Sand In The Garden

This morning I was reminded of the beach -- you know, the beach of last week, sunburn and shrimp?  Not to mention the record-size cobia which briefly grabbed my eldest daughter's baited steel line during her deep sea fishing outing with the men of our vacation group before snapping the rigging and becoming the biggest and best "the one that got away" fish story of our entire family.  But I digress.  My sunscreen took me back to the seashore: the non-comodogenic Neutrogena 55+ SPF tube which quells the melasma discoloration that erupts in patches on my face, a reaction between sun and hormones (like us women needed any further indignation where our hormones are concerned).  Was it the scent, perhaps, which stirred my memory?  Or the smooth way in which the lotion lightly glided across my tanned skin?  Maybe the familiar feel of the tube in my palm from numerous conscientious reapplications?  Well, no.  No.  An-n-d NO.  It was the sand which somehow found its way into the sunscreen and chafed my sensitive skin when I quickly applied it before my early walk.  All the same, a memory is a memory is a memory.  I may not have bought the t-shirt but I managed to bring back a memento all the same.  What was I to do?  Not a rock or a decent shell could I find on the trip.

 There may be sand yet undiscovered . . . 

 . . . now that I think about it . . . 

. . . the beach memories could be endless!

So, once my reminiscing dissipated, and all the sand and sunscreen and sweat mingled and dried after my walk, effectively sealing and clogging my pores for the duration of the day, I thought it wise to tackle a few rather obnoxious patches of overgrown weeds and Bermuda grass in my 'naturalized' landscape since it rained yesterday.  Hank the Wonder Pup, or Hankie Mutt as we now refer to him (his nicknames evolve in much the same way that mine do, courtesy of my moniker-loving husband), felt the urge to offer his brand of gardening assistance.  This manner of helpfulness can only be considered as such in the mind of a young and gregarious Labrador retriever.  I can't recount exactly how many times the phrase, "Hey, get outta there! STOP digging!  Leave it, Hank!" was uttered during the course of my back yard ministrations.  But plenty enough.  At some point, he nosed his way into something (I'd swear it was the fire pit but there was no evidence that it's entrances had been breached) that left a black swoosh atop his left eye.  In the end, he won me over, as he always does, with surreptitious licks at my sunscreen, which he disguises as kisses, and running passes in front of my bent form as I yanked several stubborn weeds from the end of the hydrangea bed.  Us dog lovers are easily swayed by our canine companions, regardless of the havoc they wreak.  I am hopeful, however, that he will mellow in the next year, or, gulp, two, as all my information states regarding his breed, and thus allow me to return to my enjoyable hobby of planting and gathering the fruits of my labor without fear of destruction!

 Hank the Dirty Dog

The mystery mark.

The remainder of my day passed in a colorful blur of varied activity bound together by food and family.  And, yes, Hank was right there in the mix.  My whole wheat quesadilla with three of the seven exquisite gourmet cheeses I selected for our beach trip, which managed to become that one item I forget every time I travel, along with my blendiferous splendiferous (Green Goodness drink, blueberries, strawberries and nonfat Greek yogurt) made my tummy pretty darned happy . . . if a bit gassy.  (Sorry.  It's the truth.  I occasionally suffer from flatulence after imbibing on too much dairy.  Or broccoli.  Or a compendium of other edibles I can't take the time or space to list.)  My daughter and mother-in-law (who vacuumed the front rooms and cleaned my kitchen) lured me to the patio not once, but twice.  There, beneath a slowly setting sun and under cover of the gaily-hued orange umbrella, we chatted about Sarah's good news regarding her imminent move to Germany within fourteen to twenty-one days (can you say overjoyed husband?!) and her quick trip to Colorado next week to bid her farewells to relatives up and down the I-25 corridor.  I schooled my mother-in-law, who I call Ollie (short for Olivia), on the finer points of Instagram and Pinterest.  And she oohed and aahed over my assortment of pictures stored on my iPhone for over half an hour.  I can sense the force is strong within her: she covets her very own iPhone for sure!  Who can blame her?

