was added to any worthwhile list of 20th century geniuses. 

Steve Jobs, social revolutionary

(Now go read the book, and find out how Land, Dylan, Disney, Orwell, and Leary all played significant roles as heroes in Jobs' life.) 

* * * * * 

One way to remember who you are is to remember who your heroes are.

What a joy it was to have been alive as Steve Jobs was building Apple. I remember every product launch, each surge and countersurge in the technological throw down with arch nemesis Microsoft, every refinement of Jobs' ever-evolving hair styles. His light shown bright during my young adulthood, and I saw him as a rough and ready tech cowboy who was always up to something exciting and new. 

The way we're running the company, the product design, the advertising, it all comes down to this. Let's make it simple. Really simple. 

But there was always a hint of tarnish on Jobs' shiny Silicon Valley sheriff's badge. Reports out of Cupertino were that Jobs had a mean streak, a red hot temper, a sharp tongue. Prone to tantrums. Outrageously demanding. And nowhere near deserving of the pedestal upon which I had placed him. 

Several years after his death, I still carried ambiguous thoughts about the man. Hero or villain? I could never be sure.

But then, one day, a friend of mine told me this story.

Otherwise, as Dylan says, if you're not busy being born, you're busy dying.

She was visiting her parents who lived in the Bay area, and her infant was struggling to nap. So mom settled the poor fussy lamb into a stroller, and headed out the door, hoping that the fresh air, California sunshine, and rhythm of the rolling wheels would settle them both. 

As she walked along the neighborhood streets, she saw up ahead on the sidewalk, heading her way, a dad and his four- or five-year-old daughter, who was clearly learning to ride, in wobbly fashion, her two-wheel bicycle. My friend realized that one party would have to yield the sidewalk to the other, and with a frustrated sigh, recognized that the simplest solution would be for her to tilt the stroller down to the curb and pray that her baby would not be rattled awake. 

But before my friend could angle the stroller off the sidewalk, the man also sized up the situation and quickly, calmly, helped his budding cyclist ease down the curb into the street. In no time at all, they zipped past my friend and her still-sleeping babe. As they passed, the father looked at my friend, met her eyes, and smiled, wordlessly acknowledging that he understood all about crying babies who need to be walked with as little jostling as possible. And then, in a flash, he was gone. 

Only much later did my friend recognize this father. It was Steve Jobs. 

And ever since the day I heard that story, I have forgiven him his faults. 

Mexico City: Malaysia And America In Mexico

 My friend: Would you like me to cook Malaysian food for you?

Me: Of course.

My friend: What would you like?

Me: ...

My friend: How about nasi lemak?

Me: Perfect.

And so began my third day in Mexico City. Somehow I felt like the globe had spun and I found myself not in Mexico at all but 10,333 miles away in Malaysia: wobbly, hot, and a bit unsure of which world was under my feet.

* * * * *

Sunday, June 9

Breakfast at Juwe's house.

You'll have to forgive me for the lack of photos but when I walked into my friends' airy and spacious Polanco apartment, filled with the spicy fresh smells of our delicious breakfast spread on the table, I lost my head. Forget the photos of this beautiful bounty; all I wanted to do was eat. 

Nasi lemak is the traditional breakfast of Malaysia.

Hardboiled egg

Sliced cucumber

Fried chicken

Spicy steamed coconut rice

And for those who enjoy crunchy little fish, anchovies.

Accompanied by a platter of fresh fruit and a pitcher of cool juice, this was not only a meal made in heaven but a powerful memory of my days in Malaysia. I fondly remembered many a delicious breakfast in Kuala Lumpur, but with the warm sun streaming in the windows and the mellow rhythms of my friends chattering away in Bahasa Melayu, I felt truly transported to Malaysia.

* * * * *

^ I only caught one photo at the flea but it's a good one. I wish I would have bought a few of these pieces of art but at least I took a moment to admire the seller's beautiful display

La Lagunilla Flea Market

Well. To be fair, it was my idea to go to a Sunday flea. But holy moly, I was not prepared for what unfolded. 

See, I was thinking of a US flea market. Balmy weather, cooling breezes, lots of room for vendors to spread out and showcase their wares, plenty of fresh air and sunshine for all.

But - and it's my own fault that I didn't anticipate this - a Mexico City flea is a horse of a different color. 

