Thanksgiving!

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Me and a couple of my girlfriends put together an ACE Thanksgiving menu. I thought I'd share a couple of the dishes... I only have recipes for the ones that I made, so I'll just give the titles of the things the others made, and you can google them.

I am blessed beyond measure. To be able to share a special day with friends is incredibly important. I am so thankful that we have such good friends and that they are willing to indulge a couple of Americans in their need for tradition. And it doesn't hurt at all that they're good cooks.

I decorated the apartment a little- in my mind's eye it was much grander than it turned out. But I was pretty pleased with the home-made decs. 

 

(that last one is Mike's Opie-dog-turkey)

For starters, we had Jamie Oliver mulled wine. It was incredible.  We followed the recipe pretty closely, although put in a little bit less sugar than the recipe said (mainly because we ran out). It was really beautiful, not too spicy or sweet. It was a really nice warm starting drink. It snowed about 4 inches here, so everyone was coming in from the cold, and it was nice to be able to give them something warm on their arrival.

For meat, we had "turkey a la Minnesota". We couldn't find a whole turkey, that didn't cost a kidney, so we had to make due with a turkey crown. This was PLENTY of food, so it's probably good we didn't have a whole turkey. Basically, I followed Alton Brown's roast turkey recipe and added some sage butter rubbed under the skin. I also used some heather rock salt instead of kosher salt in the brine, which gave it a beautiful smell. And I didn't use any oil for the aromatics. I thought it was too much with the butter under the skin. We also had a lovely French Canadian meat pie called Tortiere, which was really savory and lovely. Finally, we had apple cranberry sausage stuffing. It was a perfect compliment to the meat pie and turkey, because it had a nice sweet flavor.

For sides we had maple butternut squash casserole, sweet potatoes with sugared pecans, a lovely Jamie Oliver salad, rolls, my grandma's mashed potatoes, corn pudding, and whiskey gravy. I only have the recipes for the mashed potatoes, corn pudding, and gravy.

Mashed potatoes:

1 lb potatoes quartered

1/2 heavy cream

milk

salt

pepper

5 tbsp butter

In a large stock pot, boil the potato quarters until they fall apart when pierced with a fork (10ish mins). Drain and transfer to a bowl. Add small cubes of butter, salt, pepper, and the cream and smash (if you don't have an electric mixer) or mix (if you have an electric mixer), add as much or little milk to get it to the consistency you want. More milk is runnier, less is chunkier and stickier. Add more salt, pepper, and butter to taste.

Corn pudding:

Cook's note: this is almost my most favorite christmas/thanksgiving dish ever. It's a Mike's Alabama/Kentucky family special. It's loooovely.

3 Tbs flour
3 Tbs sugar
5 eggs
1/2 C milk
1 14 oz can creamed corn
1 14 oz can whole corn drained
1 C heavy cream
2 Tbs melted butter

In large mixing bowl, combine sugar, flour, salt and pepper to taste.  Gradually whisk in cream.  Add eggs and whisk till smooth.  Stir in milk and all corn.  Drizzle the butter on top.  Bake 350 for 45 min. or till set.  (around 1 hour for me)

Whiskey Gravy:

1/2-3/4 cup whiskey

flour

1/4 cup cream

milk

drippings from the turkey

salt and pepper to taste

Start by making a roux in a small-medium saucepan with the cream and flour. Whisk the flour into the cream over low heat. Whisk in enough flour to thicken the cream. Add in the whiskey- the more you add the stronger the taste. Pour in 5-6 ladles of drippings from the turkey. Whisk in milk and more flour to thicken. For thicker gravy add more flour, for thinner add more milk. Keep over low heat. Add in more drippings or more whiskey to taste.

We would have had pumpkin pie and tartre al sucre (french-canadian sugar pie) but it snowed about 2 inches in an hour, on top of the 5 inches that we already had and everyone needed to get home... it wasn't the perfect end to the dinner, but it was a great meal, great camraderie, great homey feeling all the same. 

It's still pouring snow, so we might be stuck here for the next week. Thankfully we have enough leftovers!

Just do it.

I want another glass of wine.

But I have come to the age that when I have another glass of wine, sometimes it gives me weird dreams, sometimes I can't sleep well, or sometimes I don't sleep at all. When did that happen? And while we're on the subject, when did I get so many grey hairs? Last February, Mike and I were at the Louvre- ON VALENTINES DAY- standing in line, waiting to get in, and he looks at me lovingly and says 'You've got more grey hair now. I just saw a new one.' not in a snarkey way, just in a really lovey, kind way. I laughed. Cause what else do you do in that situation?

I am feeling very... intense about my PhD lately. I have absolutely no perspective on it. Everything about it is life or death. I mean, cognitively, I know it isn't. But whenever I have an advisory meeting, or have to turn in a paper or chapter I have this uncontrollable emotional reaction. I don't really understand where it's coming from. I'll be talking about the design of my next study, and then suddenly be all teary, worrying about whether or not it'll work, and how am I going to write this, and how the eff am I going to defend this in my viva?? I guess that's what this process is about, but I find the constant fear life sucking. The PhD is such an ego-centric exercize. All of it is "how am I going to (fill in the blank)?" not we. Not us. Not team. Just me. ME defending MYSELF and MY IDEAS. I really genuinely don't like that. I don't do well in an environment that is centered on me. I really don't enjoy that attention. I don't want it, and I don't want to be that person. Plus, I don't think that's what life is actually like. I really hope not, anyway. That's for another post, though.

And, really? Really?? This is what I am going to spend my time worrying about? I mean, my life is pretty freakin great. How is it that I spend so much of my mental energy worrying about this?