 Ollie lovin' on her little grandpup.

 Ollie's fun side . . . 

This is one of my most rePinned Instragram photos on Pinterest.

It's a dogwood in bloom in the beginning of our early spring this year.

It may be edited but I had the eye and the inspiration.

My bro-in-law and his family dropped in around seven.  He had the brilliant idea that it was the perfect time to break out my espresso maker and try our collective hand at concocting a couple of cappuccinos.  Through a comedy of errors resulting from our combined lack of experience with the machine, the final product resembled a thin dark syrup more than it did stout concentrated coffee.  Our drinks mutated into lattes to counter the potency as neither of us was  keen to grow a mat of chest hair to rival that of the glorious Mr. Tom Selleck.  (Very few can sport that look with such appealing success.)  Still, my energetic pounding at the laptop keyboard five minutes past midnight is testimony to the chemistry of the java bean under pressure.

 My espresso-loving bro-in-law hamming it up with his niece.

Oh, and before I close out for the day -- day referring to yesterday, Wednesday, which ended about fifteen minutes ago -- I learned a fun fact which pertains to me.  A new study has revealed a link between the regular ingestion of NSAIDs (non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs) like aspirin and Advil and a reduction in the occurrence of skin cancers, including malignant melanoma.  Seeing how I pop ibuprofen to my womb's content every month for about a week, I believe I may have earned that evident protection.  A possible moment of justice in the face of those nefarious hormones?  Perhaps.

With that, I wish you sound sleep and better days.  Start taking a low-dose aspirin if you worry about your exposure to the sun.  Might save your life.  Or at least your skin.

Shrimp, Sunburn and Sea Breezes

Hello and howdy from the patio of the Calypso beach house in sunny Destin, Florida.  We're 20 strong: 12 adults, 3 young adults, 1 teen, 3 children and 1 baby.  Oh, and the American Eskimo dog.  A good-sized pool (think cannon balls, laps and plenty of splashing/yelling/frolicking) with three stories of bedrooms, bathrooms, 2 sets of LG hi-tech washers and dryers, fridges in the kitchen and den, and superb thigh-busting stairs all the way to the top!  There's even an ice machine for keeping the margaritas and pina coladas flowing in the multi-colored solo cups -- if that's your poison.  Pamplemousse La Croix mineral waters are my personal hydration crutch; alcohol and sun seem rather counter-productive.

We're celebrating my niece's high school graduation.  Our group version of the the post-ceremony party.  Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and parents.  And all the damp beach towels and sunscreen-scented bathing suits we can muster.  It's been a pretty enjoyable affair, all in all, even with the surreptitious virus wending its way through the bowels and bellies of several in our group.  And my 48 hours of motion sickness (though it didn't hinder my under-cover-of-darkness venture into the ocean surf to investigate an undulating dark patch several yards out from the shore for the curious night crowd).  After my recovery, I've opted out of deep-sea fishing, the dolphin tour and Sea-Doo riding to avoid a repeat.  But that's all right with me.  Relaxing.  Moving in slow-motion.  Reading at my leisure.  Works for me.

The infant has been a particular delight to me: I had the satisfaction of rocking her to sleep this morning after her breakfast of cereal with formula.  That familiar stand-rock that develops with the first baby and continues at odd moments when there's not a baby in sight! That little round head bobbing up and down, eyes open and shut, chubby fist resting against my forearm, the sweetest breath and fine hair tickling my nose.  Her dad and I faced a distinct challenge squeezing her into a polka-dot bathing suit with a ruffle and criss-cross straps: who makes such contraptions?!  My early practice for grandmother-hood at some point in the future; I can't say whether that point be distant or right beneath my nose.  Thank you, wee Audrina, for allowing me to be a part of your support team.