First of all, let's talk tarps. Lots of them - white and blue - forming rooftops and hallways and sides between the stalls. And while the outdoor temperature was hovering around a reasonable 80 degrees F, the overall effect overwhelmed me. I felt surrounded by hot, stuffy air and trapped in a maze of tarps. People packed in closer and tighter as the morning moved on, and I found myself, when I wasn't looking for escape routes, pondering where exactly I had encountered a similar and equally stifling experience before.

Oh right.

The pasar malam - or night market - in Malaysia bears a remarkably similar vibe. Other than the fact that it was daylight instead of dark, I once again - for the second time in a morning - felt the strange sensation that I'd been suddenly transported to Malaysia.

* * * * *

^ I want to bake this hamburger an apple pie and then take it out to the ballgame. 

That's how delightfully American it tasted. 

Lunch at Butcher & Sons

When I find myself wandering the world, I like to eat whatever the locals eat. But every now and then, I want to try an American-inspired meal, just to see how those same locals interpret the food of my culture. It's a fun experiment.

So after my disorienting morning, when my daughter suggested burgers for lunch, I was ready. She picked a place close to our hotel, and it was a winner. Other than the spicy catsup-like options, the burger held close to a typical American classic, and as I enjoyed every bite, I felt quite at home. 

* * * * *

^ I love this beyond words. 

Afternoon In Polanco

In our neighborhood for the week, we wandered through charming side streets and around a lush green park. Restaurants abounded, most with gorgeous tropical plants providing leafy shade in front for outdoor diners. Apartments looked exactly as I'd hoped they would - modular, organic architecture adorned with yet more monsteras and schefeleras spilled from their balconies. What a dream.

On a mission to pick up a Mexican version of The Little Prince for my collection - yes, I have one in Spanish but Mexican Spanish is different that Spanish Spanish, right? - we tracked one down a neighborhood bookstore. Cafebreria El Pendulo Polanco is one of the hybrid cafe/bookstore models very much in vogue in Mexico City these days. It cutely reminds me of a now-wildly-out-of-date U.S. Barnes and Noble from the 1990s but I'm not going to ruin anyone's fun. 

^ I will be making the alambre at home. So easy. So good. 

^ My daughter and I shared this piece but honestly, I think we should have gotten two.

Dinner at La Casa Del Pastor

After our American-inspired lunch, we wanted some solid tacos for dinner. Recommended to us by my friend, La Casa Del Pastor is a pretty straightforward upscale taco joint. But once we were seated and scouring the menu, our waiter encouraged us to forgo the simple taco and try the alambre. Sure, why not.

What we learned is that the alambre is serving dish of taco innards, all swirled and swooshed together, ready for loading into the waiting tortillas and consumed just as one would eat a taco. Convenient, efficient, and delightfully delicious. A torrential rain poured down as we ate every bite. Licking our fingers, we felt grounded once again in our Mexican adventure. 

Trusting our new friend with our dessert option, we ordered his favorite, a guava cheesecake. Money. 

A perfect ending to a delightfully confusing Malaysia and America in Mexico kind of day. 

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico

At Peace

"Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one." 

-Vladimir Nabokov

My sweet friend, Grace, died last month.

It hurts me to say this, but it must be said. She took her own life.

Grace was a beautiful, powerful soul: 

Deeply compassionate.

Wise far beyond her 26 years.

Tender-hearted and kind. 

Passionate about sunsets, cookies, giggling with her girlfriends, loving her God.

Those of us who knew and loved her imagined that Grace had everything to live for. And so today at her memorial, the question that hung suspended in the air, misty and vaporous, swirling droplets of wondering that floated between and amongst us, her mourners, was, Why.

Why was she in so much pain?

Why didn't we see her anguish?

Why wasn't her faith, so strong and pure, enough to save her?

Why didn't she ask for help?

Why didn't she tell us that something was horribly, horribly wrong?

And while I won't pretend to know the particulars of Grace's situation, I think that deep in our hearts, we know the answer to our Whys:

Because sometimes, this life is just too much.

Sometimes people simply can't bear it up any more. 

Not because they are weak. No, no. 

Maybe because they are sensitive to life's challenges in ways that the rest of us are not. 

Maybe because their hearts are more fragile, more vulnerable, more prone to exhaustion.. 

Maybe because God is calling them home. 

