From Russia, With Love

Fourteen years ago this month I returned from spending the better part of 18 months in Yekaterinburg and Ufa, Russia as a missionary for my church.

Two Siberian winters.
One hotter-than-I-expected summer.
Four phone calls home.
One 24-hour train ride across the snowy Siberian landscape. (From Novosibirsk to Yekaterinburg.)
Nine companions.
Hundreds of Books of Mormon given away.
One girl-turned-woman, changed forever by her experiences there.
Hundreds of new friends made, many who entered the waters of baptism.
Thousands of prayers uttered.
One language learned well enough to speak, teach, understand, dream, think, and still make mistakes. A language to fall in love with.
Layers upon layers of clothing, hats, scarves, tights, long underwear, and fur-lined boots.
One future husband met (although I had no idea at the time.)
And countless bowls of borscht.

One day maybe I'll post about how I cried the first time I went to the grocery store after coming home. Or how I spoke to the German flight attendant (who spoke flawless English) in Russian. Or about h0w very strange it felt to be alone after having a 24/7 companion for over a year and a half. It's not easy to come home from a mission. I was so comfortable being Sister Johnson that I wasn't completely sure I wanted to go back to being Michal.

This is not a 30 minute meal, but it is worth the labor of love to have a bowl of great borscht once in a while. Today was one of those days: the weather was cool and overcast, I had nowhere we needed to be, and I had fresh cabbage and beets in my fridge from my organic produce delivery this week, plus some leftover dill from pickles we made a week or two ago. It had to be borscht.

Babushka's Borscht
Makes 8-10 generous servings

• 8 c. beef broth
• 2 lbs. chuck (diced) or stew meat
• ¼ c. flour
• 2 T. olive oil
• 3 large beets
• 2 large garlic cloves, minced
• 3 large potatoes, peeled and diced
• 1 onion, diced finely
• 2 celery stalks, diced
• 2 carrots, peeled and grated
• ½ head cabbage, shredded (about 3-4 cups)
• 3 T. unsalted butter
• 2 T. flour
• 1 14-oz can diced tomatoes OR 2 cups fresh tomatoes peeled and diced
• ¼ c. lemon juice (or juice of one lemon)
• 2 T. fresh dill, chopped
• 2 T. fresh parsley, minced finely
• Salt & pepper to taste
• Sour cream and chopped fresh dill, to serve

Trim ends off beets and scrub gently under cold running water. Place in saucepan, cover with water, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 30-40 minutes or until tender. Drain and set aside. When cool, peel and coarsely grate beets and set aside.

Dredge the beef in ¼ cup flour and brown in 2 T. olive oil in large saucepan. Add broth and bring to boil. Reduce heat to a high simmer and add garlic, potatoes, and ½ c. onions. Simmer for 10 minutes. Add celery and carrots and simmer for another 10 minutes. Add cabbage and cook for another 10 minutes. Add beets and reduce heat to low simmer.

In large frying pan, melt butter over medium high heat and sauté remaining onions until soft and translucent, approximately 5 minutes. Add flour and stir constantly until lightly browned. Add tomatoes, lemon juice, dill, and parsley, and stir well. If too thick, add a few tablespoons of water. Cook for 10 minutes, then add to the broth, mixing well. Salt and pepper to taste, and simmer for 15 additional minutes, stirring frequently. Serve hot. Garnish individual servings with a generous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of minced dill.

Serve with dark Russian rye bread, or with the cabbage peiroshki that I made. But that's another recipe for another post.

Oh, Russia, how I miss you!

Grandma's Comfort Food

My paternal grandma, Edna Call Johnson, was a wonderful woman. The last of 10 children, she was born and raised on an Idaho farm. She told me once about how she helped her mom prepare food for the farm hands--how the table would be laden with food when they'd come in for their mid-day meal. She grew to be a great cook under her mother's tutelage, and I loved every meal she made for me.

As time has passed, my taste for foods and recipes has become a bit more modern-- less butter, more olive oil, less meat, more vegetables, fresh herbs instead of dried; but I still find Grandma's recipes irresistible. They are my ultimate comfort foods. Many of them became some of my mother's favorites as well, and we ate them often, even though we only traveled to visit Grandma once a year. Some are required fare at Johnson Thanksgiving dinner-- I don't think that any one of my siblings could consider it a true Thanksgiving without Grandma's recipe for citrus cranberry relish and sage stuffing on the table.

When we would arrive in Idaho Falls for a visit, she would always have a batch of chocolate chip cookies, a boiled raisin cake, and a pot of rice pudding ready for us. After I was married and living in Salt Lake City, Jared and I would travel up to see her every three months or so. I didn't matter that she was nearly 90 at that point-- she still had something freshly made when we arrived, and whatever she hadn't had the energy to do I would help her make after we got there. One visit we laughed ourselves silly because she had accidentally used wheat berries instead of rice in the rice pudding. Just for the record, I don't recommend the substitution.

Besides some wonderful comfort food recipes, Grandma taught me many valuable lessons. The one that stands out to me after telling that last story is that Grandma knew how to laugh and have fun, even when she was laughing at her own mistakes.

I was blessed to have her in my life until she passed away three and a half years ago at the age of 97. She had waited nearly 30 years to be reunited with her sweetheart and I couldn't mourn her passing much because I knew that she was happier there with him and with my dad. But every time I pull out one of Grandma's recipes I blink back a tear because my impulse is to grab the phone, call her, and laugh and talk while I cook.

I've decided to post my favorites of Grandma's recipes in the coming months. I hope that you will enjoy them as much as I have and make your own family memories with them. Food can be so powerful that way.

Today I made Grandma's rice pudding. And it is so good. But I didn't say it was healthy. Comfort food rarely is.