Yesterday, somewhere in between leaving one restaurant's waiting queue for another with less of a crowd, my attention was transfixed with joy and satisfaction at the sight of my husband and children walking in front of me, joking, arms linked, heads bent to hear the words of the others, entirely engrossed in their familial ties.  I'm not sure I'd be capable of feeling any higher had I won the lottery in that passing of seconds.  Life affirming.  A sense of "I've done something right with these fine folks."  After dinner, there ensued the more common diatribe of "oh, my gosh, WHO gassed in the car with the windows rolled up!" and the like.  Ahhh, the classic clash of nostril and rank air molecules.

Right now, I'm cheering on my brother-in-law for being game to don his swimming trunks and join my energetic boy in the evening-lit pool.  The rest of us are in varying states of post-fun-in-the-sun fatigue.  Slumbering.  Or contemplating slumber.  Or the poor few who have had to become more intimately acquainted with one of the 9 restrooms at our, er, disposal.  Tonight we dined on fresh gulf and bay shrimp in pink and brown, heads on for the appreciative (I swear they add flavor in the boil) and heads off for the squeamish crowd.  Choices included shrimp-avocado dip, shrimp cocktail and a handsome piece of red snapper my daughter bought to share with all of us.  My famous roasted vegetables rounded out the offerings.  Did I fail to mention the scallops?  And about half an hour ago, I sampled 3, THREE, pies from a local bakery: key lime, chocolate and peanut butter.  The latter has my vote for favorite as the salt tempers the creamy sweet perfectly. 

We've one day left in our boisterous vacation.  Our entrance into summer.  It's been real.  It's been fun.  And it's been real fun.  I've even managed to rather like the appearance of my backside in a bathing suit.  (Thanks to Melissa Clark and Callanetics and my Brooke Burke video for the two most effective butt-tightening moves I've ever tried with any obvious visible success.)  The crack of dawn on the morrow will be welcomed by my ever-questing camera as I admire the stellar beauty of sunrise over the ocean.  Maybe I'll allow the tiny fish to again nibble at my toes and thighs as they mistake me for some sort of floating oceanic smorgasbord.  I might even finish my second beach read of the trip -- mindless epic modern romance of the over-the-top passionate kind.  Saturday morning will dawn with the urgency of packing and loading to meet the 9am vacate-the-premises deadline.

And there's still the matter of our family jaunt to the mountains of Colorado to witness the nuptials of yet another darling niece.  But that's in June and fodder for another entry.

I think I require another application of lotion to my slightly reddened back by my slightly reddened and super hunky husband.  Another vacation perk: the rubdown.  NOT the sunburn.  

 

Frothy Goodness

I possess mad frothing skills, it seems.  And not the frothy-about-the-mouth rabid fury kind, either.  Nope.  This evening, though the timing for caffeine is less than opportune, I finally got around to trying my Mr. Coffee Espresso Maker: the only Mother's Day present on my request list.  To be fair, I must share the credit with the machine itself -- besides touting the removable drip tray and it's ability to afford me home-brewed espresso drinks (double shot soy latte for me), the box label boasts of the "powerful milk frother." For once, false advertising claims are nowhere to be found; we'll leave that to Skechers and Nutella (as if anyone actually believed that there were miracle shoes that would alter the planes of your buttocks with little effort, or that a rich creamy chocolate-hazelnut spread had any health benefits other than to please the palate and provide quick sugary carbs).  My daughter, the married one (I have to admit, kinda fun to say that), takes great umbrage with these high dollar lawsuits over what she deems stupid and idiotic on the part of the consumers.  My explanation of the legalities and business parameters didn't sway her in the least.  She's one tough practical cookie, that one.  Ooh!  And cookies are great for dipping in coffee!  Not that  . . . I'm saying . . . I'd dip my sweet daughter . . . into a scalding cup of . . . er, coffee . . . 