I was called my dad the other night. I told him I needed a pep talk. I told him that I hate my PhD right now, I am sick of not knowing what I am doing, I really don't understand the minutia of research, and most of all, I DON'T CARE. I just want to help. I just want to be done with this and move on. I want to do something that matters, not format my chapters with 1 inch margins, and headers and footers and my page numbers in the RIGHT corner (cause god forbid they're in the left!).

And you know what he said? He said, Sarah. Get. Over. It. You have to do this. You have to finish. You can't be a swashbuckler until you're a sailor (how awesome is that metaphor??). He said, you just have to tick the boxes and do what you're told. You have to format your papers and you have to get over your hesitations. You will do good, but you have to do this first. Just finish. Head down. Remember why you're doing this. Just finish.

This advice is very interesting, especially coming from my dad. My father is one of the most passionate, go-all-out people that I've ever met. He can't half-ass anything. It's not in his blood. And for him to tell me to just move forward and finish was really eye opening. So, he's not telling me to half-ass this, but he's telling me to get over it and just do it. Stop questioning every little bit. Put the blinders on and keep your head down for the next 10 months. And finish.

I guess I always thought that this process would be one in which the things that I thought and believed would be confirmed and that I could move forward confident in my own ideas and my own well-formed, well-articulated, theoretically-grounded positions.  I don't know how I didn't realize how naive this is... And not just about research. About life, about friendship, about what it is that I actually like to do, about being a grown up.

The thing I've learned, more than anything else during this PhD is exactly how little I do know. 

I've also learned that a little perspective can go a long way. Not that I, in any way, have this mastered. I most certainly do not. But it's like the grey hair. It's coming. And no matter what I do, it'll be there. And I suppose the thing is to accept it, and just move on. With the PhD, it really is just a matter of finishing. The best PhD is a finished PhD. Head down. Just do it. Cause what else do you do in that situation?

Images of Scotland

Epic Fail

Today, for what feels like the billionth time, I sent my advisors a redraft of a manuscript I'm working on. This process is so absolutely soul-crushing, it's difficult for me to justify why I keep doing it.

First, I spend weeks (months) working out the perfect data analysis plan, only to find that as soon as I run it past someone else, it's got about as many theoretical imperfections as Branch Dividianism for Dummies by David Koresh. I rework the plan, now it is less heinous, but only slightly, like Jabba the Hut when he's asleep. I go back to the drawing board, which is actually my highly unromantic desk, only made tolerable by the random pictures I've put up and a little piece of paper that says 'Beer is for Champions (aka Sarah)' made for me by my husband.  I sit and stare at the gross blue cubie dividers, wondering whether they're made out of the same material as the carpet on the floor, and if I were to rip the material off, drape it over myself and curl in a ball on the floor if perhaps I'd be camouflaged enough to have somebody else do my PhD. Then right at the end, I could pop up and say- "Oh wow! This looks really great! Nice work! I'm back though- I was here the whole time! You look exhausted, why don't you just crawl under this nice blue carpet and rest for a while. I'll take it from here."

Anyway, eventually my advisers feel enough pity for me that they allow me to move on from Analysis. Perhaps they can tell that I am having statistics nightmares (which actually scare me more than mass murderer nightmares. NOTHING and I mean NOTHING is as scary as a statistics nightmare. Not only are there all these greek letters, odd symbols and assumptions you've inadvertently violated, but the fact is that, if you're dreaming about them, statistics has invaded your subconscious. Is nothing sacred?!) or maybe they think that if I go down this path, I will see the err of my ways and then realize that I should just start all over. With Psychology 101.  Or maybe take up basket weaving.

After the Analysis is complete, the next step is to figure out What The Data Mean... the academic question is always "What story does it tell?" I think this is a really nice way to think about it. The problem is, even though I've been doing research as a living for 6 years now, I still can't always answer this question. My advisers or a fellow researcher will ask and I imagine myself to be a beautiful but dark criminal ingenue, who has finally been caught and is sitting in a small room in the heart of France, with a single 20 watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. 'I am not sure,' I say evocatively. 'What story do you think it tells?' Then I realize, I am quietly drooling on my cigarette, which has been transformed back into a ballpoint pen, and I actually haven't said anything at all. I might've grunted.

After putting together a story McGuyver-style (duct tape, potting soil, and a pig valve), then comes the writing-up. I tend to spend 2-3 days thinking about a particular paper. I write the easy part first, the method and the results (because goodness gracious, if I can't write that after all the previous hoo-ha, then it's back to the 'drawing board'- NOOOO!) Then I write why each one of the results is interesting. I actually ask myself 'why is this interesting? why should anyone, other than my mom and husband (xoxo) care about this?' Most of the time, the list that I come up with gets whittled down to a couple of key points, the rest are thrown away. I was heartened to learn that writers for The Onion actually come up with 600 headlines per week, for only 17 or 18 to be chosen. That's 583 throw aways, and those guys are geniuses.

Then I send the manuscript draft off to my advisors. This is the particularly ego-damaging point. Here is where completely valid, obvious, supremely helpful comments are made. Comments that basically make you hang your head in school-girl shame, mumble something about not knowing that Wikipedia isn't a reliable source, and go back and rewrite most of what you've done so far. I always have this moment where I am just shaking my head in disbelief... how in the world did I not think of that? Seriously, a 7 year old boy with a Buzz Lightyear t-shirt and an imaginary friend named Bucket could've thought of that.

