Because I am procrastinating tackling the 385,284,271 house projects in preparation for our year in Australia have nothing better to do, I registered for the Rattlesnake Sprint Triathlon. I have mentioned before that I'm interested in triathlons, but there's a big difference between thinking 'hey, that sounds pretty cool' and putting forth the training required to be able to finish in a place other than last at an actual event.
A couple of weeks ago, I did the swim portion of a relay triathlon with my two amazing friends, Summer (who biked) and Martina (who ran). I didn't really do much prep for this; after all, I was on the swim team in high school. So what if high school was 17 years ago? Isn't there, like, muscle memory or whatever?
The swim that day was 1/2 mile, and I was fairly pleased with my 15:15 time. And though I imagined emerging from the water and running swiftly to the transition area to hand off the timing chip to Summer for the bike portion, it was ummmmm....impossible. I was wiped out, and I forced one foot in front of the other. This was a good tester event to scope out the scene, and it definitely made me see that my underachieving self who is used to performing well with little or no effort was going to have to, ahem, get her ass in gear.
For this race on August 21, I'll only be swimming 500m. Ok then, I've got one segment down. Check. Feeling pretty darn confident at this point.
Next phase--a 12 mile bike ride. I am not a bicyclist (other than leisurely family bike rides on my vintage Schwinn cruiser), and the only time in my life where I have ridden more than 10 miles is also not-so-coincidentally the first time I have hitchhiked. I've got some work to do there, clearly. Luckily, Summer kindly loaned me her husband's Panasonic DX5000 and I'm getting a crash course in bike maintenance thanks to the lovely people at The Bike Depot in Park Hill. Open bike shop hours where you can bring in your bike and work on it have a volunteer work on it for free? Yes, please!
The last phase--the R. U. N. Ugh. I don't love running, and despite the fact that a 5k is nothing for some people, there are a lot of choice words I could use to describe the run, so we're not on the best terms. This phase will be about survival, although I'd really like to be able to refrain from walking.
So, folks, I'm totally training for this thing. Like, putting forth actual effort here. Every day, I'm either running (I'm close to 5k distance even though I hate it), swimming (1600m swims at the rec center during lunch at work), biking, or doing strength training (5lb. handweights for my arms and plank poses for my core), or some combination of a couple of those things. I don't have the fancy triathlon clothing (not the most flattering pieces for my figure, or budget!) and I'm not even going to come close to winning...but I'm psyched. It feels good to do something for me, like I'm reclaiming myself from years of child-bearing.
I'll let you know how the actual event goes, and if they're not too terribly embarrassing (other than the run, which I know will be), I'll post my times.
He was gone one day shy of four weeks, and had the time of his life. He loved riding horses and chopping wood with an axe and hatchet. He knows all the requisite silly camp songs, and he acted in a camp production of Lord of the Rings. Instead of writing us letters during the Siresta rest period, he and his tentmate often played 'Out You Go', shoving each other out of their tent, or he was off in the woods building forts. He was the only young camper to be adorned with a nickname (Onion Ring) from the older boys, who all had nicknames of their own. The word 'boss' is now the best way to describe something really cool. I asked him if there were any girls there he perhaps had a crush on, and the millisecond the question left my lips he answered with a swift 'No!' before declaring that he wasn't going to answer any more questions about that topic. The boy doth protest too much, methinks. The friendship bracelet I made for him before camp is properly faded, and he could use a haircut.
I planned to take a picture of him as soon as I saw him, but I was so enthralled with seeing him again in real life that I forgot. A kind man at the airport took this one...
I am so glad that Sam and I trusted that he was old enough for some wing-spreading. For the past four weeks, he soared.
And now I'm so very thankful he's back in our nest. Our family is whole again, and life is as it should be.
25: Twenty-five days have passed since I’ve hugged my oldest son. I have spent 25 days adjusting to being responsible for the whereabouts of two children, a difficult task considering scanning around me for three is deeply ingrained in my being.