Edna's Rice Pudding

• 1 cup white rice (I use sushi rice)
• 2 cups water
• 2 quarts milk (it's best if you use something other than skim, but use what you have)
• 1/2 cup butter
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 4 well-beaten eggs
• 1 T. vanilla
  

Place the rice and water in a large stockpot and simmer for 7 minutes. Add the milk and butter and stir to get the rice off the bottom of the pan. Bring to a simmer again and let simmer for one hour with the lid askew. WARNING: I have NEVER made this without it boiling over. Watch the pot carefully to attempt to avoid this, and once it is simmering, turn it way down so that your rice doesn't burn.

After one hour, remove from heat. Stir in the sugar and vanilla. Make sure that the eggs are beaten until they are frothy and light yellow-- I use a whisk but you could use beaters for this. Stir it in slowly so as not to scramble the eggs. (Optional: temper the eggs by slowing stirring in one cup of the pudding mixture to the eggs first, then adding them all back into the large pot.)

Serve warm or chilled with a dash of nutmeg. Makes about 8 servings.

Too Busy to Blog

Dear Readers,

I apologize that I have been neglecting you so much of late. You see, between feeding Margaret 8-10 times a day, making sure that Bronwen is always in sight, keeping my boys from getting "so bored," and attempting to nap any chance I get, I have pretty much filled all my time. Add to those things that mentally I am busy thinking about and planning the new school year, pondering changing my life when it comes to healthy habits, and plotting household projects that I want done as soon as possible, and perhaps you can understand why reading and writing blog posts is barely on my radar right now.

However, I do miss this little creative outlet and the interaction it stimulates with all of you. As I mentioned a few posts ago, I have a giveaway coming up that I am really excited about as well. So this isn't meant to be any sort of long-term hiatus. In the meantime, I thought I'd share with you a little Best of Relishing Motherhood.

• The recipe you need the most (and the one that I've gotten the most positive feedback on from my readers.)
• The post in which you get to laugh out loud at my expense
• The most-commented on post (also my 100th post, in which I beg pathetically for comments:-)
• The post in which I preach the doctrine of nurturing through food
• The post in which I sing the praises of a new fridge
  
• The post in which I bid farewell to a beloved friend
• The post in which I attempt to sell my childhood home (now sold)
  
• A post I wrote this week last year
• A post I wrote this week two years ago
• A funny post about Kimball
• A funny post about Henry
• A funny post about Ian
• A funny post about Bronwen
• And of course, if you have lots of time, you can read all about Evan and Tamara and 31 Dates in 31 Days. (hint: start at the bottom of the page, as the posts are in reverse chronological order.)
  

Have fun reading and feel free to leave me comments on any posts you read. I promise it will get me blogging again sooner.:)

Seven Things You Never Knew

Don't be afraid that I have another sugary, junk food snack photo on my blog today. I haven't had one of these in at least a year. I just didn't have any good photos in my file for this post.

I got tagged weeks ago by Rebecca at Becoming for this meme. You know I love a good meme, but this one is really going to make me think. After all, I am a full-disclosure kind of girl in most situations and there's not much about me that you don't already know if you read my blog. So, I'm going to give this my best shot. Sorry if some of you already know a few of these.

• I played the alto saxophone in the marching band my first 3 years of high school. My family had a rule that you had to be in the band for at least one year. We were an award winning band and we traveled throughout California performing and winning competitions. Our band director was very short--no taller than 5 feet--and he had a temper. He'd always throw a fit like a spoiled child if we didn't perform to his standards. I haven't played the sax since my last day of band.

• I bounced back and forth between two elementary schools in our district throughout my grammar school experience. In sixth grade, I had a little friend named Leilani who had buck teeth and chopped-straight-across-her-forehead bangs. She and I did almost everything together. When I got into junior high, all my friends from the other school were the "cool kids". Leilani was not. I dumped her fast. I have always felt terrible about this. Maybe I could track her down now and apologize.

• My parents got me a bike for my 7th or 8th birthday. My dad took me to the neighbor's flat driveway to learn (we lived on a steep hill and our driveway was steep as well.) I fell off several times and skinned my knees. I decided that I'd had enough and went back inside to read my book. My younger sister and brother both hopped on and learned to ride that afternoon. I didn't get back on a bike until I was 12 and I discovered that our youth program at church had planned a progressive dinner on bikes. I decided that I had better learn to ride, since not riding a bike was my deep dark secret. I did, although I'm sure that I was an obvious novice at the activity. I can probably count the number of times I have been on a bike outside of the gym.

• The last two have been kind of downers. I guess I need to think of a happy one now. (The problem is, the only stuff I haven't already blabbed about are my deep, dark secrets!) At my missionary farewell, my family sang, "We'll Bring the World His Truth." As we were singing, it suddenly struck me that my parents had been preparing me for a mission for my entire life without ever telling me that they expected me to go. I was so grateful to them and all those years of early morning scripture study and memorizing verses. Throughout my mission, I would often sing that song to myself in the shower and cry, but it was never a sad cry. It was rejoicing that my parents had taught us well and trained us to be missionaries. All six of the kids in my family served full time missions.

• One of the ways that I know I get the baby blues in the first six weeks post-partum is that I don't want to leave my house or talk to any of my friends. I go from being uber-social to a recluse, and I have to force myself to answer the phone or tell anyone, "Sure, you can come by for a visit." It always catches my husband off-guard because it is such a 180 degree turn from the normal Michal. I also cry. A LOT. (He doesn't forget that part!)

• I don't like Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Ho-hos, and those little donuts that have plastic chocolate on them, but I LOVE Zingers. Especially frozen. Vanilla, Chocolate, or the red ones with the coconut? I'll eat them all.

• When Jared and I were dating seriously, I once made a chocolate cake to bring to his family's Sunday dinner. It was from a mix with a bottled frosting (I've come a long way since then! I might still use the mixes, but never the fake frosting.) His family raved and raved about it and always talked about my amazing chocolate cake. I felt sheepish that it was from a mix, but didn't want to admit it for fear that they would find it less impressive. They asked me to make it again and again. Now that I know them better, I recognize that they were just trying to build me up and help me feel comfortable. They have always been good at that. I was insecure for years anyway.