So, today, I sent the manuscript off to my advisors. I now have between 24 hours and 1 week to build myself a strong foundation (mainly made of pinot grigio, After Eights and brownies) prior to impact.

The whole reason I started this particular entry was because I have been thinking a lot about failure lately. That sounds harsh... I've been thinking about the condition or act of not achieving a desired end or ends which I (and the princeton dictionary) define as a failure. How it feels to me to not do something to the standard that I know I can do it. And, more importantly, how awesome it feels to get it right, after seriously hard work. But how risky it is to actually try at something... I mean, to try, you are giving yourself the option to fail. As long as you don't try, you're safe. Or if you do try, but don't try as hard as you can, then you can write it off- 'I didn't try that hard. It's ok.' I've always believed that if I work hard enough, and seriously give things my all, that I will be successful. What I've realized, through these paper writing... exercizes... through running, through moving to a foreign country, and many other things, is that failure, really and truly, isn't that bad. When I feel that I've failed, I can't look at myself. I can't look myself in the eyes. But gradually, I begin to take the little failure lessons and gather them like pickup sticks. (Currently I have so many pickup sticks that I am going to soon begin work on a George Washington-esque log cabin.) I am becoming less and less afraid of dismal, never ending, failure. Because failure hasn't been like that for me. In my experience, it does end. And people who love you will continue to love you in spite or even because of it. In fact, I am beginning to think failure is, in some respects, imperative.

Enough waxing philosophical. I am going to go get Bucket and crawl under a piece of carpet with a brownie or two.

I smelled a smell of time gone by...

It has been absolutely beautiful in Aberdeen this last week. Blue skies, birds chirping, beautiful green leaves and pink flowers blooming on the trees. And it's been warm. Not hot, not even warm enough to give you a light sheen of sweat. But its been a breezy cool warmness (nonsense sentence alert!). Because of this wonderful break in the weather, I have had the windows (and at times the doors) open most of the week, have been hanging laundry outdoors and have been spending loads of time outside.

I took a walk over lunch with a friend today in a beautiful park near school. As we rounded a bend, I was all of the sudden I was no longer in Duthie Park walking on this lovely tree lined path, but I was  at the Red Lane Swimming Pool, the pool of my childhood. (Sadly, I am realizing now that I can't remember if this is actually what it was called... Red Raquet Swim Club!!! That's it!!! That's what it was... maybe... I think... )Anyway, all I did was inhale, and I smelled the pungent aroma of chlorine and fertilizer and there I was, transported. In an instant, I recalled playing shark in the deep end, my first bikini, Dad throwing us what seemed like miles in the air into the pool, Matty complaining when he had to sit out of the water for half an hour after lunch. I remembered the lifeguards, signing in, when our favorite babysitter Stephanie would take us there in the evening, eating pizza AT THE POOL. I thought of cookouts and greased watermelons and attempting to play tennis with my friend Chandler when we got too cool for the pool. I remembered the horrible bathrooms, warm juiceboxes, waiting out thunderstorms, the nasty kiddie pool, how pretty my mom looked in her bathing suit lounging by the side of the pool, the first time I jumped off the diving board, and the slide, oh the slide!  Then, with an exhale, it was gone.

This happens to me all the time. Whenever I smell freshly cut wood or mud, I think of my Uncle Mark. He's a builder. I say 'builder' because he's not just an architect, a project manager, or a worker... no, he BUILDS stuff. He is one of those people that when you see him do his work, you realize, yes, he is doing exactly what he's meant to do. When I would get to visit his sites, or when he would come to dinner at Grandma's he always smelled like fresh cut wood and mud. Sometimes, if I am really homesick, I go to Lowes or Home Depot (B & Q over here) just to smell Uncle Mark.

Once, Mike bought Old Spice deoderant and aftershave. As soon as he put it on, I told him he couldn't wear it any more and immediately went out and bought him new stuff. I don't know if my grandpa wore Old Spice (I am very embarrassed that I don't know that) but when Mike put it on, he smelled exactly like Gramps, and I couldn't handle it. Every time I got near him, or he gave me a hug, all I could see was Grampa's big hands and tiny eyes. I would remember sitting next to Grampa and I could almost hear Jeopardy in the background, watching him doing the Roanoke Times crossword.

After college graduation, my friend Libby and I went on an epic European adventure. We backpacked across Europe, getting a taste of what life was really like after all those amazing insulated years at Witt. We went to a place in Italy called Sienna. It's the perfume capital of the world. We went into one of the perfumeries and I was attracted immediately to the rose scents. As I inhaled I was back in my grandmother's bathroom watching her put on her makeup and smooth lotion over her skin. I bought hardly anything on that trip, because all the money I had was spent on planes, trains and hotel rooms, but I bought a bottle of rose scented perfume. I hardly ever wear it because I don't want it to run out.

White Diamonds or CK Be take me alternatively to my first kiss, my aunt's house, or to college. I don't know why these three things, but it always happens. Charcoal on the grill reminds me of the 415 Stonewall Circle driveway, leather and sweat and cork remind me of my dad. There are so many little smells that have such big implications in my memory.

Because the olfactory bulb, or the cluster of nerve endings that makes up your sense of smell, is so close in proximity to the hippocampus (the part of the brain that deals with memory) and is part of the limbic system, memory is highly related to smell. The limbic system is responsible for things like homeostasis, feeling full, feeling hungry and sympathetic nervous system response. It is also the  center of emotion. Between the hippocampus and the amygdala (responsible for emotion generation), a human's entire basic response system is located here, in the very center part of the brain (if you cut the brain in half). So, it's not just some phantom thing that smell is so strongly associated with memory. Smell is PART of memory. Smell not only illicits memory, but emotional memory, almost instantly.