2: These past few weeks, I have played Mexican bingo with two children, admired the soft, perfect skin of two children, snuggled two children in their beds, kissed two children goodnight, and woken up in the middle of the night just to make sure two children were cozied up in their blankets, sleeping comfortably.
5: Denver has had more than 5 inches of rain so far this month. Even my storm-hardened, home-destroyed-in-Hurricane-Andrew self has been shocked by the storms we’ve had in the past week. Two nights ago, Sam and I watched as rains overwhelmed our street and water shot straight up, Bellagio fountain-style, out of the manhole at the street corner. The lid of the manhole rattled around and threatened to shoot up in the air with the force of the water.
40: Denver International Airport weathered a massive hail storm last night that damaged 40 planes. One of those planes was designated to transport my oldest son home safely from camp, and now his flight has been cancelled. Yes, cancelled.
2: The airlines don’t understand how badly this mother of two is aching to be returned to her rightful place as a mother of three, so I now have to wait two more days to wrap my arms around my son. Saturday, you seem so far away from Thursday.
Jackson has been gone for 11 days (not that anyone's counting). Before he left, he solemnly promised to write every day, although I told him that if he was busy having fun, he didn't need to write every day. Nana had purchased personalized fill-in-the-blank camp postcards to facilitate the writing process, and we gave him stamped envelopes pre-addressed to everyone he wanted to write--Nana and Papa, us as a family, and Kenyon and Alex individually.
I, of course, had written him starting a few days before he left for camp so he'd have one waiting for him on his first day. Throughout the first week, I asked questions about his tentmate, what activities he's chosen, if he had made any friendship bracelets yet? I included a puzzle here and there, along with some of his favorite Calvin and Hobbes comic strips. I wrote a letter in a spiral to make it more fun to read. His Nana has written virtually every day as well, including fun puzzles from books she bought just for this occasion. Various friends and family members are sending letters and postcards (thanks everyone!).
We opened the mailbox each day like Charlie opening up a Wonka bar--slowly at first, and then superfast. Our thought process went like this--he wouldn't write on Monday, the first day of camp--probably Tuesday, after he's had a day to reflect on everything so far. So we should get a letter from him by Friday, right? Friday came and went, although we did get a phone call from the camp director letting us know that Jackson was doing great. She told us the kids have to write on the weekends--sweet, although we thought Jackson would surely write more often than the Required Writing Time. It didn't take too much effort to fill in some blanks on his personalized camp postcards and place it lovingly into a pre-addressed envelope, right?
Or as his Nana so eloquently put it, "How hard is it to fill out a fucking card???"
At the very least, we were comforted by the fact that Required Writing Time meant we were sure to get something--until I heard it's common practice to send an empty envelope to your parents. What kind of parental torture are these children capable of? I pictured campers chortling around the campfire, regaling others with their stories of sending glaringly empty envelopes home to their child-starved, sobbing parents.
We rested assured that a letter would be on its way on Monday, and we should get it by Thursday. When I left the house this morning, Sam promised that he would wait to open the letter until I got home (which is much nicer than me, because there's no way in hell I would have waited if the situation was reversed).
I walked in the door from work, and there it was, sitting right there on the counter. A letter from my oldest son, who I miss so much. I couldn't wait to open it and find the answers to all my questions--has he tried anything that he liked more than he'd thought? Has he built forts or hiked down to the beach? Has he played Capture the Flag or gone to Slingshot Alley? Would he have enclosed his pages of completed puzzles?
With great anticipation, I opened the envelope, pulled out a full length sheet of paper (oh good, he wanted to write more than would fit on the card!), and saw this:
Ok, there were words--another good sign. No empty envelope for these parents! Sam, Alex and Kenyon have all been really looking forward to a letter, too, so it would have been awesome if Jackson had included their names as well. But at least he didn't forget his Mommy. :) I read on...
"My first night at camp was great. I passed the swim test! I'm going to a canoe camp for 2 days."
THAT'S
IT??