Now it's time to tag some of you. I tag Scrappy, Ice Cream, Malia or Stu, and Ashley. I'm supposed to tag seven people, but I rarely follow tag rules.

Coming tomorrow: an interview with Evan! If you have any questions you are dying to know about his date with Tamara, you'd better leave me a comment.

Photo Tag

This tag has been floating around the blogs I read for some time, but I've finally been tagged. I really should be writing my weekly report for last week on this blog, but I just don't feel like it, so here I am. Thanks, Molly!

Here are the rules. Post the fourth picture in the fourth folder of you picture files. Tell us about the picture. Tag a friend or two.



This picture was taken almost exactly two years ago, by our friend Maggie Rassmussen. She came up with my brother, Evan, and shot hundreds of pictures of our family. We went to Apple Hill, a Halloween party, the temple grounds, and just spent time at home, all the while she was snapping pictures. She did excellent work and I love every one of them. This one caught Kimball in a familiar pose. It was after breakfast on a Saturday or Sunday morning and he was stretched out in the sunshine near the sliding door, reading a book. He was six and a half at the time. You can still find him in his spare moments (and in moments when he is supposed to be getting dressed, cleaning his room, or some other productive thing) reading a book, lost to the world around him.

Thanks, Maggie, for taking these pictures that my family will always treasure.

I tag Sonja, Mandy, and Morgan.

Grilled Pita Bread

The summer that I was fortunate enough to study abroad in Jerusalem, I discovered a new love: fresh pita bread. This was not the kind you buy at Safeway, which is dry, thin, and usually feels like diet food. This was freshly baked, fluffy, and divine. Any time we walked into the old city from our campus on Mount Scopus (just across the Kidron Valley from the old city), we'd be sure to buy a stack of fresh pita. It was delicious on its own, swiped through a dish of hummus, stuffed with falafel, roasted lamb, or fresh nectarines and honey. We were always ecstatic when dinner at the Center included pita and greedily took as much as we could. (It's a good thing we did so much walking there.)

I recently stumbled across a recipe I had for making pita bread. I have not really enjoyed American pita in the 14 years since I experienced the real thing. I vaguely remembered making it once, and promptly decided that it was time to try it again. I already had Tandoori Chicken on my menu for last night and even though it meant a little Indian-Middle Eastern fusion (which doesn't bother me in the least), it sounded like the perfect night for pita.

This recipe calls for baking it in the oven, but with my newly acquired skills for pizza grilling (thanks, Prudy, for taking away my fear and helping me find another food I adore), I knew I could grill these babies up in a snap with fluffy, just-like-the-old-city results. I think they are much better this way, so don't use the oven unless there is a monsoon outside.

Pita Bread

• 3 cups flour
• 1 1/2 T. sugar
• 1 1/2 tsp. kosher salt
• 4 tsp. yeast
• 1 1/2 cup ROOM TEMP. water.
• 2 T. melted butter

Mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and yeast in a stand mixer. Add water and melted butter and knead with dough hook for 10 minutes. Put in a lubed up bowl and allow to raise for an hour to an hour and a half.

On a lightly floured surface, divide dough into 8 equal portions. Allow the dough to rest for 20 minutes. Roll out into disks that will be between 6 and 8" in diameter. Get your grill ready (scrape it clean and spray it before you fire it up.) Heat it to 400 or 450 degrees. Gently lift as many disks as will comfortably fit (I did four at a time) onto the grill. Put the lid down and wait about 2 minutes. Check to see if they are light to medium brown with grill marks. If they are, flip them over with some tongs. If not, let them cook a bit longer. Put the lid back down and allow them to brown on both sides. Remove from grill and put on your next batch.

Or, if you absolutely must use the oven, get you baking stone or cookie sheet hot in a 450 oven. Spray the stone down with water, then put the disks on it and bake them for about 3 1/2 minutes each.

Want Ad

Wanted: A happy family to buy my childhood home. Must have lots of kids to run around in the backyard (and occasionally do some yard work). Must be willing to eat breakfast and dinner on the deck from May through October. Must promise to hold wedding receptions, birthday parties, neighborhood breakfasts, and other such events on a regular basis. Must love old houses with all of their charms and their beautiful woodwork. Must promise to never put in vinyl windows that would compromise the beauty of the original craftsmanship. Must adore Coastal Redwoods, ocean breezes, and detached garages.

It is an added plus if you love to sing together, want to lay on the grass at night to watch the planes fly overhead, and don't mind an occasional siren (as the police station is only a couple of blocks away). I hope you'll love all the trees, including the original Whittier Haas avocado trees, the persimmon tree (we can give you recipes for that one), and the space for a vegetable garden. You'll be pleased to know that there is plenty of room for food storage, camping storage, and storing your kids' stuff when they are too grown up to live at home but not grown up enough to have a place to store their own things.

I hope you'll build a tree house where ours once was and hang a hammock under another tree-- a place for a bookworm to escape and while away an afternoon with a great classic. There are plenty of places to play Star Wars, Davy Crockett, and GI Joe (if you're into that). The basketball court will help your kid develop their athletic ability--or not.

Be sure to take walks and bike rides to the nearby library, to the Whittier College campus, to Michigan Park. In the spring, the jacarandas bloom everywhere and then snow purple all over the streets. It's positively dream-like. Your out-of-state relatives will all want to visit since you'll be within minutes of Disneyland, and a short distance from Los Angeles, the Pacific Ocean, and Irvine. You'll be glad for the guest apartment over the garage (unless you decide to rent that out to a college student.)

This home has been in our family for over 30 years now and we will be sad to see it go. You can probably buy it even if you don't meet the above qualifications, but it will be easier for us to hand over the keys if you do. Then we will know that we are providing a place for another family to build 30 years of memories together--and it is the perfect spot for that.