Thanks to my frothy success (which I shared with my husband) the fatigue of the day has been banished clean away, the cobwebs in my brain swept away, by my first attempt at Espresso Brewing 101.  I'll be good for the next several hours.  But midnight is generally my bedtime hour of choice.  Except when I'm operating on four or five hours of fitful sleep from the previous night.  Still, what's a coffee-craving girl with curious experimentation on the brain to do?  The darned thing has been sitting in its box on the kitchen counter for five days.  It simply wouldn't be right to allow it to remain idle into the weekend.  (I'm thinking that's an unspoken rule in the Gift Receiving 101 course.)  Alas, there is a conspicuous lack of pictures to chronicle my maiden voyage through the narrow channels of grind-brew-and-steam as my nerves kept me on edge.  The process reminds me more of a ceremony than simple coffee making.  Like the Japanese Tea Ceremony.  And I so wanted to get it right.  Without steaming my face off.  The engineers at the Sunbeam Corporation ain't joking when it comes to that innocuous-looking steaming arm; I think one could reasonably cook a salmon fillet beneath it with a bit of practice.  Near the end, overcome with excitement and the fear that I had failed and wasted all that ground coffee, I did grab the arm and burn two fingers.  Only mild first degree burns.  A little souvenir of my journey into specialty coffee ala my own kitchen.


I caught my husband gazing at my new toy after setting it up for me.  When I asked what he was doing, he said he was checking out its profile.  "No," I said with sure knowledge, "No, you're not.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that you can't believe the day has come where your WIFE [who eschewed coffee with a righteous passion until a little over two years ago] needed her very own specialty coffee maker!"  His grin at my blistering insight said it all.  And it is a wonder.  I've gone coffee mad.  Making up for all of that lost time.  Moving quickly up the ranks from simple bold grinds and espresso (I'll never lose my affection for espresso!) to an exploration of alternative coffee brewing with bright and lemony beans from places like Guatemala.  I know about burr grinders and single-bean origin and Chemex versus French Press.  In fact, yesterday I attended a class -- this consisted of the head barista at Just Love Coffee Roasters here in the 'boro standing at a table and walking through the steps of the Chemex brewing process with me and one of my Earth Divas, Gayla, while our music leader from Cross Point looked on -- which kicked me up the coffee snob ladder just a tad.  Not only did we learn something quite interesting and new, but we also drank the results of our brewing AND received as a lovely parting participation gift our very own bag of whatever coffee bean our java-loving hearts desired.  Their organic fair-trade bags of roasted goodness are worth their weight in gold.  That's not too over the top now, is it?  Have I plunged over the edge of reason on this topic?


Anyhoo, of that session I do have pics.  And my imbibing of roughly 24 ounces of smooth dark nectar of the Gods had my bladder working overtime the remainder of the afternoon.  Nice, huh?

This is my mom's set-up.

Her ownership of said coffee maker is what led to my desire for ownership.

The Starbucks frothing cup did NOT come with the machine.

My mother is a very good influence when it comes to such things as this.

 Our young java sensei.

 Gayla taking notes on the finer points of Chemex brewing.

She actually owns the apparatus.  

I attended at her behest.

I love it when she behests.

That's what Earth Divas do.

We behest.

 Weights and careful measures make all the difference.

I'm loving the orange scales.

And the two guys chatting on either side of the Chemex in the background.

 I tried to suggest the pretty beehive pots would make a lovely parting gift.

At around $60 a pop, that would be a NO GO!

Timing is also crucial to the process as seen here.

 Here you see the 'blooming' before the actual pour.

This step comes after wetting the extra-thick filter.

The grounds are actually raising.

And expelling gas.

Sounds like someone I know.

 Here comes the brew!

 The first precious ounces of bright and earthy yumminess . . . 

 They roasted a batch of beans while we were there.

Oh, the scents that wafted about the airspace!

Titillating to the nose.

 Pulling back for a look-see at the roaster and roast-master.

 Gayla exercising what she learned.

Wetting the filter.

I still yearn to own that little pot!

 The weigh-in for my bloom: we were instructed to sit between 50-100 grams.

I chose 81. 

 Divisible by 3.  

One of my favorite OCD numbers.

 The weight of the final pot.

I hit it perfectly.

Another favorite number divisible by 3.

And 4+5=9.

9 is also divisible by 3.

Wait.  

Have I mentioned the whole thing about numbers divisible by 3?

And how their numbers add up to other numbers divisible by 3?

And that's how to tell if a large number is divisible by 3?