We waited nearly two weeks for this?? I turned the page over, looking for more. No dice. Using forensic investigative techniques, we deduced that he wrote this on his second day of camp, shoved it into his trunk, and then forgot about it until Required Writing Time. Then he dusted it off, shoved it into an envelope and sent it off. We examined the scribbled out portion at the bottom and saw that he had written 'P.S.' but then obviously decided he couldn't be bothered to include any more details about his life and hastily scratched it out.
Also in the envelope was this little dried flower.
Cute, but I'd rather have words.
We also got a postcard from Jackson's counselor, who wrote that Jackson is a wonderful kid, well-behaved (whew!) and always excited to learn. He also said that Jackson is a leader in his group and has been helpful around the unit.
He's clearly having the time of his life, and we would much prefer to not hear from him than to get a daily letter detailing all the things he hated about camp. We're all thrilled for him.
Here's hoping he'll break the 30-word barrier in his next letter. 14 days until he comes home (not that anyone's counting). sigh.
I go through periods of getting in touch with my inner pioneer woman, and right now she’s coming out through the food I make. I know you can just picture me now wiping my brow on a flour sack apron as I toil in the kitchen, kneading homemade bread dough and grinding wheat into flour with a mortar and pestle. Um, what’s that old Brylcreem jingle—‘a little dab’ll do you’? Well, I guess a little dab of pioneer woman will do me, because I’m not exactly embracing everything about a pioneer woman’s kitchen life.
But still, folks, I’m canning. Jam, that is. The latest issue of Sunset magazine—contrary to the title, it is not a magazine catering to retiree lifestyles, and if you live in the western states you should subscribe immediately!— features a great article on easy homemade jams and preserves. Upon reading it, my inner pioneer woman jolted awake and I got right to work. While my kids ate breakfast, I whipped up a batch of delightfully tasty blackberry-lime jam. The lime isn’t overwhelming, but does add a nice citrusy note to set it apart from standard jam. Sunset's recipe is below if I have piqued your culinary interest. Not interested in the canning part? Give some to friends, or halve the batch and keep refrigerated for a month—it’ll be long gone before it goes bad.
Blackberry-Lime Jam 2 1/2 tablespoons (half a 1 3/4-oz. package) Sure-Jell pectin labeled "For less or no sugar needed recipes" 1 1/3 cups sugar, divided 2 1/2 cups coarsely mashed blackberries (from about 1 1/4 lbs. fruit; I used frozen but thawed) 1 1/3 cups unsweetened berry juice blend (I used Santa Cruz Organic Berry Nectar) Zest of 1/2 lime 1 tablespoon lime juice 1/4 teaspoon butter (prevents foaming)
1. Combine pectin and 1/4 cup sugar in a 5-qt. pot. Stir in berries, then berry juice, lime zest and juice, and butter. Bring mixture to a brisk boil over high heat, stirring often. 2. Add remaining sugar. Return jam to a brisk boil, stirring. Cook, stirring constantly, 1 minute. Remove from heat. 3. Ladle jam into heatproof jars and close with lids.
I also made a batch of strawberry-raspberry jam, so now we’ve got a 7 jar inventory of homemade goodness that will last through quite a few PB&Js. I’ve got my eye on a peach-raspberry-lavender recipe as well; I’ll let you know how that turns out.
My trusty Sunset magazine also led me to what my pie-loving husband has deemed ‘the best fruit pie, or maybe the best pie’, he has ever eaten. The recipe, from Washington’s Anjou Bakery, technically calls for marionberries, but where the hell can you buy marionberries outside of the Pacific Northwest? I went with blackberries instead, and the shortbread-style crust makes this just about the tastiest summer dessert imaginable.