Memories

I have so many posts cooking right now, but can't seem to get them written down. But I was just reading Mahina's blog and loved the meme she is passing on. Here's how it works. I need your help, dear readers!

In order to play the game, my readers need to leave me a comment with a memory they have of/with me. It doesn't matter if we are virtual friends or if we've known each other since birth, just think of a memory that we share or of something that reminds you of me and leave a comment. Yes, it's all about me. But I do love a post that begs for comments because I am always dying to see who is actually reading out there. So go ahead and de-lurk and tell me about the time you met me and I had food in my teeth or the time I pooped on your carpet as a baby (Aunt Karen), or anything you want. After all, I did put myself out there and post this picture of myself in 6th grade. Check out those lovely specs!

Then, if you so desire, you can carry this meme over to your own blog and request memories from your readers. I will happily come visit and leave a comment.

T is for Toddler

This week, I'm joining Mrs. Nesbitt's ABC Wednesday blog party.

I've been waxing nostalgic today, since Henry, my second born, had his "kindergarten celebration" today (I'm so glad they didn't call it graduation,) and I have been thinking about how quickly my kids are growing up. So I thought I'd indulge myself with a few photos of my kidlets as toddlers.


Bronwen is at this stage right now and we find that everything she does is adorable! There are so many things I love about having a one-year-old; that is, until I try to keep her quiet and still for a kindergarten celebration and then try to keep her out of the red punch and cookies afterwards.


I guess that technically, Ian is still a toddler at 3 1/2, but I don't think of him that way anymore. He is straddling the categories of little kid/big kid in our family--and perhaps he always will. Half the time, he gets to go with the big boys, half the time he's being put down for a nap like a baby. He has been such a hysterical toddler, with a funny little personality that keeps us laughing all the time. (These photos were taken last October, just before he turned 3, when he was most certainly a toddler.)


As I watched Henry today, celebrating the end of an era, I thought of the little one-year old that he was when we first moved here, away from Southern California. He followed me around constantly with picture books, begging me to read. Some things never change! He always has been (since Ian came along) and always will be an adoring big brother to his younger siblings. (These photos were taken in 2004, when Henry was 2 years old.)


Kimball, now 8, was a funny little professor as a toddler. His extensive vocabulary, exceptional diction, and adorable spectacles definitely contributed. He was the first grandbaby in my family and got plenty of attention for it. He loved phones, stereos, remotes, and other gadgets. (These photos were taken when he was 1 and 2 years old.)

I love these little creatures that have been given to me by God to care for, nurture, and teach. I pray every day that I will be equal to the task and that some day they will look back on these years as fondly as I do.

Mom

Abraham Lincoln once said, "All that I am and hope to be, I owe to my angel mother." To that, I say "amen." Except for my junior high years (heaven help me when my daughter is 13 years old), I have always wanted to be like my mother when I grew up. I was imitating her as a toddler, mothering my sister and brothers from the time they were born. I grew up knowing that I wanted to be a mother first and foremost (much to the disgust and disappointment of my senior English teacher.) This would simply not have been the case if my mother had not been an example of love and service and joy to me. She isn't perfect and I'm sure that she made some mistakes along the way--not that I can remember any, but I tell myself that she surely made some mistakes along the way so that I feel better, knowing that I surely have and do. (Note: most of the pictures in this post were taken by my dad. I can tell when I look back at them how much he loved taking pictures of her--and how much he loved her. Sometimes it means more to know who is behind the camera when looking at a photo.)

My mom taught me how to make bread, how to do housework, how to read. She taught me to love reading and learning by exposing me to great literature from an early age and by taking an active interest in what I was reading. If I ever read a book that she hadn't already read, Mom read it, too, so that we could talk about it together. My mother taught me (at a very young age, I might add), how to diaper a baby, how to rock him to sleep, how to comfort his cries. My mother taught me to love the Lord and how to gain my own testimony that He lives. She taught me that keeping His commandments brings happiness in life, even though it does not mean that we will not have trials.

My mother has lived a life of faith and sacrifice. As I have gotten older, I am better able to appreciate the trials that she has endured so well. By the time she was seven years older than I am today, she had lost both parents to cancer, her husband, and a five week old son. She raised six kids to adulthood, which I now understand is a trial as much as it is a blessing!:)

When my father was killed, she was our pillar even though her world seemed to be falling apart. We followed her example to forgive; she decided immediately that it would not be productive or healthy to dwell on the manner of his death (he was murdered) or to seek out justice for the perpetrators. She knew that to do so would only lengthen the darkness and misery that we felt. Instead, she told us that she would lean on the Lord and trust Him to care for us, to heal our hearts, to make us whole again. We needed to save our energy to make it through. I know that there had to have been many days when she did not want to get out of bed and get back to her new life without him, where she was not only the mother but the breadwinner; where the responsibility of parenting these children rested solely on her. But she never did stay in bed and let the day go by without her. She got on her knees and asked the Lord to help her get through one more day. And He always did.

I know that I would not be the same person I am today if my mother had responded to that trial differently. I would venture to say the same for my siblings. We drew from her strength and faith and we learned for ourselves how to rely on the Lord. My father's death and my mother's reaction to it were defining experiences in our lives. It was in that year that I learned the most about myself, when I solidified my faith, when I learned that with the Lord's help I can endure anything He asks of me. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to learn these things while in my youth, even if I could never have willingly submitted to such an experience.

My father's passing also strengthened my friendship with my mom. I'm sure that this would have happened by the time I got married, at least, but we needed each other without him there. We began talking on the phone most days and continue to do so now. When she's not teaching, it's not unusual for us to talk three times in a day. She is one of my best friends today. I refuse to consider what my life will be like without her one day.