What I know for sure, as I endure yet another suicide of a person I love, is that I won't torture myself with the Whys. 

What I know for sure is that sweet Grace is safe in God's loving arms.

I know that whatever her earthly struggles, she is finally at peace.

And so, then, am I.

* * * * * 

Grace was a poet. And this is one of her poems. It speaks to her beautiful, powerful soul and gives me peace.

* * * * * 

A Prayer for This Small Vapor (that is my life).

May I be transparent so that Light may shine through.

May I choose vulnerability even in the face of fear or humiliation,

To give courage and a voice to others.

To embrace my humanity and find it in others continually.

To be fully present and engaged, especially when I feel like running away.

To be consistently emptied in order to be a vessel

of goodness and truth and hope.

To always be a vine of my Belonging, to abide.

To live from abundance and my created order that is Enough.

To live in urgency of necessity, never frivolity*, manifested by an ever-present awareness

of this small and temporary state.

-

*My definition of frivolity: Worldly matters such as work, busyness and/or hurry, and money matters; people-pleasing; irrelevancy of my true purpose and belonging; illogical or impossible standards; perfectionism. In essence, things that don't matter. 

The Perfect Mom

^ Being a mom of littles is plenty full of challenges. But I won't kid ya. 

Parenting adults is not always a picnic either. All we can do is keep trying. 

Mamas, I want to talk with you. 

About something that I'm pretty sure I know about you. About me. About every single one of us. 

There are times - probably more than we'd like to admit - when as mothers,

we feel inadequate,

we feel like we've messed up, dropped the mothering ball, been less than our kids deserve,

we feel bad about ourselves. 

Right?

Me too. 

But when I find myself once again sinking deep down in that mire of self-condemnation, there's a voice that comes to me begging to differ. "You don't need to be a perfect mom. There's no such thing. Just do your best."

And that voice of wisdom and compassion and love encourages me to pick myself up, dust myself off, and go back to being the best mom I know how to be.

Not a perfect mom.

But the best mom I know how to be. 

And I remember this story. 

Dear mama, when you find yourself stuck in those moments of feeling like a horribly imperfect mom, I hope you will remember it too.

* * * * *

Her name was Shannon.

She lived across the street from me when our kids were young; her two boys the same ages as my two younger girls. Her husband was a good man who made his living on the Bering Sea, living that Deadliest Catch lifestyle for ten or eleven months of every year. During all those long, lonely times they were apart, Shannon was raising her sons as a single parent. 

And her little Vikings truly put her to the test. 

Shannon was gentle and kind: soft-spoken, tender-hearted, thoughtful and generous. 

Her boys were adorable wild things, perpetual motion machines who rough-housed and ran, sacked and plundered through every minute of the day. All boy, as the saying goes. 

And while she loved them dearly, Shannon's boys wore her out. 

She worried like she was not up to the task of raising them. 

She felt that she didn't understand how to be their mom. 

She wondered if she was the wrong mom for her sons. 

We talked about this often, Shannon and I. When we neighborhood moms gathered on the sidewalks or in a family room to chat while our kids played, Shannon and I often paired off, talking quietly together or walking home slowly to savor a few last moments of confidential conversation. And one day, Shannon told me this story.

She'd been on the phone with her mom, sharing her feelings of inadequacy, when her mom brought her up short. 

Shannon, these are your sons. God gave them to you and he doesn't make mistakes. So please, stop doubting yourself and just trust yourself to be their mother. You're not a perfect mom, but you're the right mom for them. 

To be honest, I think Shannon was a little shocked that her mother spoke to her so sharply. But when I asked her what she thought about the wisdom of her mom's words, Shannon simply said, "She's right."

I wish this story had a happier ending. 

Shannon soon began to ease the weight of her loneliness by drinking, and her life spiraled down into alcohol addiction, divorce, and losing custody of her boys. And just when it finally seemed that maybe she was turning a corner into lasting sobriety, she was cut down in a car crash and died instantly.

I still grieve for Shannon. I think of her often and I miss her dearly.

But I trust that she has watched from heaven as her boys have grown into gentle and kind men, soft-spoken and tender-hearted, thoughtful and generous. I figure that Shannon now truly believes that all along, she was indeed the right mom for her boys.

Not the perfect mom. But the right one all along. 