Husband-Approved Berry Pie Crust Ingredients 2 cups flour 2 1/2 tablespoons granulated sugar 1/4 teaspoon salt 14 tablespoons (1 3/4 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 2-tbsp. chunks (I sprinkled some chia seeds at the bottom of the crust so the pie felt ‘healthy’)
Filling Ingredients 1/4 cup cornstarch 1 cup granulated sugar 1 3/4 pounds (6 1/2 cups) fresh or frozen marionberries or other blackberries (for frozen, measure, thaw until somewhat softened, and use all juices) Coarse white sparkling sugar (I used turbinado sugar)
1. Combine dry ingredients in a stand mixer. Add butter and beat with paddle attachment on low speed, scraping bowl as needed, until pieces are raisin-size. With mixer still on low speed, drizzle in 1 tbsp. ice water; beat until pastry comes together, 1 1/2 to 3 minutes. Form 1 1/4 cups into a disk and the rest into a smaller disk. 2. Preheat oven to 375° with rack on bottom rung. On a lightly floured board, roll larger disk into a 12-in. circle. Loosen with a long metal spatula, gently roll around a rolling pin, then unroll into a 9-in. pie pan (if dough cracks, press back together). Fold edge under, so it's flush with pan rim, then crimp. Chill 15 minutes. 3. Roll remaining dough into an 11-in. circle. With a cookie cutter, cut out enough shapes such as squares (I used moons) to cover most of pie. Set cutouts on a baking sheet; chill 15 minutes. 4. Stir together cornstarch and granulated sugar in a large bowl. Add berries with juices and toss to coat. Arrange evenly in pie shell. Lightly brush pastry cutouts with water and sprinkle with coarse sugar. Arrange cutouts over filling. 5. Bake pie until filling bubbles and pastry is golden in center, 55 to 60 minutes (up to 1 1/2 hours if berries were frozen); if edge starts to get dark, cover with foil, and if pie starts to bubble over, put a rimmed pan underneath it. 6. Let cool on a rack to room temperature, at least 3 hours.
With my kitchen assistant Alex helping me, we had this pie in the oven in no time. The finished product looked pretty awesome, if I do say so myself!
The final installation in this round of pioneer woman escapades is making homemade chicken stock. We go through a fair amount of boxed chicken broth, which adds up quickly. A couple of weeks ago, I started tossing onion, carrot and celery ends into a ziploc bag and storing it in the freezer. After using a store-bought rotisserie chicken for last night’s dinner, I threw the chicken carcass in a 8-qt. pot along with my bag of veggie ends. I tossed in some thyme from my garden, added a sprinkling of pepper, and filled up the pot with water.
You don’t want stock to boil; I kept it around 190 degrees and left on the stove overnight—can’t get much easier and it’s all done with scraps!
As you can see in the picture, it reduces in volume with the hours of cooking, so after straining out the solids I netted 5 ½ cups of stock. Not bad for little to no work, and I’ll start a new bag of veggie scraps for the next batch.
Maybe it’s because I’m desperate to do anything to pass the time while crossing off calendar days until I see my son again, maybe it’s because the daily cooking duties have shifted more towards Sam for the summer, or maybe because I’m procrastinating diving into the list of house projects before Australia(!), but I’m enjoying these bonus kitchen activities. Does the summer season bring out your inner pioneer woman as well, or do the hot summer days push you into takeout mode?
Yesterday, I dropped Jackson off at the airport; he flew from Denver to San Francisco, and he was very much looking forward to 'free TV, free food, and a free drink!'. He is clearly seriously deprived at home if sitting squeezed in the middle seat of the last row of an airplane, munching on stale Chex Mix and sipping cranberry juice while watching Spongebob is his definition of livin' the high life. Gotta give him something to work through with his future therapist, right?
At the airport I showed him the two books I had snuck into his backpack--Survivor Kid, a book he's had his eye on since reading the review in the kids' section of the newspaper, and Harry Potter Film Wizardry. He didn't falter one bit hefting his backpack on his back, swinging Whaley (his beloved stuffed orca, which has accompanied him on many plane flights and camping trips) gently by the tail, and walking on the plane.