It has been fun spending these past few days with her. Allison and I came down with our kids for Mom's birthday, and we have just enjoyed being together. We always have a list a mile long of things that we want to do when we're together, but we're also content to just cook together, play a card game, or read to the kids. I hope that we get to do lots more of the things we love to do together, since she plans to retire this year and move nearer to Alli and me. But I know that we will need to expect that she will spend much of her time in service--in her calling, in the temple, on a mission, helping someone in need . . . and I wouldn't have it any other way. I can only hope and pray that I will one day be more like my mother--that her good works and faith will continue to rub off on me for as long as I live.

Remembering Daddy

Today is my father's birthday. If he were still alive, he would be 59 years old. I have been thinking about him even more than usual in the past couple of months. Leap Day marked the 16th anniversary of the day my uncle came to tell me that he had been killed. I was a freshman at BYU, far away from home. But that's a post for another day. A post that I have been meaning to write for sometime but haven't allowed myself to write something that will be so filled with raw emotions and memories that I generally stifle.

Today, rather than mourning his passing, I want to celebrate his life. I know that I cannot capture it all in one post, but I don't want that to stop me from remembering him in this way. Although he only lived for 42 years, he had a tremendous impact on many, many people. He was a dedicated husband and father, a loyal friend, a determined missionary, and a man who sought out those who needed help and did all he could for them. There were over 1,000 people at his funeral; some had come from across the country, one had even traveled from Japan. He was beloved by many because of the life that he lived.

My dad, Raymon Kim Johnson, was a fool for babies. He loved babies, and once his seven children were no longer babies, he was always making eyes at someone else's, hoping that he'd get to hold them. As the oldest, I remember him playing with my younger baby siblings. He made up a game called "Bombs Away!" in which he would lie on the floor. The other kids would lie on either side of him, flanking him, sometimes several bodies deep. Then he would lift the drooling baby over his head and pretend that they were a jet airplane--a bomber, aiming at the towns down below. As the bomb would drop, we would squeal with delight and hope that someone else got hit, wriggling away, but always coming back for more. His magnetism and fun-loving ways were too much for us to resist, even if being bombarded with baby spit was the price we had to pay.

I also remember his bedtime stories. When my sister and I were little, he would make up stories for us each night. My mom says that sometimes she got impatient as he whiled away his time in our room, delighting us with his tales. Often, if he had baby Martin or Tyler in his arms, he would make them the evil villain, who would often be dumped in the trashcan or flushed down the toilet by the end of the story. Our favorite character was Muzzy Mazoolah from the Land of Sawin' Logs. Later, the stories changed to meet the more rough and tumble adventurous needs of my younger brothers. Their stories were about Cowboy Raymon (which was also Tyler's first name) and came complete with little songs.

We would listen for my dad's car each night to know that he had arrived home. For most of the years that I can remember, it was a Peugeot 505 Diesel, which meant that we could hear him from a block away. We would all rush out to him and maul the poor man. Then he would come into the kitchen where Mom was usually making dinner, and kiss her or dance around the kitchen with her. The house was always more fun when he was there.

My dad loved literature and was always reading a good book. He was a student of the scriptures and was dedicated to studying them each day. We were still very young when he began teaching us to memorize verses from the scriptures. I can still remember them and they come to my mind at just the time I need them, a gift from him all those years ago. He was always trying to learn more. I remember him taking a speed reading class. He had a little crisis when he realized that he couldn't help me with my math anymore and took a class to brush up on that as well! He was very proud of our academic accomplishments. When I received an academic scholarship to BYU, he made such a big deal about it. But I was used to that by then, as he'd always praised us and bragged about our achievements.

Another thing he enjoyed immensely was music. He had played the trumpet (quite well) in high school and college. He had also taught himself to play the guitar, mandolin, ukulele, banjo, and auto harp. He had picked up a set of bagpipes somewhere and practiced them in the room over the garage (which was his home office), as they were too noisy to be allowed in the house. We spent many nights together sitting around in the living room, singing while he played the guitar. He taught us to sing in harmony and paraded us around like the Von Trapp family singers; I was nearly five years old before I figured out that you didn't have to sing for a treat on Halloween (we'd only go to neighbors and to elderly members of our congregation; we'd sing a few songs for them and they'd always give me a treat, which thrilled me. Then one of the little old men took me to their next door neighbor's, and I found out that all I had to do was say "trick or treat" for my chocolate!) We all learned to play at least one instrument, and all of us dabble in guitar, although my brothers have become quite good. (Daddy must have taught me how to play "Where Have All The Flowers Gone on the guitar every year for four or five years before I finally stuck with it!) He fell in love with the music of Les Miserables and took us to see it many times. It is a bittersweet experience to listen to it now, and for a while it was just too emotional. But now I love that I can listen to it and remember how much we loved it as a family, how much Daddy was passionate about it.

Daddy had this amazing sense of humor. He used to say, "anything for a joke." Sometimes that motto would get him in trouble, but mostly it kept people around him laughing and merry. He taught me songs like Nose Job (which can be downloaded here), Dead Skunk, The Eggplant that Ate Chicago, and Junk Food Junkie, songs that never failed to make people laugh. Here's a couple of music videos I found on YouTube for Dead Skunk and Junk Food Junkie. If my dad had lived to the YouTube age, he would definitely be spending some of his spare time making silly videos like these!






Daddy was a dedicated home teacher. (In the LDS Church, we strive to take care of each other and watch over the needs of one another. Even people who are baptized members but who are no longer attending church have a home teacher assigned to them, unless they ask to not have one.) He often took the assignments for the elderly or for those who were tough to get in to see. He also was a zealous missionary, sharing the gospel that he loved so much with all he met. At his funeral, many people who came through the receiving line told of how they were active members of the church in part because of my dad's influence on them.

I have missed him so much in the years since he left this earth. The first year was the hardest I've ever endured; just as people promised, it did get easier with time, but the void that he left is still there. I am still sad that he never met my husband, that my children will only know him through pictures and stories, and that my mom has spent so many years without him by her side. I take comfort in the promise of the resurrection and that of eternal families. I know that I will see my father again, that my husband and children will get the chance to know him, that he and my mother will continue their marriage throughout eternity. I may not understand why the Lord allowed him to be taken from us when we still needed him so much, but I do know and understand that He has a plan for us and hasn't left us alone in our trials. My family has been blessed so much by the Lord over the past 16 years that we cannot deny His love in our lives.

