Dinner Party Number One (1/11)

Let The Year Of Dinner Parties Begin!

My only resolution this year was to invite people over for dinner. Uncharacteristically, I have already made good on that promise. Last night we had the Breens and the Borders over. It was a raving success, if I do say so myself. We laughed, told stories and thoroughly enjoyed catching up. See, we used to get together A LOT. We even vacationed together at the beach for many years. But life did what it is known to do and took us down different paths. With the Borders moving to Texas, job changes, and kids in different schools, too much time went by.

The beauty of old friends is that you can pick up where you left off. And we did. There's not a quiet one of us in the bunch so we easily resumed our belly laughs and talking over one another. Here's what we ate while doing so:

Hot Bacon & Cheese Dip w/Wheat Thins (appetizer)
French Dip w/Prime Rib
Home-made Au Jus and Horseradish Sauce for Dipping
Potato Cheese Casserole
Crunchy Romaine Salad w/Ramen Topping (thank you, Shelley!)
Four Layer Dessert (Pecan Crust, Cream Cheese, Chocolate Pudding, Whipped Cream)

 Here's what I would've changed: plan the menu (or the date of the party) depending on who is on what diet! I have known Gayla my whole life and Shelley for over 15 years. You'd think I would have seen it coming. Even though Gayla is only in town for a few weeks, she had to weigh in with her trainer this morning! What in the world? And Shelley agreed to a dinner party the night before a photo shoot?? She is in the singing group Point Of Grace, and I am thrilled they have a new record coming out and all, but she wasn't eating much either! I'm really just giving them a hard time, but that may be something I want to consider as I start doing this more regularly. I do admit last night's menu was decadent.

I am happy to share any recipes with you. I wanted to include a picture of my centerpiece for future reference. Gayla gave me the cool vases for my birthday years ago. She has a great eye for interesting home pieces.

Steep, Jagged Trails

Remember the time it snowed on the 4th of July? High on a mountain pass?

Remember when Mike Hud read The Hobbit aloud to us as we sat around the campfire?

Now, what year was it when the brakes went out on our rented jeep? Weren't we rescued by that man who looked like Grizzly Adams?

We ask each other these questions, and many more, as we sit on our screened-in porch in Middle Tennessee. As we gather around the table in honor of whatever holiday or birthday we happen to be celebrating, the conversation will often turn to stories from a lifetime of vacations at "our spot" in Southwest Colorado.

Wasn't baby Sally so cute in her playpen at the campground?

Remember when Chris brought his guitar and he and Jan serenaded us by firelight?

Remember how that dusty old ghost town looked just like a Hollywood set?

Other than these rolling hills of Tennessee, there is no place on Earth that has so woven itself into the fabric of our family's history. We discovered the Uncompahgre National Forest and Mt. Sneffels in the late '70s. We have been going there ever since. My parents hardly ever miss a year.

Wasn't that a crazy trip when Daddy, Hank and Alan had to jog all the way down the mountain in a thunderstorm? While the trail was washing out from under them and lightning was striking all around?

Remember when I tore my ACL on that same trail?

It is part of us. Our valley in Colorado helped make us who we are. I am confident in the strength of my sisters, my parents and myself because I have seen us brave the wilderness. I have seen us carry heavy backpacks up steep, jagged trails.

How many shooting stars did we count that night when we pulled a blanket out into the clearing?

Remember the year that it rained all week? What a welcome to the family for Sean that was!

Who was with us that year that we hiked all the way to the peak? Was it the same year that we went fishing and had trout for breakfast?

The timeline of my memories is as jumbled as the box where Mama stashes photographs from trips gone by. We are small children in one shot and teenagers in the next. My husband, Mark, is in this shot. In another one I am 12. But the backdrop remains the same. From the jewel-toned wildflowers to the turquoise hued glacier lakes, from the strumming of guitars late into the night to the smell of bacon on a chilly morning: all of these memories blend together and the details become less important.

At the end of this week, Mark and Sydney and I will go as a family for the first time. Sydney was only 3 when she and I went with my parents one summer. All she remembers is being stung by a bee. Mark and I were just newlyweds when we went 12 years ago.

 I can't help feeling the anticipation of making new memories with my little family. I am acutely aware of the beginning of the next generation, the passing of the Colorado baton. Years from now, Sydney and her cousins will rummage through boxes of photographs and try to remember what year was such and such and when did this thing or the other happen. I believe they will share the beauty of "our spot" with their own families.

I believe they will be confident of their strength because they, too, will see themselves brave the wilderness and carry heavy backpacks up steep, jagged trails.

Lying In The Street

You dodged a bullet and didn't even know it. I had started a blog entry detailing the ins and outs of my mid-life crisis, but you are spared from that for at least one more week. My friend Bernie, who is a real writer (you may remember her....she used to write for The Nashville Scene when she lived here), is doing a 90 day summertime blog. EVERY day she is telling a different story about her memories of summers gone by. She challenged her readers to write about their summer memories and that sounded so much more pleasant to me than going on and on about some mid-life crisis full of first world problems!