Dinner At Peridot

^ Fried chicken wings with caramelized fish sauce glaze

^ Green papaya salad with English cucumber, pickled daikon, roasted peanuts, 

fried shallots, spicy lime dressing and house-made beef jerky.

^ Roasted cauliflower with scallion puree, chilies, peanuts, and fresh herbs

^ Seared Dover sole with red curry bagna cauda, bok choy, and chives

 ^ Confit duck spring rolls with kohlrabi puree, pickled Fresno, cilantro, 

scallion dipping sauce

^ Yuzu citrus tart: yuzu citrus curd, black cardamom, diplomat cream, 

orange supreme, cashew crust

* * * * *

Other food we ate before we thought to take a photo:

Fried pork belly with black garlic puree, soy-tamarind gel, pickled beech and alba mushrooms

Star anise bread pudding with Chantilly cream, poached pears, and bourbon caramel sauce

* * * * *

I jumped on a plane

flew across the country to Columbus, Ohio

landed in the evening and soon fell fast asleep.

Next morning,

I jumped into a car

drove to Ann Arbor, Michigan,

and ate dinner at a restaurant called Peridot.

Oh, the food was delicious. Modern Vietnamese, the reviewers say, with a decidedly American point of view. Served on small plates for sharing, which is my absolute favorite. And my companions for the meal were highly entertaining; I dined with my first- and second-born daughters, as well as my nephew who lives in nearby Detroit. But none of those are the reason why I went to such lengths to eat at Peridot.

I went because my youngest nephew is a chef at Peridot. He has a fierce and fiery passion for cooking, this nephew of mine, and I could think of no better way to support him and cheer him on than to show up in person and eat his food. When he came out of the kitchen and saw us sitting nearby, you can't imagine the smile that lit up his face. 

I don't often travel 2,200 miles for my dinner. But I'd do it all again just to see my nephew, the chef, smile.

* * * * *

Photo credits to my first-born.

I was too busy eating. 

* * * * *

How lucky am I to have two chefs in the family?! 

Read about my two brilliant nephews who love to cook.

Dinner At Peridot

Dinner At San Fermo

Watching | Formula 1: Drive To Survive

^ It's Spaniard Carlos Sainz driving for Ferrari! 

Affable and funny, Carlos won the Australian Grand Prix last month. Que bueno!

^Venues in hot climates often schedule their races after dark, 

promising cooler temperatures and maximum visual drama. 

^ Mercedes is my favorite team, Their cars have been performing 

miserably of late, but still Lewis Hamilton is my favorite driver, and 

Toto Wolf (center) is far and away my favorite team principal. 

^ There's a new camera for capturing the driver's POV called Driver's Eye. 

The tiny lens mounts on the rim of the helmet between the driver's eyes 

and it literally makes you feel like you're driving the car. This shot was 

taken with an old-school onboard camera which is still pretty cool.

Formula 1: Drive To Survive | Created by Formula 1 and Netflix

Streaming on Netflix

10 teams.

20 drivers in 20 cars.

23 races every season.

2 big prizes each year - one for the drivers and one for the teams.

And a million ways for it all to go wrong.

Welcome to the world of Formula 1 racing. 

Watch the fastest cars in the world scream around a specially designed circuit or a knitted-together series of public streets. 

Call it a race or a Grand Prix. Either way, it's an hour and a half of flashing metal, squealing tires, throaty downshifts, and nail-biting maneuvers. 

Inside each car is a driver who has his own way of balancing the fiery passion for racing with the need for zen-like calm and self-control behind the wheel. And behind each driver are hundreds of people who design, manufacture, and maintain the car, as well as experts who help the drivers maximize their performance. Sitting in the middle of this massive network is the team principal who attempts to hold everyone together and keep them flowing toward a winning season. 

Netflix's Drive to Survive breaks down the particulars of the sport in a way any newcomer can understand, while providing nuance that even the most rabid F1 fans will find fascinating. The series begins with the 2018 season and carries on through 2023, so the viewer gets to know the drivers and the team principals, and begins to understand what makes each one of these distinctive personalities tick. These people would be the first to tell you that they're all a little crazy, but that makes it all the more fun. Netflix pumps up the drama by highlighting the rivalries and grudges that inevitably rise to the surface, but mostly what the show reveals is that there are a lot of really fantastic people striving to make F1  - and Drive To Survive - a wildly entertaining experience.

