The memories of a hoarder

I'm beginning to wonder if I'm a hoarder.  Not enough of one to have a reality TV show, but enough of one that you might look at my house, pause briefly, and raise your eyebrows.  I say this because today, as boxes were assembled to the rip-ripping of packing tape and belongings were carefully packed into them, I started to cry.  It wasn't because we're moving to a new place and won't have many friends, or fear that my body will reject South Dakota in a fury of mucus and itchy eyes, or even because at 31 years of age, I'm moving in with my mother-in-law.  I cried because I love my stuff and won't see it for awhile.  And that is why I think I'm a hoarder.

My stuff isn't just a collection of material things; it is a collection of memories attached to physical objects.  My memories are precious to me; to be surrounded by goodness is what makes me feel at home.  The blue and white tiled side table next to our couch was a Craigslist find when Matt first bought his house and needed some furniture.  It held leaky pens for bill paying, my thyme plant from which many meals are seasoned, and the stud finder for house projects.  I like to try and give Matt an ego boost when I sweep it in front of his body, make it go beeeep and say, "Ooooh!  Found a stud!"

Two canvas paintings are carefully packed away; they are reminders of a Halloween party we hosted where guests painted and sculpted in the garage.  It was also the Halloween that Matt dressed as a Flag Girl (to accompany his Band Nerd wife).  That is something I definitely don't want to forget.  But will I forget that he is brave and willing to try anything, especially if it makes me laugh?

Little green shelves were packed too.  They were handed down from Kara, who always inspires me to keep sewing.  Will I be inspired when it's not on the wall next to the sewing machine?  While in college, Anna was studying in Tanzania and picked up a beautiful wooden figuring of a mother and child dancing.  She knew I wanted kids someday and wanted me to dream about them.  Will I forget her thoughtfulness because her gift is now wrapped in the comic section of the Sunday paper stuffed in a box?  And then there is that cozy blanket given to me by someone I hurt in the past.  Will I forget what it feels like to be mean?  Will I forget what humility and forgiveness looks like?  What about pictures of friends we're leaving?  Will I forget them if their faces are not looking back at me each day?

If I'm without all those memories, who am I?  Who am I to become?  That is probably what scares me the most; not knowing what life is going to be like after all the material stuff is gone (in storage).  Will I be able to stand on my own two feet on someone else's kitchen floor?  (because mine was put in lovingly by Matt and although it's cold, it's beautiful.)  When I can feel secure about the unknown future and am content to be without my stuff, that is when I will call myself a healed hoarder.

For now, I'll throw the fear about moving into the recycling bin (it will come back in a different form soon enough I'm sure).  I'll wait until the last minute to wrap my favorite coffee cup (it has a picture of my nephew Zachary on the side), and when the tears start to fall, I'll pack them carefully into a box with the rest of my beloved stuff.

A (melancholy) birthday poem

The leaves on the (dying) trees are brighter today.
The air from the (toxic) sky is crisper today.
The rays from the (UV laden) sun are warmer today.
Your (barely aging) face is still sweet.
Your (nearly graying) hair is still messy.
Your (bleeding-from-work) hands are still gentle.
I'm glad today (you were born.) is your birthday.
You make (the death in my) days bearable.
You bring joy to my (dull) life.




It was Matt's birthday last week.  This means it's October; the beginning of falll, the end of any possibility of just one more glorious summer day, and the end of my beloved garden...(insert stifled sob).  I start to think about Matt's 32 years of life so far and I mourn for the ones I wasn't a part of.  It sounds silly really, because he might not have turned out to be my awesomely wonderful Matt, had we met previously.  But I start to think about our future as a couple and understand that we might not always be in good health.  One of us will probably outlive the other by a number of years.  One day we will wake up and realize that our bones ache, our steps have slowed, and one of us has lost most of our hair (and I'm really hoping that "one" is not me).  We will no longer be able to run marathons, stay up late for hammerschlagen at bonfires, and our bodies will have changed into, um, less sexy versions of ourselves.  It all sounds so terribly morbid and depressing and oh my gosh how do you get up in the morning, Meredith?!

Don't worry, it's all good.  Because I'm a total sentimental mental case, I totally and fully, love every single second with this man (except those single seconds that I don't but they're in the minority and so they DO NOT COUNT!)  I am grateful for things (like fall, and death, and change) that remind me to appreciate the people I love, to be thankful of how life turns out (or doesn't turn out), and to look bravely ahead, semi-optimistically.

It's October; time to snuggle into my sweet little house, tidy up my dirty fireplace, and enjoy the warmth of my furry and non-furry favorites.

Colors of a summer kitchen

                                                              

I've been really in love with my garden this year.  So in love in fact, that I have failed to properly document it, like a good parent should!  Photos have been taken but not posted, dated, or labeled.  Ah well.  More to come, but for now, a taste of a few hours in my summer kitchen.   