I love you, Daddy! Thanks for being such a wonderful example to me and an inspiration in my life.

Miracle Baby

A little more than 8 years ago, Jared & I took a trip to Utah. Six months previously, we had moved from Salt Lake City to Southern California so that he could attend chiropractic school. This trip was going to be fun--not only were we going to visit friends and family, but our sister-in-law was hosting a baby shower for me. Our first baby (whom we were already calling Kimball,) was due in 7 weeks and everything was going according to plan.

I remember noticing on the flight up how active Kimball was. The flight was particularly turbulent and he seemed to be responding in kind. As a first time pregnant mother and a born worrier, I found it very soothing to have him moving around. It meant that all was well.

Over the course of the weekend, I had moments when I wondered why I wasn't feeling him moving more. It was a very busy weekend and we rushed from one activity to the next, so I figured that I just was too busy to notice his movements. Saturday evening, after the baby shower, I had a glass of milk and laid down to do kick counts. His activity wasn't as strong as it had been on Friday morning, but I could feel him moving around and I felt relieved.

Sunday was also busy, but Sundays are a different kind of busy for us. We attend church whether we are home or away, so I had some quiet time to be still. One trend that I had noticed throughout my pregnancy was that Kimball really responded to music, especially if I was singing, so I was used to having him "dance" in my belly during the hymns. But today, he wasn't moving around. Strange. I was concerned, but tried to push it out of my mind.

After church we had dinner with Jared's family. I laid down for a few minutes to do some kick counts, but before I knew it, it was time to head off to the airport. He wasn't moving around and I knew that it could be that he was just sleeping, but I really wanted him to wake up and reassure me. On the flight home I did nothing but focus on my belly, willing the baby to move around. I finally said something to Jared as the plane landed that I was afraid that something was wrong--I hadn't felt the baby move very much all weekend, and not at all that day.

When we got home, I asked Jared to give me a priesthood blessing. This involves him placing his hands on my head and pronouncing a blessing on me, as inspired and directed by the Holy Ghost. The blessing was beautiful and he told me that our baby was alive and was meant to be a part of our family. He said that even then, Kimball was there, observing our faith. We were comforted and went to sleep. But when I woke up the next morning, I still hadn't felt him move.

I knew that the rules were that you called your doctor if it had been 24 hours with no movement. I called the doctor's office and they suggested that I come in after lunch to get checked out. I took a half-day teaching assignment (I was substitute teaching elementary school at the time) since I felt fine and I figured it would take my mind off the worry a bit. I was pretty calm all morning, since the doctor's office hadn't acted alarmed, plus I had faith that the words of Jared's blessing had been from the Lord. Nevertheless, as I sat in the doctor's office waiting for my turn (which was a long time any time I went to that office,) my anxiety increased. When I finally got into see the doctor and she checked for a heartbeat, I was afraid she was going to give me terrible news. As soon as I heard a heartbeat, I started crying, but I also was overwhelmed with relief. I had been making a mountain out of a molehill. There was nothing wrong with my baby and I was just a neurotic first-time mom.

But the doctor decided to do a quick ultrasound just to take a look. Then she asked me if my water had broken. No? Was I sure? Maybe she'd just check--perhaps I just hadn't noticed. No, my bag of waters had not ruptured. She turned to me and calmly said, "You seem to be a little low on fluid. Very low, in fact. I'd like you to go to the hospital for some observations. Hopefully we'll be able to get your amniotic fluid levels higher. It probably won't be any big deal. Oh, and please go straight to the hospital. Don't go home first to wait for your husband."

What? That sounded pretty serious. She left quickly to call the doctor from the practice who was on rounds at the hospital and I left; I had to go home, since I'd walked to the doctor's appointment. It was just a block away and it had seemed silly to drive. I stayed home long enough to call Jared's school and asked them to page him (it was long before either of us had a cell phone,) and phoned my mom at work. Just saying the words that they wanted me to go in for observations made me sob. The school where she teaches is on the way to the hospital, and she said, "Pick me up, you can't go alone." I guess she just got another teacher to take her class for the last half hour--I wasn't even thinking about it at the time.

We got to the hospital and Jared arrived while we were checking in. They strapped me to all the machines and put an IV in to try to up my fluid intake. Now that I've had four kids, I know how to read the monitors and figure out what's going on, but it was my first time having a non-stress test and I was clueless. I had been there for about 20 minutes when the doctor came in. He was just out of surgery. He took one look at the results of my monitors and said, "We are going to deliver this baby in 15 minutes. What do you need from me?"

We were aghast. We asked for a minute alone so that Jared could give me another blessing. My mom ran out the door and down the hall, hoping she'd make it back with the video camera in time (she did--barely). Jared's blessing told me again that Kimball would live, but it also said something about our trials strengthening us, which was a little scary. I felt very close to Jared and to Heavenly Father then.

As soon as we had finished, a nurse handed Jared some scrubs and told him to change quickly--they weren't going to wait for him-- and started prepping me for surgery. Dr. Roca wasn't kidding. Kimball was born less than 15 minutes after he first saw me. It was so fast. Now that I've had three other c-sections that were not emergencies, I realize how fast it was. They started cutting before Jared was even in the room. They shoved around my organs, which is a funky feeling because it doesn't hurt, but you can definitely feel them in there; so, they pushed around my organs, found my uterus, and pulled out a baby. I wept with relief as I heard his cry.

"It's a boy!" Dr. Roca announced.

"How big is he?" I demanded, over and over, until they could tell me. I figured that size really matters when it comes to preemies and survival.

"2 lbs, 15 oz" came the reply.