Now that he's a seasoned traveler, I had only the slightest bit of a watery eye after saying our goodbyes; picked up by his grandparents, he was obviously going to be in good hands. He spent last night with Grandpa and Merry. He fed horses, collected eggs from the chickens, and ate barbecued chicken with apricot-cherry pie for dessert out on the patio overlooking the redwoods and the ocean. But unlike his recent travels to see his other grandparents, he won't be coming home after a long weekend. In about three hours, he's going to Plantation Farm Camp for
three.
and.
a.
half.
weeks.
You may be thinking, 'what kind of a parent would send their 8-year old away three states away where he doesn't know anybody for nearly a month??!?' Before you call Child Protective Services, know that the camp is literally down the road from Sam's dad's property. We visit the camp each time we are out there; in fact, the first pool Jackson ever swam in is the camp's pool, at the ripe old age of two months. The pond where he will canoe and kayak is actually on Sam's dad's property, and the camp horses graze right outside of Sam's dad's house.
where Jackson will be sleeping
Despite all the familiarity with the location, 3.5 weeks is still an awfully long time to be without family. Since the opportunity was presented to him, though, he has been unwaveringly positive and excitedly counting down the days as the date circled on our calendar approached.
We spent the last few days leading up to his departure engaged in some very important tasks--I taught him how to make friendship bracelets, which everyone knows is an essential camp accessory. Funny how at least 20 years have gone by since I made my last friendship bracelet, but it really is just like riding a bike. I whipped a couple of those suckers out, and Jackson is now properly adorned with two bracelets from me and one made by him.
I also ventured down to the basement and dusted off my trusty Disney-issued carrying case with the VHS tape set of the first season of Bug Juice, a children's reality series about camp (that incidentally, features yours truly as a counselor). I hadn't seen it in at least ten years, and the boys and I watched back-to-back episodes ("can we watch one more, mom?") showing all the glorious drama, excitement, and fun that is the summer camp experience. Sam and I glanced at each other and cringed as campers dealt with homesickness, but it was helpful for Jackson to see that feeling homesick is completely normal. At one point he turned to me and said that he thought he might feel a little homesick as well. I said I think he might too, but he'd also be having a lot of fun.
I spoke with him briefly this morning, after his hearty pre-camp breakfast of three belgian waffles with strawberries. From here on out, our communication will jump back a century, and I'll rely on his letters for details about his life until July 14. I have always thought living in frontier times would have been cool, so here's my chance for a glimpse of it.
Everything has gone so smoothly so far, I had just about breathed a sigh of mom-relief. And then I learned that Whaley--who Jackson cares for so much that he leaves his backpack opened enough to give him air--is not packed safely in his camp trunk or in his rightful place with Jackson holding him by the tail. In all the excitement of landing in San Francisco, Whaley was left sitting in the back row of Flight 653, and is currently separated from the boy who adores him.
Say a prayer to the Frontier Airlines Lost and Found gods that Whaley and Jackson will be reunited in the very near future, and that Jackson can rally through the first few days of camp without him.
Eight years ago this morning, I became a mother. I use the word 'became' loosely, because it implies that it just happened, like with the ease of a quick flip of a switch instead of the 12 hours of labor I endured. The truly wondrous part of this whole process was the fact that Sam always managed to have a large bite of something (peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a dreaded banana, those crunchy Chinese nibbles that smell like dirty socks) in his mouth when a contraction hit me, so he'd breathe right in my face as I dutifully performed my Lamaze breaths. My grueling effort paid off in spades, though, when this warm, wet, fresh life was laid upon me, as Sam and I both laughed hysterically and sobbed at the same time. There is nothing on earth that could match that high.
Have you seen this Subaru commercial?
I hear you, Subaru dad. Nowadays, I have to regularly remind myself that the whole point of having children is to raise them to be independent, confident, successful adults that don't need their mommies--which is of course completely contradictory to how those mommies feel inside. Sam and I have recently had many Jackson-centered conversations, discussing things like when he should fly alone for the first time (answer: this upcoming Thursday), is he ready to go to sleepaway camp for 3.5 weeks (answer after a few rounds of discussion: yes--he's going to Plantation Farm Camp in June), is he old enough for his grandfather to give him a pocket knife (answer: yes, but only to be used with supervision on certain occasions).