In one of my favorite summer memories, my sisters and I always got a kick out of telling people, "I'm sorry, Daddy can't come to the phone right now. He's lying in the street!" What the stunned caller may not have known was that we lived at the dead-end of a very quiet street. I don't remember what gave my dad the idea to lie down in the street on those summer nights. It was just something that he always did. And we happily joined him.

I remember how the rough pavement felt on my back, still warm from the July sun baking it all day. My parents' property backs up to the Radnor Lake Natural Area, so there are trees covering our house and yard like a canopy. (My Aunt Margaret, who lives in Texas, says she feels claustrophobic when she comes to visit!) However, up on the street, you can see a wide expanse of starry sky. We would star-gaze while various family pets would step on us and lick our faces.

Maybe we were letting our dinner digest. We ate WELL every summer out of my dad's garden. My mom would make her iron skillet corn bread to accompany squash casserole, new potatoes, pole beans and tomatoes. My dad loved to tell us that the vegetables we were eating for dinner had still been growing in his garden that same morning!

I remember a lot of pinching and laughing and wrestling that took place while we lay in the street. It was a rare occurrence, but oh how we loved it, when a car would come driving up the street. We thought it was so funny to hop up, scurry to the side of the road and wave at the surprised passengers as the car drove by.

Now that I am a mom, and middle-aged (crisis and all...ha!), I know why my mom loved lying in the street. It was more about being together than star-gazing or rough housing. I think she had it right. Even in the late 70s and early 80s, life was starting to take on a hustle and bustle. She saw the luxury in summer evenings with nowhere to be. And she probably knew the easy, slow life-style was slipping away.

I'm trying to remember if I've even told Sydney about this childhood memory. Maybe I'll coax her away from the ipad, computer, ipod and TV. Maybe Mark and Syd and I will go lie in the street with my mom and dad. Maybe I'll change my voicemail to say, "I'm sorry I can't take your call right now. I'm probably lying in the street!"

Eulogy Of A Friendship

Most days I am able to accept the fact that we are not friends anymore. I remind myself that perhaps it is for the best and maybe it was inevitable. My attempts at reconciliation have been met with silence. Silence that is even worse than the angry words we lobbed back and forth. It feels like the silence of death. I try to remember the last words I said to you. They are not the words I would have used had I known it was the end. Had I known I would be staring down at the lifeless form that was once our friendship. I am certain of that.

Months have passed now and I no longer reach for the phone to tell you something funny. I make up excuses when my girl wants to invite your girl over to play. I can drive past your house on the way to somewhere else without scanning the kitchen window for signs of the family. I guess this is what divorce feels like. This time last year we were going to the lake and family dinners and girls' nights out. We shared stories and confidences and bottles of wine. Right up until the day that it all stopped. Maybe an autopsy would show that there were warning signs. But it's too late to talk about warning signs now. If they were there, they were missed. Pride and a sense of justice and an angry mother bear clouded any hope of good judgment.

Two or three nights a week, in my dreams, we are friends again. My naive subconscious picks up the shattered pieces and projects them as scenes from happier times. We are at the kitchen table laughing and our husbands are standing around the grill telling stories. Kids and dogs run in and out of the back door. Every once in a while I dream about the moment of reconciliation itself. I can't quite make out the words but I know they involve apologies and forgiveness. I wake up the next morning and for half a minute I believe the dreams are true. But before the relief can spread too far, my mind comes back to its senses.

I wrack my brain to figure out what any of us did that was horrible enough to lose a friendship over. Whatever point I was trying to prove in that moment was not worth it. My anger and hurt feelings in those days pale in comparison to the quiet, heavy sense of loss that has become part of my life.

Those dreams keep me from laying our friendship to rest. Something deep within me believes in miracles and believes the dreams are snapshots sent from God. Most days I can accept that we are not friends anymore, but I had the dream again last night. So today is not one of those days. Today, apologies and forgiveness actually seem possible.

My Master Chef Audition

Subtitle: aka Thank God I'm Boring?

My alarm went off at 6:30 this morning. That NEVER happens on a Saturday morning unless we're leaving for a fabulous vacation or, as was the case today, I am auditioning for Master Chef. I quickly showered and tried to dress like the middle aged writer/mom/cook that I am these days. (The FAQs on the Master Chef website suggested we wear something that best represents who we are...!?) I pulled my pot of Cinnamon Sweet Potato Soup out of the refrigerator and began heating it while the oven pre-heated for the toasting of my Maple Bacon Cornbread Croutons. I drizzled the butter over my carefully cubed croutons and popped them in the oven. All my prep went off without a hitch.

I was confident that my high powered thermos would keep the soup hot for at least 6 hours. It had proven itself last Halloween when I doled out "Ski Lifts"(hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps) to the other parents during our neighborhood's trick-or-treating and Halloween Party.

Maybe everything was going too smoothly. I got to the Culinary School at the Art Institute of Nashville 2 hours before the doors were to open. I had heard that in other cities there were 300 people in line 2 hours early. I was number 6! Okay, great, the good luck continues.