There are two things that facinate me about this. First, that the memories come back so quickly, so furiously, and absolutley simultaneously. It's almost overwhelming at times. The second is the combination of the biological, psychological, and the emotional and spiritual... all of which comes from the brain. This brings up so many questions... how can I better utilize my sense of smell? Should I start studying with a candle lit and then bring that candle to my viva? what smells are important? do certain emotions have smells (ie: pheremones, but on steroids)? Are there certain smells (ie: cholrine) that bring back similar memories for people across a culture? That'd be an interesting experiment...

For now, I will just be happy with my random, unexpected flashes and will welcome them whenever they ascent (PUN!)

Lady on the bus

I watched a lady getting on the bus the other day. As the bus pulled up, she didn’t do the standard hand out signal…

A brief editorial aside: When I signal for the bus, I do it as nonchalantly, bordering on grudgingly, as possible. I try to make as little external deal as I can about signaling that I’d like to get on this bus. Internally, I am screaming, pleading for the bus to stop. As a person who has previously (naively) thought that the bus would stop if you were standing at the agreed upon bus advancement location, only to walk serenely toward the street and get splashed with puddle as the bus zooms past at mach 7, I know the importance of a good external signal. You have to strike the right balance between seeming almost too cool for the bus like you might call it back, but only after at least a week, like you are doing it a favor by riding on it and hand-wringing desperation- PLEEEEEASE STOOOOOP-I’ve-already-left-7-messages-on-your-voice-mail-but-I-swear-I’m-not-crazy-I-just-stopped-my-medication-because-I’m-actually-doing-a-lot-better-just-ask-my-cat-Schnoodles. This is important because if the bus doesn’t stop, that’s you screwed for another half an hour on the side of the road- IF the busses are running on time. And remember, you are in Aberdeen, where more than likely, if it’s not raining, it will soon.

Secondary editorial aside: it’s been absolutely beautiful in Aberdeen for the past 5 days, so based on my experience, there’s a 10/365 (2%) chance that it won’t be raining.

Back to the lady getting on the bus. What struck me was that she didn’t do the blasé hand out nor the anxiety spasm. She waved for the bus. Almost like you’d wave when you are at the airport and see your family car coming around the bend toward the pick up area. It was that kind of happy wave. The bus stopped (obviously, how could you not, she’s obviously happy to see you) and she got on. She immediately struck up a conversation with the bus driver, oblivious to his curt answers and lack of eye contact. She mentioned the weather (‘bonny’), how she’d counted out her change to be ready just for him (‘1.50 on the nose, thankfully I found that extra 5p in my pocket!’), and that she was going to the ASDA for her weekly shop (‘I always do on a Thursday’).

As this lady walked down the aisle she looked and made eye contact with almost everyone. Rule 1 in the Laws of Interacting With Strangers is Don’t Ever Make Eye Contact. You are basically giving all those people permission to talk to you, to interact with you, and you have no idea what could happen next.

Another aside: I have been known to be an ‘Eye Looker’. I look everyone in the eye as they pass, and I sometimes smile if they make eye contact with me. One day, I did this, and ended up spending the next 30 minutes on a street corner in Rochester, MN talking to a woman who was an 87 year old, chain smoking, mail order bride from Russia. She was nice enough, but she was Crazy. I try to limit my ‘eye looking’ to days when I don’t have much to do.

This lady on the bus had absolutely no regard for these rules. She looked everyone, even the drunk people, square in the eyes, smiled, and proceeded down the aisle. Although there were many open seats on the bus, she chose one sitting next to another woman, directly in front of me. She smiled at the woman, and sat down. She was quiet for a few moments as the bus pulled back into traffic. I could see her sizing the lady next to her up- it was almost like she was deciding the best way to initiate an interaction. This is the 2nd rule of the Laws of Interacting With Strangers- if no one has said anything to you, you don’t have to start anything. But this lady… she went right ahead, complimented the bus rider on her shoes, and asked her where she was off to on ‘such a bonny day’.

I took off one of my headphones (tactic to avoid talking to strangers) and eavesdropped on these two women chatting. They were lovely. Perhaps it’s that Aberdeen has a small town, everyone-knows-everyone feel, or that they were just both extremely kind people, but they were both very willing to chat away to each other. They somehow got onto their kids and grandkids, realizing that their grandsons played football (soccer) together. It was a lovely thing to watch. I was watching a relationship form. It was really… refreshing.

When the bus got near to the ASDA, the ladies were wrapping up their conversation, saying that they’d probably see each other at one of the upcoming matches. And the one lady got up. She didn’t have my vantage point, but I saw the driver look in his mirror at her as she rose, and slow down a bit, so that the stop wouldn’t be quite as jolting. This could’ve been because of her age, or it could’ve been, and I choose to believe that this is the reason, because he wanted to do something nice for her, in his small way. Perhaps he appreciated that she was oblivious to him acting like a stranger to her. She instantly brought him, the lady sitting next to her, and me all into her world. She welcomed us in, in fact. I admired her willingness to connect, her openness to the possibility that it’s worth saying hi to someone, and to try to find a way to connect with them, regardless of the potential risks. I thought it was really lovely the way she didn’t give anyone a choice in whether or not they would be part of her world. She just made it so.

As she rose and gathered her bag, I caught her eye, and we both smiled.

Moving!