Um, wasn't I just holding his tiny body over my shoulder, smelling his sweet milky breath after a nursing session? Didn't we just erupt in applause and celebration as he took his first steps at Casey and Martina's house? I could have sworn I just saw him walk bravely into his kindergarten classroom for the first time.
So more and more I see that being a mother is synonymous with letting go, and I'm doing my best. And I embrace the times when I can care for him, and show him how special he is, this firstborn of ours.
When Jackson came downstairs this morning for breakfast on this first morning of being 8 years old, he saw this:
Sam had painted him a very sweet card (I just noticed Sam's optical illusion with the K and the S, which even though I know it's purposeful makes my inner spelling bee danger alarm ring).
The card also included one of his presents. For a kid that has an insatiable appetite for books, this is an awesome present, and I can't wait to share the experience with him.
The Tattered Cover is an lovely independent bookstore just a mile down the road, and I could live there. Apparently, so could Jackson, from the look on his still puffy-eyed with sleep face when he read it.
When we had asked him if there was anything in particular he was hoping to get for his birthday, he didn't really have anything in mind. What does a newly 8-year old want? Well, we stayed mostly practical, and he loved the three t-shirts and couple pairs of pajamas I had bought him, and this Forbidden Island game Sam bought him. Uncle Matt and Aunt Bodia gave him a headlamp for summer camp, and Uncle Bodi and Aunt Monice gave him the Rat-A-Tat Cat game that the kids had enjoyed playing over Spring Break in California. Grandpa Ed and Merry gave him a Swiss Army knife and the classic The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Jackson will fly to Arizona on Thursday to spend a long weekend with his Nana and Papa, which certainly deserves its own post upon his return. For his birthday party, we'll be taking three of his friends to the Real Pirates Exhibit at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science, followed by the Born to Be Wild 3D IMAX movie and then some time at the park before enjoying an ice cream cake (that I should be working on instead of writing this).
To Jackson Tate, my oldest boy--I am so proud of the thoughtful boy you are. When I asked you today what kind of cake you wanted, you asked me if I could make another ice cream cake like last year, but with chocolate ice cream because you think your friends would like that flavor. When I pressed for your opinion about adding a layer of cookie crunch, or jam, you said as you waved your hands in an explaining fashion like Papa does when he talks, "Mom, I told you that chocolate ice cream is good, and you can do just that or get as complex as you like, but I just don't want to be greedy." Honey, I want to make you the cake of your dreams for your birthday, so it's impossible to be greedy when it comes to your birthday cake.
You are the quintessential oldest brother. A few days ago, you taught Alex how to make scrambled eggs (and wrote down step-by-step instructions afterwards as well). You are exceedingly patient and model my *sometimes* calm, matter-of-fact parent voice when Kenyon is being his brutish self and exerting his impenetrable 3-year old will. You are visibly distressed when Kenyon is upset, akin to a twin feeling the other's pain. I watch you on the playground after school with Kenyon and how you hold the wobbly playground structures stable so Kenyon can make his way across like a big kid, even carrying him to the next one on that one part that's too far apart. You could ignore him and run off with your friends, but instead you create a game where Kenyon can play, too.
Daddy and I get frustrated sometimes when you are too doting with Kenyon when it's time to be a little tougher and not give in, although we know there are worse problems to have between brothers. I've also heard from school that someone gets frustrated with you in the cafeteria because you and Alex hug each other as you cross paths and it gets disruptive. Again, there are worse problems to have. You tell me you remember the moment when you were riding your bike down at the far end of our street and you suddenly felt like you should have a second brother, right before Daddy and I decided to have another child. I'm so happy that your brothers have you in their lives.
I'm so excited to go to Australia with you because you are my best seafood partner, and your positive adventurous spirit will make every experience we have as a family more rich because of it. I love you, big kid.