* * * * *

During the first decade of my life, I was blissfully unaware of mainstream professional sports. Other kids marveled me with their knowledge of our hometown Tigers, Lions, and Pistons but I knew close to nothing. Of course, my parents followed University of Michigan football with the full-blooded passion of the true Blue alumni that they were, and most Saturday nights in winter we tuned in to Hockey Night in Canada, but those were mere runners up to the main sport in my young heart.

Formula 1 racing. 

My dad had a passion for motor sports and I quickly picked it up.

I knew the racers. 

I adored their cars.

My heart thrilled at the sound of the revving engines.

My pulse quickened as the cars sped off their lines, bunched up impossibly close, and then spread out to circle the track again and again

I loved the tension of waiting to see who would be first to whip past the checkered flag. 

My brothers and I invented endless games that involved us impersonating our favorite drivers. On our swing set, I'd race them, pumping my tiny legs to make my swing fly as high as it possibly could, and then at the highest point, launching myself out of the seat as they launched themselves out of theirs. As we soared through the air, we would each call out our favorite racer's name. Mine was always the same.

Jimmy Clark!

Sadly, my hero Jim died in a race accident when I was 9, and that - along with my father's departure from our family - really soured the taste of F1 for me.

From then till now, I hit the brakes on racing. 

So imagine my delight when, over the past few years, my two oldest daughters independently fell in love with Formula 1 racing. And earlier this month, when the three of us spent ten days together, their ongoing chatter teased me back to the track. One of them steered me onto Drive to Survive, and now I'm all caught up on the players, their past races and reputations, and the crazy drama that unfolds when these colorful people come together to race.

Just like in the old days, I'm wildly in love with Formula 1.

I do believe it's in my blood. 

* * * * *

What I'm watching lately. 

Postmodern Christmas Movies

Formula 1: Drive To Survive

Masters Of The Air

Downton Abbey

Another Chapter

"True love stories never have endings." -Richard Bach

^ This is our latest chapter. But let me tell you the whole story.

Well, we've been at it again.

In the chilly days of January, a certain birthday elf left a surprise at my door. 

Inside this darling little package was a gift from my friend, Heidi, and wouldn't you know, the latest chapter in the long, sweet story of our collaborative game.

^ Don't let the bare feet fool you. It was not warm.

As you may know, Heidi and I went to lunch in 2011 and since I arrived first, I texted Heidi a pic of our table top, set and ready for our meal together. That image (which is of shockingly poor quality) has been bouncing back and forth ever since, telling a story between us for all these many years. With each new version of the image, one of us adjusts it in some way and sends it off for the other to make her own change. 

The chapters unfold and our story keeps growing.

^ So here's where we were: last spring, I'd sent Heidi this Easter banner. Now it was her turn  to make something new for me from these cutout letters and gold cord. 

She dismantled the banner, stacked the letters, coiled the gold cord on top, and took photos. From enlarged copies of those photos, she made an origami box. 

^  The top and the bottom of the box are made from different images, as you'll see more clearly further down. And the cord she used to tie the box shut? I do believe it's the same cord I used to string the banner. 

^ Heidi also took one of the photos she'd taken of the banner letters and coiled gold cord and created a pixelated version for a card. Super cute. 

^ And the gift inside the box? A set of three magnets, each sharing a circle of our deeply layered pattern. How fun!

Now it was my turn to write the next chapter, and this time I faced an extra challenge. Heidi's gift to me actually included three different threads of our story. How was I to choose which version - the top of the box, the bottom of the box, or the card - to move ahead?

As usual, the ideal solution popped into my head just as I was falling asleep.

A book.

I decided to make a little handmade book - Heidi is a devoted keeper of journals - and use strips of all three patterns to decorate the cover.

Here, let me show you.

^From left to right, these are my photocopies of the bottom of the box, the card, and the top of the box. 

First, I unfolded the top and bottom of Heidi's box, grabbed the card, and assigned my husband the task of making copies. Our printer is sublimely temperamental and he is better suited to fuss with it. Even so, he came to me with his head hung low, presenting me with the copies he'd made and confessing that the colors of these new copies were not true to the originals. 

But I assured him that the name of this game is transformation and it was perfectly fine to introduce some change in my new telling of the story.