In the last 6 years, Mike and I have lived in 8 houses, 6 cities, 5 states, and 2 countries. Needless to say, we're getting pretty good at moving. We have packing down to an art- Mike is better at the meticulous stuff, fitting all his video games into one box just perfectly. I am better at the organization stuff- making sure we have a car big enough for all our crap, making sure we have all the appropriate keys, making sure there's gas in the car, getting directions, etc. We always throw out a boatload of stuff every time we move. We've done this so many times, that we don't even have to have a game plan any more. I know which things I am supposed to pack, and Mike knows what he's supposed to do. We don't even fight anymore about what goes where.

That's the good stuff.

The less good stuff: we both HATE moving. HATE packing. HATE unpacking. CAN. NOT. STAND. IT. Plus, I don't really think that moving so many times is a thing to brag about. It's not good to have to send bi-annual 'new address' emails. It doesn't take a psychologist to know that it doesn't take much for people to stop trying to find you, because you've made it so difficult to do so. It's not anyone's fault but ours. We both realize this nomadic-ish existance makes it tough to create lasting friendships, which is why we so deeply value those that make the effort to be friends with us, and stay friends with us, despite all this... and why we both feel that facebook is one of the greatest inventions of our time.

I titled this post 'Moving exclamation point!' for a reason. We are moving into a great new place, a little further out of town, but much better for Opie, and the house is absolutely lovely. It's a bit more than we need, but it's got some great benefits. The downstairs is laminant flooring, which means we can actually clean the floors (as opposed to basically moving the dog hair around on the carpet at our previous flat), the kitchen is great, with lots of cabinets and cookware. The neighbors seem to be really nice, which is always a bonus. We feel really fortunate.

I was in the local giant superstore on Friday afternoon after we'd done the majority of the moving, and realized that I have a mental list of most of the things that we always need when we move:

1) Swiffer- greatest invention ever. even above facebook.
2) throw-away kitchen cloths- for cleaning the new place.

3) hand towels- because I throw away all the ones from the old place.

4) candles- to make it more homey, and smell nice.

5) light blanket- somehow we always need one of these. And maybe by 'we' I mean 'me'.

6) dog toy for Opie- so he likes the new place.

7) beer and wine- so we like the new place.

If we have these things, we're okay. Silly, but true. There may be others depending on where we move, but these are the constants.

So here we go. We moved into the new house- swiffer and all. There's a bunch of photos of our new back yard, and Opie's new outdoor dog run. There's the lovely new kitchen, very modern looking, and our living room (with roundy staircase?!?). The bedroom and bathroom are both great, very nice size for us. We are very happy.

Signs of Hope

Last Thursday, on my way into school, I came across a very unique sight: a man dressed in black pants, nice work shoes, a collared shirt, and a red sweater vest, washing his car. It was 8:38 am. My first thought was, what a hopeful thing to do.

I wondered if he had a job interview that day... or maybe a big date... or maybe he was taking his kids to school and was trying to impress the other dads with his sparkley black Beamer... maybe he was about to pick his girlfriend and ask her to marry him... maybe it was a birthday present for his 16 year old son... maybe he's a secret agent and just finished repainting the car and was washing off the excess (I obviously know nothing about painting cars... or being a secret agent).  Anyway, my imagination took off, writing the first few lines of a whole host of potential stories for this gentleman. As I walked, I realized the common theme among them being hope.

Inspired by the go-get-'em attitude I imagined for Mr. Red Sweater Vest, I decided to spend the next two days looking for signs of hope.

As a scientist, I had to first figure out exactly what it was that I was looking for, ie: what is the definition of hope, so I will know it when I see it. So I went to the Magical Interwebs (dictionary.com). Interestingly, hope is both a noun and a verb, and as I chose to use it, 'hopeful' an adjective, hopefully, an adverb. It's kind of like 'smurfy' for those of us who are children of the 80's (or parents of children of the 80's). That, in and of itself, was a nice, albeit tangential, metaphor for what I was looking for- hope is defined many different ways and takes on many different forms, depending on what you are looking for and how you want to use it.

Thursday, looking for signs of hope was really easy. It was a beautiful day outside. I had a good meeting with my supervisors. We put together an outline for the next few weeks, and promised to meet again. This was a hopeful activity, according to my definition- it showed that they are 'looking forward to with desire and reasonable confidence' (definition 1 of hope as a verb).  As I was walking home from work I passed the construction site of the new library the University is building- definitely a sign of hope. I walked past a local middle school and there were guys outside painting lines on a soggy field in the shape of a small running track- sign of hope. I ran into Mike and Opie on the way to the park, Opie about jumping out of his skin with hopefulness- petmeletsgototheparkandjumpinpuddlesiloveyoucanweeatpetmeiloveyou. To him, we are the 'person or thing in which expectations are centered' (definition 2 of hope as a noun). Later over dinner, Mike and I spoke of the future, as we often do, another implicit sign of hope. What will happen when we are done here, what do you want to do next, what's recorded on the DVR... I can go on, but I won't- suffice it to say, there were lots of signs of hope on Thursday.

Friday was not as pretty outside. It was fine, not warm or cold, gray, a bit of rain on and off. As I walked into school, I didn't see Mr. Red Sweater Vest. It was drizzling the entire walk, keeping my face and jacket covered with a nice sheen of damp. The things that I had seen as hopeful the day before now seemed a bit forlorn. They didn't look hopeful... they actually looked a bit... apathetic. They weren't filled with potential energy any more. They were stagnate. The field, so hopefully painted the day before, was submerged in a puddle-lake at one end. It seemed to say, yeah, thought you could do something with this. That was dumb. The huge crane at the building site was still, looking like it couldn't be bothered to move. It had exhausted itself with all its efforts of the previous day. Silly girl, thinking that there were symbols of hope all around. Really? I'm just a crane. A crappy, rusting, lopsided crane. When I got to work, everyone seemed to be stuck. It wasn't one of those excited Fridays were everyone counts down the minutes until 5, then goes for a beer after. It was a Friday when people come and go, with their heads down, trying to make sure no one notices when they duck out at 2.  I remembered my promise to find hope, thought of Mr. Red Sweater Vest, and it occurred to me that he could've been a cab driver, just coming off the late shift. What a difference a day makes.