Now my tears of relief turned to sobs. That was too small. I had been reading all those pregnancy books daily--they were my other scriptures--and I knew that he should have been much, much bigger at 33 weeks.

He seemed to be breathing fine, so they wrapped him up and brought him over to see me before whisking him off to the NICU.

I don't remember much after that because they put me under. I've learned since then that this is pretty standard in an emergency c-section. They had a lot of repair work to do since they'd had to work so quickly.

When I woke up in recovery, Jared was there. He had been with Kimball. The baby was very small and very skinny, but was breathing on his own. Since my anesthesia had been so quickly administered, I couldn't move the lower half of my body or sit up for 12 hours, so I couldn't go see Kimball. Jared took video of him and then brought it to my room to show me our son. He was so small and you could see all his ribs and most of his bones. He had blond hair. I thought that he resembled a little cricket. My little cricket. I was so grateful that he was okay.

The following days and weeks were an emotional roller coaster for us. We watched his weight like a day trader watches the stock market. Every ounce that he gained gave us reason to rejoice. They ran lots of tests on him, with varying results. Some days it felt like everything was going to be fine. Some days we were afraid that he'd suffered severe brain damage, the effects of which were yet unknown. Always, we prayed for peace and for Kimball to come home soon.

Leaving the hospital without my baby was so difficult. I cried and cried all the way home. I don't wish that on anyone. We then began the exhausting ordeal of going to the hospital every six hours around the clock. I was trying to breastfeed him, although for a couple of weeks he didn't have a sucking reflex, and we also did "kangaroo care" at those visits. This was a fairly new protocol that involved giving the baby skin-to-skin time to help him thrive. We sang to him and held him on our chests. Jared came as often as he could--at least once every day. He was in the middle of finals of his second semester of grad school--not great timing, but somehow he managed.

Finally, when he was 30 days old, Kimball came home from the hospital. He weighed 4 lbs, 4 oz, and had finally shown that he could manage 8 feedings a day from the bottle or breast. I had a freezer full of milk that I'd pumped (since his appetite was minute compared to my supply)--in fact, those bottles in the freezer lasted us six months! He still had a long road to "catch up," but he was home. We were so grateful.

I look back on those first days and weeks of his life and am filled with wonder and gratitude. I'm so thankful that he lived. Dr. Roca told us after the delivery that Kimball probably wouldn't have survived much longer in the womb. Hours could have made the difference. They never did figure out exactly what was wrong. My placenta failed and stopped producing amniotic fluid. Their best guess is hypertension, but the only day that they recorded an elevated blood pressure was the day he was born, and that can certainly be explained. Thankfully we have not had the same problem with my other pregnancies.

Our little boy was and is a fighter. Some days I have to remind myself that his intensity and stubbornness probably saved his life! He is such a blessing to us and sets a good example to his brothers and sister. He especially shows so much love and consideration for Bronwen, which warms my heart. I can't believe that he is already 8 years old. The next thing I know, he'll be heading off to college. Please slow down, precious son! I don't want these years to slip away from us.

100th Post!!

I'm so excited to write my 100th post. Since it has taken me FOREVER to get this post done, I have lots to say. But most of it, I will save for another day, another post. I've been planning on taking you on a walk down memory lane with me for this special post, plus sharing a previously unpublished recipe that you will want to have.

Just in case you don't make it to the end of this very long post, I'm going to make a request of my readers. Just this once, this one time, if you read my post, please leave me a comment! I think it would be so fun to see who is out there reading it, and I know that the majority of people reading this do not comment. You are free to comment under "anonymous" and then write your name in the message section so I know who you are. Pretty please? For me?

In reading other's blogs, I have realized that for the milestone of a 100th post, many bloggers choose a special topic, hold a contest, award prizes, and otherwise celebrate. I thought that I would tell you about a place that was a part of my life in my teenage years, a place where I had my first real job (if you don't count the tele-marketing research job I had briefly when I was 15,) where I made many friends, further developed my discriminating food palate, and picked up a few foodie tips. (The recipe at the end will be the special prize, to all who are willing to try it. You won't be sorry.)

Mason's Community Bakery was already a well known establishment in Uptown Whittier before I went there seeking employment. Before my job there, I knew it as the place my mom got full sheets of orange rolls when family was in town, and the bakery that made the 100 foot long cake for Whittier's centennial celebration. My mom suggested that I look there for a job, since I wanted somewhere that wouldn't require me to work on Sundays and that was the day they were closed. I applied and started working there just before the end of my junior year of high school (spring of 1990, if you must know how old I am). I quickly felt at home with the staff there and soon my best friend, Stephanie, was working there as well. Aren't we cute in our aprons and white collared shirts?
(The staff all referred to the color of our aprons and the decor in the bakery as "Mason Mauve." I still call it that when I run across it!) I worked there throughout my senior year, and then full time the next two summers. Many of the Christmases while I was a college student I would come home in time to work during their crazy holiday rush that came the week before Christmas and I would earn a little holiday cash.

Here's a photo that Mrs. Mason sent me of my family singing in 1990. It's blurry, but since it captured my family doing something we often did, I had to include it. Not sure why we are singing in the bakery (maybe caroling at the Uptown Whittier Christmas Cantata?) It was my dad's dream that we be like the Von Trapps and from my very early childhood we performed together in friends' homes, at church, and other spots (apparently at the bakery!)