^ Next I ripped the photos into strips, an inch to two and a half inches wide, and glued them front and back, inside and out, to a folded bit of white cardstock.

^ Once the glue dried, I trimmed the edges and had myself a little book cover. 

I cut a dozen pages of white printer paper to fit inside the cover, folded them in half, and used our brand new sewing machine to stitch the book together.

^Every picture tells a story and every book needs a title. Mine is short and sweet.

And thus the latest chapter in my collaborative story with Heidi has been told. 

But we are nowhere near the end.

* * * * *

Here are all the details of how our project has evolved. 

Start at the top of this list for a chronological report:

The Creative Adventures of Heidi and Diane

The Adventures Continue

Heidi Strikes Again!

It's Your Move

Another Chapter

Dealing With It

"I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection." 

-Sigmund Freud

^ You know what else I've been doing lately? Shopping at antique stores. Here's a haul from late December, clockwise from the top right:

Old wood frame; the bird art will be flying away soon.

Tiny wicker rocker

Artificial apples - more on those below

Wood organizer.

Silver pitcher

Three tiny teddies - more on them below too.

So I've been going to counseling lately.

I've been before. Over the last fifteen years or so, I've gone on and off for a variety of reasons. But never before have I gone to counseling specifically to work on my childhood trauma. So last fall when our family therapist suggested that I might want to work on this part of my life, I figured that this was a great time to check in with myself and see how I was doing.

* * * * * 

Long story short, my father was a cheater. For the first ten years of my life, he had a series of long-term affairs that he didn't even try to hide. Needless to say, that created an explosive environment at home and I found myself living smack dab in the middle of a war zone. When I was ten, my dad left once and for all, and I saw him only two or three times in the rest of my childhood. Left to my own devices to sort through the emotional fallout, I grew up really fast and thankfully settled into my early adulthood with my head on fairly straight

Then came my own marriage and kids. Determined not to make the same mistakes as I'd lived through, I married a man with a storybook childhood and loving parents. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to protect my daughters from my traumatic past, while also telling them the age-appropriate truth about my dad. Walking that razor's edge was never easy but I did the best I could. 

Cut to 2016. My parents, long since divorced and thoroughly estranged, died less than two months apart. That kinda freaked me out. But to be honest, I breathed a sigh of relief because I thought (and fervently hoped) that their passings would bring me a certain level of peace and a sense of resolution.

But that's not what happened at all.

Within hours of my dad's death, I found out that I had a brother from another mother. Yep, my father had conceived a child from one of his long-term affairs who was immediately handed over to an adoption agency and hush-hushed for the rest of my father's life. This secret, carried so successfully to my father's grave, didn't bother me at all - in fact, I love my newfound brother and I'm grateful that we've found each other. But it did open my eyes to a new level of lies and deception that my father employed against us all. Like waves crashing on a beach, the trauma kept a-rollin' in. 

^ One of the stalls in the local antique mall has been going out of business; I learned that the owner fell down a flight of stairs, broke her leg in multiple places, poor thing, and decided that it was time to shut down her sweet little shop. Among her last few pieces, I found these apples  - for which I have a specific use to be explained later - and in her enthusiasm to be done, she gave them to me for free. How incredibly kind. 

* * * * *

This week, after three months of weekly sessions and a deep dive into my past, my trauma therapist pronounced our work as complete. 

And here are six new lessons I've learned about my childhood trauma:

1. My trauma is worse than I've let myself believe. Like many people who suffer significant trauma, I have spent years trying to minimize it, push it away, tell myself it's not that bad. But what I really need to do is face that big ol' elephant in the room by pulling her out of the shadows and keeping her clearly in my sights. 

2. My trauma will never go away. Dang. I wish it would. But while the waves of emotion may settle quietly at times, I'll always carry the pain of my past, and need to be prepared for the fact that it can crash down over me at any moment.

3. Trauma is readily handed down through the generations and I can't fully prevent that from happening, Still, I care very much about protecting my daughters and my nieces and nephews from the worst of the family trauma they inherit. I feel deeply responsible to each one of them and do whatever I can to help them feel connected and loved.

4. Trauma is something we can only understand when we live through it. True, we all experience some levels of overwhelming emotion in our lives - we endure physical, mental, and spiritual pain on the daily. But people who have never experienced the profoundly disruptive events of "big T trauma" - especially when inflicted during childhood - can never fully understand what that feels like. 