It made me realize how much power I have over my outlook. When I actively engaged in looking for hope, I saw things that looked like hope. Perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.  When I kept my mind and eyes open, looking for the positive, I saw it. When I was a little weaker, waiting for hope to come to me, I didn't find it as readily. In fact, I saw the opposite. I saw mediocrity, satisfaction with the status quo. It really is in your perspective.

Later Friday afternoon, I had to go to a meeting about a new house that Mike and I viewed on Wednesday evening. I was meeting the landlord, trying to make sure she liked me, trusted me, wanted me (as a representative for our family) to live in her house. I felt like I was in middle school again, trying to sit at the cool lunch table. As it turned out, things went great. She was lovely. She liked me. We had tea, and we are now officially friends... maybe not friends, but at least owner and tenant. Talk about hope. It's good. And tomorrow's a new day.

Stovies!

I made a traditional Scottish meal for dinner tonight! Stovies. In honor of this, I will do my best to write the rest of the blog and recipe in Scottish.

Oi!
(hello)

 Fit leich?
(how you doing?)

Nae ta bad. Foos du?
(not too bad. How're you?)

Stovies are a Northeast Scotland tradition. Usually, they're made from the leftovers of the Sunday Roast, using the neeps (parsnips), tatties (potatoes), meat and a wee (a little)  bit of drippings all thrown into one pot. The origins of stovies are said to come from a time when masters would give their servants the left over food from Sunday lunch. They would take this home or to their quarters and make a dish that could last them all week and was easy to cook. This is a warm homey dish for quinies (girls) and loons (boys), wifeys (women) and mannies (men) alike.

Ok, enough Scottish slang. That's hard and I dunna ken (don't know) that I can keep going. 

Ingredients:
For the beef. 
1 lb beef cubed (good scottish beef is recommended)
1/4 cup beef stock
1 cup water
1 cup merlot or other red wine
3 cloves garlic chopped
1/2 onion chopped

Stovies:
Cooked beef
3 large or 6 small potatoes, quartered
1/4-1/2 cup of milk
1/4 tsp rosemary
salt and pepper to taste
1/4 tsp garlic

Roasted beets
4-5 beets roughly chopped into bitesize pieces (Fig 1)
olive oil or butter
salt and pepper to taste
Fig 1: Beet hands. Might be in your best interest to not wear a white shirt while doing this.

I cooked the meat a couple of days ago. You could probably do it all in the same day, though.

1. Sweat the onion and 2 cloves of garlic (chopped) over low heat.
2. Drizzle with olive oil.
3. Once onions are translucent, put the beef in
4. brown the beef- usually between 5 and 10 minutes, depending on the size of the beef.
5. Bring water and stock to a boil in a large stock pot.
6. Dump beef and onion and garlic in.
7. Add merlot
8. add last clove of garlic
9. Simmer for 2-3 hours
10. Boil the potatoes in a large pot of salted water. Drain when tender when pierced with a fork. Return to pot.
11. Pour milk over potatoes, smash with a fork- should NOT be smooth, remain chunkey.
12. Take meat and onion mixture (which should be amazingly tender now) and put into frying pan, along with some of the merlot broth (to taste).
13. Add potatoes. Over medium heat, heat through and mix together. Add rosemary, garlic, salt and pepper to taste.

For the beets:
Preheat oven at 350. At step 10 above, put chopped beets into a bowl. Drizzle olive oil or melted over beets. Sprinkle generously with salt, and not so generously with pepper, and mix it all around. Wrap in aluminum foil packet. Bake for 45-60 minutes.

Traditionally, stovies are served with piping hot with oatcakes, beetroot and skirlie (which is like oatmeal stuffing) but as Mike said, 'if you ate that, you'd sink to the bottom of the ocean'. So, instead, we had broccoli (Figure 2).
  

Fig. 2: Dinner! Looks gross- a bit like 

German textbook food- but is tasty!!

Cheers!

The Kitchen

 As my best friend Scare astutely pointed out to me a couple of years ago, I get pretty down during the winter months. I am constantly cold in the winter, and all of a sudden when spring comes, I realize that my shoulders have been in my ears because I am constantly bracing against the elements, both physical and emotional. I dive into work, and become highly functional- ie: not engaged, just functional. I never realize that I was sad until spring comes.  Once the thaw starts outside, my interior thaw begins. I realize that I have been putting away lots of things in order to make it through the winter, because I have limited resources, and most of them go towards keeping my head up. This last week I realized that one of those things has been homesickness.

I miss home. I miss things being easy. More than home, I miss my family. I miss those little daily things that make people family... the conversations, inside jokes, hugs, looks.... it seems to me that many of these daily things take place either in preparation for or while eating a meal. More specifically, they take place in the kitchen.