I met and chatted with the other hopefuls until the doors opened at 9:30. For all my sizing up of the people around me (eventually, there were a couple hundred in line), I just couldn't tell who had the goods and who didn't. We were finally led inside where we were given numbers. I was 109. Things continued to go smoothly as I sailed through the registration process and ended up only having to wait for 15 minutes in the "holding room." I was in the first group of 20 who were called into the "tasting room." We each had a small table and were given 3 minutes to plate our dish. My soup and croutons were both still hot!

My heart pounded as the chef started with the guy to my left, Nick, #110. He had never even seen the show but I could tell from his dish and his expertise in describing the cooking process that he was the real deal. His upscale potato soup and avocado/lobster salad were plated on a beautiful slab of wood. The soup was in an iron bowl with a handle on top, for heaven's sake!

I have to say that the chef complimented me every bit as much as he did Nick. He said he really liked my soup, but thought the bacon in my cornbread croutons was an especially nice touch. So far, so good. Only a few minutes went by before Gina and Lacey, casting directors for Master Chef, came over to chat with me. I felt confident. I told them I was doing this for all the moms who had put their dreams on hold to focus on raising children. I told them how cooking had been healing for me when I had to walk away from songwriting. And I told them about my pistol of a daughter and my loving, supportive husband. I would find out later that this is not what they wanted to hear.

Raynel with the dread locks, #108, to my right, made this really complicated Chicken Tamale soup with quesadillas that didn't look very good. But then she told me her story. She is raising her 16 year old brother. He ran away two weeks ago. He is somewhere on the streets of Nashville and she is so worried about him.

Although I ended up befriending Nick, #110, he didn't tell me his story. But I did eavesdrop as he talked to the casting directors. He grew up in a bad part of town outside of Atlanta. His family was on food stamps all through his childhood, but he refused to live on junk food. Instead, he taught himself to cook and it has become his passion in life.

Only 6 or 7 people out of the 20 of us were called for the next round. I was not surprised to hear numbers 108 and 110. I am very happy for Raynel and Nick. But I am also thankful for the very thing that probably disqualified me from advancing to the next round: a loving, stable family.

I am sad that some peoples' lives include such cold, cruel versions of reality. I am glad they have a shot at their 15 minutes of fame. As for me, it feels like too high of a price to pay. I'll take my own story any day!

To Hope

I am loving the creative class I am taking on Thursday mornings! We have studied art, poetry, letter writing and art and poetry ABOUT letter writing. Such rich material. I am reminded of something my friend, Joel Lindsey, who is a very successful writer, used to say..."If you are having trouble coming up with something to write about, then it is time to feed the lake!" A silly fishing analogy, but it speaks volumes to the struggling writer! Watch a great movie. Read poetry. Go to an art museum. Look at old photographs. Re-read your favorite novel. Inspiration is waiting to be found.

Today we were encouraged to think about writing a letter to an inanimate object. This form of writing is called "Apostrophe." To my forks and spoons, to my exes, to the Yeti (we studied that poem today!), to my 20 lbs, etc., you get the idea.

We also talked a lot about hope, so that is who my inanimate object letter is to:

To Hope

I have lost you as often as I have found you

Deferred, you have made my heart sick

Re-discovered, you have made it soar

You are a glimmer, deep in the heart of the cynic

You are the last remaining sign of life

in disappointment's flat-line

I often hear that you float, 

but I have also seen you sink

like a doomed ship

waiting patiently to be mined 

as hidden treasure on the ocean's floor
 

I tell the white lie to my little one, 

as long as you believe in this thing or that, 

it is real

but I applaud you for being no less real

when I am plagued by doubt

Once A Writer........

Always a writer. Over the course of my life so far, the drive to write has been a blessing and a curse. On the best of days, it has left me with a great feeling of accomplishment. It has given me great pride to have created something. On a bad day, when the blank page has taunted me or when writing itself seems like a distant memory, I am defeated. The pendulum swings wide and the emotional roller coaster ride is both exhilarating and terrifying for me....and for most writers.

I now know how it feels to NOT write for a long period of time. No song, blog, short story or scrap of an idea has ventured forth from my troubled mind in over a year. And I did it on purpose. I turned my back on it. It just didn't seem practical and it certainly wasn't going to pay the bills. It was a busy year full of more than our fair share of changes. I worked hard on my cooking business and on being a supportive wife and mother. The occasional well-crafted song or beautifully written blog made me feel a little wistful, but not enough to do anything about it.

And yet, here I am revisiting my blog. So, something did happen to end the drought. It was nothing dramatic. It was talking about writing over coffee with a songwriter friend.  It was the fledgling song ideas that started to pop in my head. It was the "creative group" that I joined last week. It was the announcement in the church bulletin about the "worship writing workshop." I probably won't finish my novel or have "2 a day" songwriting sessions anytime soon, but you can bet I will be writing something.

I am going to write because I am a writer. Whether it seems practical or not. Whether I ever make another cent or not. My writing muscle is out of shape, but the drive (and hopefully the talent?) is still in there. Yes, the pendulum will swing wide and the roller coaster will careen out of control at times. But another thing I have learned about writing is that it is not for the faint of heart.