My wedding cake came from Mason's Bakery. Their traditional wedding cakes were not only beautiful, but tasted amazing. The flavors weren't the gourmet ones that are popular at the moment--they were all tried and true classics--but once you tasted the cake, you wished you'd taken a bigger piece. Brides came from all over Southern California to get their wedding cake from Mason's Bakery. One summer after I was in college, my younger brother, Martin, was their wedding cake delivery boy. I still cringe to think of how dangerous that was, since Martin is at least as accident prone as I am! Here he is with a cake ready for delivery:
Other favorite memories of my Mason's days include singing to the music in the back (on a good day, it was tuned to a station that sang hits of the 70s, 80s, and 90s,) eating lunch on the flour sacks, cracking jokes with Baker Bob and teasing Walter, the German baker (who many of the staff thought was a grump, but Steph and I knew how to make him smile and share a hot cookie!), watching Lupe split and fill cakes and Sue work the butter into the Danish, watching Mr. Mason decorate wedding cakes, and trying to see who could make Helen smile first. Helen had been with the Mason's for something like 30 years and she pretended to be scary and mean but she was actually sweet and soft and positively wonderful.

A bit of official history: Mason's was owned and operated by Walt and Barbara Mason. It had been in Mrs. Mason's family since 1946, when her father bought Community Bakery in East Los Angeles. In 1954, Walt & Barbara got married and Walt, just home from the Korean War, decided to work for his father in law while he figured out what he wanted to do in terms of college, etc. He found that he was good at it, and in 1965, Walt and Barbara bought the bakery from her parents. In 1985, they sold Community Bakery and opened Mason's Community Bakery in Uptown Whittier, closer to their home. Here is a photo that hung in both bakeries, of their oldest daughter, Teri, on her second birthday.Mason's Bakery was well known for many of their specialties: their chocolate eclairs were incomparable. I've never had anything like them. The custard was absolutely divine. Their traditional stollen was only made at Christmas and people came from all over to get it. Their breakfast danish was sooo good (although watching how much butter got worked into the dough each night was enough to keep will power strong--sometimes!) We also loved their white bread and cheese bread, which somehow tasted more like cake than bread. My favorite (and my family's) cookie out of the entire cookie case was the Dutch Girl. My dad called them Angel Tongues--I don't know why, but that's what they were known as around our house for years.
The Mason's and I have kept in touch over the years, writing letters to one another and often seeing one another when I'm in Whittier for a visit. Here's a photo of Mrs. Mason with Bronwen in May of 2007. I can't find a single picture of Mr. Mason, unfortunately. I'll have to get one. A few years ago, after they had sold the bakery in 2000 and moved into that glorious era known as retirement, they shared the Dutch Girl recipe with me. The bakery, under new ownership struggled, perhaps because others were not willing to sacrifice profit in order to use the highest quality ingredients, or perhaps because they were not willing to put the amazing amount of time required into the business. In any case, it is a loss for the community. I wish I could bop in for an eclair and a visit with the Mason's when I'm in Whittier. Instead, I do often get to visit with them in their home (which is nice) but without the eclairs. Bummer!

I recently asked the Mason's what they missed most about the bakery. Mrs. Mason named many of my favorite foods from there--the pecan rings, orange rolls, individual danish, and eclairs. Mr. Mason said he misses the plain butterhorn danish, but gets a hankering for orange rolls now and again. (Incidentally, the Mason's are very healthy eaters and as much as they miss these things, I am sure that they rarely indulged in them.)

Mrs. Mason also said she misses the people, both employees and patrons. She does not miss the financial pressures, the turnover of employees, or the health department visits!:) Mr. Mason does not miss any part of it!:) He enjoyed making it a success, but it so glad to have time now to do things he loves more, like golfing, playing music, making a guitar, and working in their beautiful garden that he wouldn't dream of going back! They frequently travel to visit their children and grandchildren and old friends.

Anyhow, the closing of the bakery is to the good fortune of my readers, because now I can share the Dutch Girl Recipe with you. It is somewhat labor intensive, but is well worth the work. The delicate pastry cookies are so light and heavenly (I guess that's why my dad dubbed them Angel Tongues.)

Mason's Bakery Dutch Girls

Ingredients (in two stages)

• 3/4 cup milk
• 1/4 cup water
• 2 T. butter
• 1 egg
• 3 1/4 c. flour
• 1/4 c. sugar
• 1 tsp. salt
• 1 T. rapid rise yeast

The first step of these cookies is to make a roll dough from the above ingredients. in your mixer, combine 3/4 cup flour, the sugar, undissolved yeast, and salt. Heat milk, water, and butter in the microwave until very warm (around 120-130 degrees.) Add to dry ingredients. Beat 2 minutes on medium speed, scraping sides of the bowl. Add the egg and mix in, then add remaining flour and mix until well combined. Weigh out 1 1/2 lbs of the roll dough and set aside for the cookies. Use the rest to make a couple of rolls!
Next, Combine the following ingredients in a mixer bowl:

• 3/4 lb. flour (about 2 cups)
• 1 lb. butter, at room temperature
• 1/4 lb margerine (I use butter, since I never buy the M word, and it works fine)
• 1/4 oz salt (about 3/4 tsp.)

Once well mixed, tear off chunks of roll dough and add to the bowl with the dough hook going, mixing lightly after each addition. Once all the dough is incorporated into the butter mixture, form long, thin logs, about 1" in diameter. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for easy handling.
Once the dough is firm enough to not be tacky, remove the logs from the fridge one at a time. Put sugar down on your work surface instead of flour. Cut the logs into balls about 1" or so and shape them into little fat sausages.Now put a generous amount of sugar on your work surface and roll them out two or three at a time into long, thin pieces (about 6" x 1.5"), turning frequently in the sugar. Place the cookies on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. Bake in a preheated oven at 360 degrees for about 12 minutes. (I like them best when they are just a little bit brown on the edges, when the sugar has really carmelized.)
With the rolls of dough we made, each one made about 20 cookies. I froze several rolls to bake on another day, since these are irresistible, and one batch makes about 200 cookies, which is more than I want in my house at any given time. The day we made these, I took a big plate to an open house and asked the babysitter to finish them off while we were gone! Self preservation--these cookies are heavenly!

Whew. That has got to be my longest post ever. But I couldn' t leave anything out. I probably lost most of you long ago, but if not, don't forget to leave a comment as a special 100th post gift to me! (Yes, it is all about me after all!)