The heart of every home that I've ever lived in has been the kitchen. Not only is it the place with the food (which cannot be underrated) it is also the place of deep conversations over gallons of tea, the place where you open your college acceptance letter, the place where you play 'the magnet game' (2 points for getting the magnet to stick to the freezer part of the refrigerator, 1 point for getting it to stick to the fridge itself, 3 points and an extra turn for getting it to stick on the side), the place where you make enough crap mac to feed a small army after a night out, the site of the dog-bone hockey world championship, the place where you learned that the best way to ensure the family would come over is to make cookies, the site of poker games, the inaugural location of compulsory Friday night happy hour. I love the kitchen.

I have such fond memories of my grandmother's kitchen. Not only was good cooking knowledge passed down, but it was where I got to have her all to myself. As she helped me measure brown sugar, she would always impart some sort of invaluable knowledge: 'Sarah, we are making extra of these for the hospice patients', 'don't worry about measuring it exactly right, it'll be ok' or 'go get your brother, you should do this together'. I remember before Sunday dinners, she would be in there finishing off the gravy, I would be putting ice in the glasses on the table, somebody would be finishing the green beans and bacon... it was the smallest room in the house, yet it seemed to magically enlarge to hold everyone who was cooking, plus everyone who came in. Similarly, I've learned amazing things from my own mother in the kitchen. She taught me to try new recipes, to make sure to take time to sit and have a chat, to eat things that taste good, and then, learn to make them yourself. I always gravitate toward the kitchen when I am visiting people's homes. I suppose it's a sense of a well-being that comes from being in the kitchen. It is easy to have conversations there, easy to listen, easy to connect. Somehow, the kitchen is always warm. 

Whenever I am feeling especially isolated and homesick, I go to the kitchen because this is where I can reconnect with people that I love, even if they don't know I am doing it. Everyone in my family has a specific dish that they excel at from swedish meatballs to brisket to cookies to pie to soup to corn pudding. My best friends love to cook. When I make on of their recipes, I miss them desperately, but I love doing it because I feel that they are right there with me. It is very important to me to say 'this is Jord's polenta recipe' or 'Uncle Mark's chex mix' because it means that this other person is part of that experience.

In almost every house that I've lived in, the most used entrance to the house was through a door directly into the kitchen. A door directly into the heart of the home. I guess ultimately, this is what I miss the most. I miss walking in to my family's homes, straight into their kitchens- into the heart- finding something to eat, and settling in for some real time together.

Dog people

We have a fantastic park not too far from our house. It's great, there's a small field with trees around it, and there's a huge field that's completely open, great for dogs to run in. We take Opie there twice a day usually, to let him run and because there are a lot of other dogs for him to play with. Usually, it's okay. Sure, you'll have the bully dog, the growler, the one with all the good toys, the humper, the yippy one, the ball thief, but that happens when you go to a park with other dogs. It's to be expected. I thought it was understood that if your dog fell into any of these categories, as the owner, you must be able to control the dog if they start to bother other dogs (or humans) or at least have the decency to apologize profusely, put the dog on a leash, and go to the other part of the park. It's dog owner code.

There are some people who do NOT abide by this code. They think it's 'cute' when their dog growls at others or call their dog 'silly little precious' while he is humping the crap out of another dog. Say 'she's just rambunctious' while she chews on your dogs' tail. This is not acceptable behaviour, in my mind. Honestly. And the worst part of it is- it's not the dog. It's the humans.

There are some bonkers dog owners out there. One said to me the other day that the reason that her dog nips Opie's ears and barks at him incessantly is because Opie won't chase him. Another said that her dog doesn't really like to exercize, that's why he steals Opie's ball. There's another that refuses to get her dog neutered because 'it'll hurt his manhood'- is that not the idea?!? Dogs are dogs. They are fantastic companions. They are amazing creatures. At the end of the day though, they are dogs.

I know there are some amazing dog owners out there. We know quite a few of them. And, this is not to say we don't absolutely adore our dog. Opie is an amazing addition to our family. I genuinely don't remember what life was like before he was around. He's a great puppy, but he is that. A puppy. I love him for it.

Perhaps our park attracts the weirdos. Maybe that's why we go there...

Anatomy of a Run

Sunday I went for a run- actually, the longest run I've ever done. 11 miles. For those of you that don't run, that's a long run. I am training for the Inverness Half Marathon on March 14.

In 2008, Mike went to Washington, DC for a summer internship and Opie and I were at home on our own for 3 months. Our lovely friends Molly and Todd suggested I do a 10 mile race with them. I'd never done anything like it so I said yes. I knew it would be good for my health, and I knew this would be a great way to tire Opie out. I figured I would train, do the race, wear the t-shirt incessantly, brag about my running prowess, and then never do it again. Little did I know this would set off a new lifestyle for me. Now, I buy running magazines, I ask for running clothes and running gizmos for Christmas, I talk about running to anyone who will listen.

I like running because my success and failure rest entirely with me. If I work hard, I see results- faster times, longer distances, and I feel stronger. It's something that's entirely mine. When I do well, it's because I worked hard. I can push myself. I can set myself higher standards than I've ever set- and there's a tangible result when I accomplish them. I love that running is almost always more about your mental strength than physical endurance. I love that it is so elemental. It truly is mind over matter.

I have developed various route for my runs- I have a 4 mile, a 6 mile, and a 10 mile route, all of which I can add or subtract small bits of to make a longer or shorter run. I go through phases on each run. The beginning phase is the 'awkward teenage romance' phase. First, I have to warm up,  muscles figuring out how to do this, not being able to believe that I am allowed to do this, adjusting my clothes (which I still haven't figured out how to get to stop riding up), fixing my gizmos into comfortable places. Once all this is sorted out, I realize that I am no longer happy and have to redo the whole thing.