I feel much like a 50's housewife might have felt, and it feels good.  It feels good because it is a choice, not an expectation.  I am grateful for all of the women (and men!) who have made that choice possible.  This afternoon there was a screech of tires outside and to check to see that everyone was ok, I ran out in my polka dot apron, hair pulled back with a headband, hands red from the beets.  I may as well have been carrying a meat cleaver and dragging a dead goat because the totally chic metropolitan woman walking by was taken more aback by the sight of me than the sound of the screech.  Such is life in my neighborhood.

But the neighborhood has been good lately.  After our block party for National Night Out, neighbors have been out and chatting one another up more than usual.  We received smiles and waves from the folks that live in "that problem house".  Tonight is another neighborhood concert.  Let's hope the sweetness from this lasts through the cold autumn days when we start to mourn the long, warm, sidewalk chats about the status of the cucumbers, how many miles we're running today, the latest yard project, and oh did you see that suspicious vehicle parked here this afternoon and I called the cops too.  

To help the summer love last all year, today I canned beets, made pesto, and pickled peppers.  There is so much to learn about something it seems we should be brought up knowing how to do.  I love learning from my grandmother and love using jars she has probably used for decades.  It just seems right.  I also love thinking about feeding my prized produce to my beloved this winter.  WINTER.  Ack.  That pesto, though, will remind us to enjoy our days, whether they be warm or chilly, because they go by oh so fast.

For now, I'll grab my dog and go for a run before the concert in the park.  Maybe I'll see some neighbors and ask about the cucumbers.

Twenty Twentysomethings Lessons

It is the last day I will spend in my 20's.  (If I were Korean, I'd actually be considered 31 already and this list would be much less exciting).  I have dreaded, feared, worried about, and looked forward to this day, to this season of my life.  I'm always looking forward...when I was a teenager, I couldn't wait to "have it together" and start my grown up life, only to find out we're always trying to grow up.  Matt said it best in a letter written in 6th grade to his future self.  "Open when you are 25" it says.  Because we for sure will have it together by the time we're 25.  Here are a few lesson learned, observations about, and goals set in this wonderfully tumultuous decade:

1.  I didn't have it completely together when I was 25.  In fact, I don't think I'll ever really have it completely together, and that's OK.

2.  My failures were mine to make, mine to suffer through, and my responsibility to learn from.

3.  I am never alone in my suffering through #2.

4.  Karaoke will always bring out the best in people.  

5.  Being right feels nice for awhile but being humble feels better.

6.  I have too much stuff.

7.  Dumpster diving is the key to material happiness.

8.  Sleep cures colds, soothes anger, and is essential for happy relationships.

9.  Lack of sleep fosters colds, increases anger, and leads to the inevitable end of relationships.  I will try to be nicer during periods of reduced sleep.

10.  God is a mystery who reveals Himself in beautiful ways.  Science is an exciting mystery that we are privileged to discover.  We cannot know everything about either.  One does not explain, un-explain, prove, or disprove the other. 

11.  I will shut up and listen more this decade.

12.  I will finish my masters degree.  Because my husband wants me to and he really is right about this one.

13.  There are things in my control and things out of my control.

14.  I will not worry about things out of my control.  Letting that gray hair grow was a good start.

15.  I will acknowledge and be thankful for beauty and love and loyal animals.

16.  Keeping up with the Jones' is a bunch of baloney.  I will try to keep up with my dreams.

17.  Processed foods may lead to the death of domesticity but I will fight!  With tomatoes!

18.  Following through is not my forte, but I'll work on it.  Check back in 10 years when I'm forty.  (Ha!  Get it?  Forte, Forty?  Addendum to #18 - keep telling dumb jokes.)

19.  *People will always disappoint me but I should love them anyway (because I will always disappoint people and I'd like to be loved anyway, too).  *even though I sometimes don't refer to them as people, 9th graders are included in #19.

20. It is important to live the life intended for me.  It is also important to remember to enjoy it now, even if I am eagerly looking down the road to the next season of life, when I'll for sure have it together.

Super Squash Soup!

It's been requested that I share my squash soup recipe.  I would be happy to...except that I don't really have one.  I cook by the seat of my pants and Matt seems to think that is a gift, rather than mere procrastination and luck.  We'll go with what he said.

All of the ingredients are up for discussion, substitution, or complete disregard, except for the squash if you really want squash soup.

SUPER SQUASH SOUP!
Put your big old soup pan on the stove on medium-low and add this:
One small chopped onion
some olive oil (so your onions don't burn)
2 crushed garlic cloves

Put the lid on the pot to keep the moisture in while you prepare the following:
2 carrots diced
2 celery stalks
1 potato/sweet potato diced
& any other veggies in your fridge you need to get rid of

When those are all chopped, add them to the pot, stir, and replace the lid.

Take your washed squash - I use butternut - and peel it with a vegetable peeler.  This is a huge pain, but I think you waste the least amount.  If you have another type of squash, a veg peeler might be out of the question and you'll just have to cut off the outside with a knife.