5. Talking about my trauma often makes me uncomfortable. Not because I'm ashamed or afraid to share my story, but because I need to feel safe before I open up to another person. For me, writing is usually the best way to process and share my feelings.

6. Trauma has changed me. There's no telling how I might have turned out in a happier world, but then again, I know that my trauma has made me a stronger and more compassionate person. And you know what? I really like that. 

^ Back in the 1990s, my mom developed a passion for collecting teddy bears, and specifically, the super popular Boyd's Bears. When I found the bear from that brand, on the right, complete with angel wings, well, you know I had to have it. Suddenly, a vision of tiny teddy bears decorating not only my Christmas tree but gathering in the space below the tree popped into my brain, and just like that, my own passion for collecting teddies was ignited. 

* * * * *

I'm excited to be done with this leg of my journey. Sure, I know now that my trauma will be with me for the rest of my life, but I have confidence - stronger than ever before - that I'm up to the task of dealing with it. 

* * * * *

More stories about my mom, my dad, and our journey together:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

My Mother And Me

Spinning Gold Out Of Straw

Fresh Air

On Grief

My Newfound Brother

Never Mind. I'll Do It Myself.

Reading | The Poisonwood Bible

The Poisonwood Bible | Barbara Kingsolver

The pious Price family leaves their home in 1950s rural Georgia to embark upon a one-year mission in Africa. Zealous Pastor Price plans to convert the natives in droves via mass baptisms in the wild rivers; Mother Price and her four young girls prepare to continue their sweet domesticity in the heart of the jungle. They board their plane wearing layers of pretty dresses, pockets stuffed with vegetable seeds, cake mixes, and a highly coveted hand mirror. Father brings his bible. And so they stride into village life in the heart of the Congo, confident that they are prepared for every possible contingency.

Ha.

At turns both tragic and hilarious, the story unfolds in chapters narrated in turn by Orleanna and her girls: self-obsessed Rachel, headstrong Leah, quirky Adah, and little Ruth May who may just have an ability to see the future in surprising ways. Set against the political backdrop of mid-twentieth century African politics, the family's fortunes are affected by historically accurate events. Over the decades, each Price pursues his or her own path of redemption, and works to find a measure of peace within themselves.

Barbara Kingsolver writes with power and sensitivity and hilarity and wit. Each of the five narrators tells her story with a unique voice; charming patterns of speech and idiosyncratic vocabulary reveal to the attentive reader who is speaking at any time. In Kingsolver's competent hands, this unlikely story of an arrogant evangelical extremist caught up in corrupt colonial politics sings with excitement, hope, and love. 

* * * * * 

In 1926, fresh from college with the ink still wet on their marriage certificate, my grandparents boarded a steamer, traveled to South Africa, and launched themselves straight into the bush where they planned to live as missionaries for the rest of their lives. A year or two passed happily; their eldest daughter was born on the continent, but events soon conspired to quash their dreams and bring them back to a family business in Michigan where they lived out the rest of their days. Bitterly, my grandmother told me this story over and over again; for the rest of her life, she deeply lamented the dream she'd lost. 

"If God had amused himself inventing the lilies of the field, he surely knocked His own socks off with the African parasites."

Nowadays, our culture often casts a cold eye on international missionaries, likening them to colonial oppressors if not outright racists. I see and hear that point of view. 

But I also know that in my grandparents' day, mission work was viewed as a generous act of service toward those with fewer perceived advantages and opportunities in life. It was only through actually living side by side with African tribespeople that my grandparents - and the fictional Prices - learned that they perhaps had a thing or two to learn from the natives as well. 

"Everything you're sure is right can be wrong in another place."

Decades after she returned home from Africa, my grandmother tutored immigrants to the United States; her small town became home to a considerable number of freshly transplanted Cambodians, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Laotians. One by one, she welcomed these strangers into her home, studied English with them at her dining table, then served them coffee as they presented her with small gifts of food that they shared together. 

And while I am sorry that my grandmother felt that life had denied her dreams, I'm thrilled that her passion for serving others found a different outlet, one human being to another, in a climate of mutual kindness and respect. 

* * * * *

More stories about books I've read in 2024:

Books By Anthony Doerr

What My Bones Know

Books By Emily Henry

The Poisonwood Bible

Harvesting The Heart