The second phase is the good bit. This is the 'honeymoon phase'. It lasts anywhere from 2-9 miles. This is a lovely phase. Just go. My legs know what to do now, I don't even have to think. Everything is clicking. I am unstopable here.  I set my pace to my music, Chemical Brothers first, then Black Eyed Peas, then some Aerosmith, Ben Folds, and finish strong on Aretha Franklin. I find comfort in the consistency of this routine.

The third phase is tough... perhaps this is the 'midlife crisis' phase of my run. I dislike running now. I am almost home, and I just want to stop. I don't even have muscles in my legs any more, only lactic acid. I am questioning why I decided this distance was a good idea, why did I tack on that extra mile? I want somebody to pick me up in a car and feed me dark chocolate and take me home. 

The last phase is when I am home, creatively titled the 'home' phase. I walk in, exhausted, to my beautiful husband and dog, waiting for me. Opie licks my face as I try to stretch, and Mike gets me water or a gatorade. I shower, ice my knees, and rest with Mike. This is how it should work. This is when I like running.

Sunday, 3.5 miles in, my iPod suddenly stopped working. I was 3.5 miles in, facing a big hill, and without music. I haven't run without music in a year.  I didn't know what to do. Now that I am writing this, it seems ridiculous, but in my mind, this was a bit of a challenge. Ok, I thought. This is good. I will run and have to set my pace by how I feel instead of the beats. That's fine.

I started paying attention to what was going on around me, watching the houses go by, smiling at other runners, listening to the distant sound of the ocean, watching the clouds from the incoming rain storm, realizing that I breathe in exhaust fumes when big trucks go past... As I made my way down to the beach, I realized how beautiful it was. The winter ocean is incredible. It is green, angry and violent. It is unlike the oceans of my childhood, with their calm, patient waves. This ocean is insatiable. It is knocking wood barriers out of the way like they are twigs, it is rolling boulders onto the beach, even the seagulls won't go near it. There is a steady mist from the waves hitting the concrete barriers... the sun and wind are at my back and I just go. The other people on the beach are walking with their hoods up, bracing against the wind. I smile to myself, because I am not cold, you silly other people, I am loving the entire thing.

I get to the end of the beach and turn around. Holy crap. It's like the entire world changed when I got to the end of the beach. You know in scary movies, when the girl goes down a dark hallway by herself and pauses to take that last look over her shoulder, and when she looks back, there's the killer? That was this. That beautiful storm that was coming in- yeah, it's here now. The waves are no longer a romantic kind of angry, they are scary, and they are coming over the concrete barrier. The people with their hoods up are now smiling as they walk towards their cars, hugging their soon to be warm children, laughing to themselves as I run past- 'that silly girl, she looks freezing, and she doesn't even have an iPod. Bet she's American.' I am running through yucky sea water and litter, and am cold and wet. And as the weather does only in Aberdeen, the rain suddenly changes to hail/sleet/snow. A mix I call 'winter yak'.  I look down at my Garmin and realize, I still have 4 miles to go. I have to get home. I contemplate picking up the bus at a near by stop... I have no money. I could go to school and wait out the storm... I forgot my ID. I could call a friend... I have no phone. What was I thinking when I left the house? I have no way to do ANYTHING! Literally, all I can do is run home. Deep breath. Here we go.

I slog through the next 3 miles. I keep going because I know my shower is warm, and Mike is making chili for dinner. At the last mile, I have a short hill, then a long windy flat directly to my house. I get to the bottom of the short hill- all of a sudden, my legs reawaken. I didn't even realize they were numb. I start to go up the hill. I go hard, all I can hear is my desperate gulps of air and my feet hitting the the pavement. I get up to the top in no time, and am welcomed onto the flat. I start running- like really running. I can't believe that my legs still have juice. I am not in charge any more, by body is doing it all by itself. It is an amazing feeling. I guess this is the runner's high that I've heard about. I did my last mile in 7 minutes 44 seconds.

This is why I like doing this so much.

Keep your distance, Drive with consideration

there's the road sign that I pass every day on my walk into school... It's a huge, unfriendly digital monstrosity, looks like something that was meant to be temporary, but accidentally got made permanent. I don't usually pay much attention to it for a couple reasons: a) it's a road sign and I am walking and b) my head is usually down under a hat or hood depending on the type of inevitable precipitation we are having that day.

I was walking past it last week, very into the 'This American Life' podcast (which is AMAZING, http://www.thisamericanlife.org/Radio_Podcast.aspx download it immediately), and as I walked past, the sign changed, and the movement caught my attention. It said 'KEEP YOUR DISTANCE' all caps, all orange pixels. I was immediately offended by this sign. I thought to myself, well, that was quite rude. I suppose I could've taken this to be a warning, but for whatever reason I took it as a criticism. I like to think of myself as a pretty easy going, genuine person, but I realize that this move has been difficult and probably hasn't done wonders for my openness, but for the sign, the huge sign, to point it out was just unnecessary! And to do it in public no less! I am trying to be here, to do this thing... move to a new country, go to school, pay attention to the new culture, the new food, the new social life, all the while maintaining some sense of normalcy with my husband and dog. And this sign had to point out that I am in fact, keeping my distance. Well, SIGN, I can't do it all, can I?? I thought.

The sign then changed and added 'DRIVE WITH CONSIDERATION' on the next line. I felt a little better. I looked around to see if the passing cars noticed that I was doing my best and I wasn't a complete jerk.

I have been thinking about this soothsaying sign for a while now. I don't know why it got to me. I suppose it's a reminder that I need to be open, ready and willing to participate. That I do need to have drive, while simultaneously being considerate and humble, and most importantly, to pay attention.