Cube the squash, being sure to remove the seeds and gooey part in the middle.  (Oooh and ahhh over the bright & brilliant beauty of the inside!)  Add it to the pot and replace the lid. 

(Keep the moisture in the pot - if there is not enough coming from the veggies, just add some water)

You might have to turn up the heat a bit if it's going too slow.  You want the pieces of squash and carrots to be tender so they can get pureed easily.  Cook for 15 minutes or until the squash is tender. 

Carefully scoop your soup into a food processor, add a handful of cilantro, and puree it to your liking. (I have to do this a few cups at a time since my processor is small).  Some people will only process half of the soup so it remains chunky.  If you have an immersion blender thingy, use it right in your pot.

Return soup to pot on low.  If your soup is too thick, add some water*.  If it's too runny, take the lid off and cook for a bit.  Add salt and pepper to taste. 

*If you can handle dairy, instead of adding water you might try cream.  I bet it tastes GREAT!

This would not be possible without the CRATE full of winter squash and zucchinis from my neighbors.  They are generous with their bounty and tolerant of oversize wood piles in our yard.  I am very grateful for these people. 

Happy Super Squash Soup making, friends!

waiting for a little life

Spring is something else, eh?  We wait and wait and wait for the teeniest bit of green to lift our spirits from the bitterness of winter and when it comes, we say, "I can't believe it!  It's finally here!" and yet we knew it would be here sometime.  Part of what makes these signs of life so exciting is that we KNOW it's coming; we think about how wonderful it will be, how it will smell, and how it will make us feel when we wake up each day knowing the goodness of life is all around.

Our house is showing signs of life, too. 

Even though outside snow may come and cover up peeking tulip/lily/iris bulbs that prompted some landscaping daydreaming this week, inside things are growing.  A plant survived a winter with me.  Not only did it survive, it's BLOOMING!  It's a Spring miracle, I tell you!  Mom better read this because she will be very proud that a plant in her daughter's care has finally stayed alive.  I don't even know the name of this gem but I plan on getting at least five more this summer to fill my house to make visitors think I have a magical green thumb.


The Seedling Adventure has also begun.  The first chapter goes something like this:

       ....she carefully placed each seed in their respective nook, gently covered them with precisely mixed soil, gave them a blessing, and waited for the sun and water to do its work.  Sometime during the night, the cat, who was irked there was neither catnip nor cat grass planted, decided to take matters into her own paws.  The gardener woke up, cursed the cat, and the romantic dream of planting and nurturing seedlings until they bore fruit, died.

So, yeah, we'll see how it goes.  So far the onions are going crazy.  I think onions might be one of those invasive species you have to gather and light on fire if you don't want it to spread.

The other thing that is growing in our house is a SCOBY for making Kombucha.  It's a big glob of bacteria and yeast that eats tea and sugar and somehow balances your intestinal flora.  Kombucha and I so far have a love love, hate hate hate relationship.  I loved it, carefully prepared it, waited 3 weeks (quite impatiently) for it to reach the right pH, only to find out it had mold!  You would think something as gross as a SCOBY could tackle some mold, but it couldn't.  Dumping out 3 weeks' worth of fermenting tea, I felt defeated.  This batch is going much better, and I'm being much more patient.  In fact, this photo was the only time I've uncovered it to look at the disgustingly beautiful alien being. 

Waiting around for life (and sometimes being disappointed) has been a bit of a roller coaster.  But I'm still waking up, hopeful. 

Blogbattical: a year without blogging

Sometimes we need to break away from things because they are unhealthy, sometimes because of time constraints, sometimes for reasons we don't know.  The last year required me to take a break from the reflection that blogging offered.  I would only later come to understand why.  The break freed up time (as sabbaticals often do) and I wish I could say I used my time to write a book (or at least read a bunch of them), knit a grown-up sweater, or sew something really difficult.  Yeah, well, none of those things happened.  I just got older.

I used to think I would accept age humbly and joyfully.  What a load of crap.  This year I found (TWO!) gray hairs and didn't get carded buying wine at the liquor store.  I cannot stay up past 10pm without pacing around the house groaning, "it's so laaaate!"  This winter, I begged Matt to grow a beard so he would look older (and not like a kid I was babysitting).  I now enjoy and PREFER to stay home on Friday night.

Despite my aging crisis, the year did not pass without gain and triumph.  In that extra time, I did some stuff  I'm quite proud of.  I finished all but 2 credits towards my Masters and started my research project.  A 9 month old was entrusted to me each weekday for half of the year.  I ran a marathon.  I rode a horse into the mountains and then climbed the mountain.  A teenager showed up, needing our love, time, and home cooking.  I started teaching again.  We found a church.  I found the perfect pizza crust recipe.  I finally learned how to tame my (graying) hair.   
   

The year was not a total loss. 

But I'm back to the familiar 'click click click' that puts ME out there to YOU, whoever, wherever you are.  My blogbatical is over.  The trees are aching to show us that they are alive, and I'm aching to let go of things I should have done and open up to the possibility that this year, too, will age and better me.