Have I divided you into sleep yet?

Or simple confusion?

 We also learned the art of Japanese iced coffee.

THAT was a flavor treat.

 Her name is NOT Jason.
Her name is Kim.

But her apron was MIA.

I'd like one of their aprons.

Stuffed inside that little teapot.

 We hope to see future classes in larger numbers.

But we aren't complaining!

Check out those free bags of coffee.

Things of beauty.

I went with the Tanzanian Peaberry.

Gayla's favorite.

Born at the feet of Mt. Kilimanjaro. 

Josiah and his girlfriend simply make a great digital impression.

Had to share.

He's drinking Chemex-brewed coffee in that Starbucks insulated mug.

We had to share that, too.

A Day of Hope

Over the weekend, I participated in what I hope will become an annual event for the community of Murfreesboro: the Day of Hope down on our town square.  The Way of Hope is the homeless program which falls into the category of "overflow shelter" about which I wrote in a previous blog entry.  Local churches provide the shelter, and staff one night a month, for a mix of women, both single and with children.  Brad, the founder and organizer of the whole shebang, loads up a trailer behind his SUV with air mattresses, bedding, toiletries and the personal belongings of the program's participants, and along with volunteer drivers (something I enjoy each time our turn comes up), shuttles these ladies to and from their home for the night.  Our church has had the distinct privilege of providing a safe and comfortable place for The Way of Hope several times a week at times.  It's fantastic to offer our facility for such a pressing and vital need as this one.  Though we be small in number, we try to provide big when we can.  I love that about Cross Point and it's members.

So, this Day of Hope event on Saturday was a somewhat hastily put together affair.  The day before Mother's Day popped up as available a month in advance and had to be snapped up or lost.  Brad pours his energy MORE than full-time into his fledgling program -- not yet a year old -- and supplemental staff is non-existent at this time.  His wife and kids support him and The Way of Hope to the best of their ability outside of their regularly scheduled family life.  In light of these facts, I'd say the light turnout, without the benefit of an advertising blitz or several months of advanced planning, was a success.  A template of what will, and what won't, work in the years to come.  But the ladies had a blast, aiding in selling drinks and snacks at their booth, along with modeling gowns in the big fashion show which brought the day to its elegant, if somewhat sodden, end.  Their children fully enjoyed face painting, free candy and the run of the place.  Our worship leader, along with other musicians including his lovely and quite talented girlfriend, played live music in the midst of off-and-on rain.  Vendors rented space to display and sell their homemade arts and crafts: I made a few nifty purchases, including pretty owl earrings and a clever purse woven from 'yarn' made from recycled plastic bags.  (The purse is a tardy birthday gift for one of my readers and dear friends -- so I can't post a picture of it quite yet.)  Churches set up 'booths' to increase awareness of the role they play in supporting The Way of Hope, including ours.

My participation allowed me to spend a good part of my day with my friend and pastor, Rodney, and his Earth Diva of a wife, Gayla.  Have I mentioned just how very much I love, respect and admire these two dynamic people?  (Gayla can know but please don't tell Rodney.  He struggles with ego problems.  Just KIDDING!)  My married daughter joined me later in the day for the fashion show.  My hubby dropped off an gyro platter for my lunch.  And there were those delightful Mayer lemon cookie thins I brought along to dip in the Starbucks coffee I bought at The Way of Hope's booth.  Not to mention the shopping, picture taking, kid watching, and overall enjoyment of the mild weather (before the late afternoon drizzle) and visitors to the venue.  Oh!  There was even a friendly dog.

During a lull in the fashion show, created by rain and a need to move music equipment and usher the coiffed and dressed-to-the-nines ladies to shelter, Brad asked if anyone wanted to speak about their involvement with the program.  One of the younger Way of Hope women took the stage and gave her story.  And then I raised my hand.  To the small crowd huddled against the mercurial spring weather of Middle Tennessee, with a canopy of sycamore above and the catwalk and red carpet below, I told of my own history with homelessness.  How the help of strangers, through churches and various social programs, carried me and my family through rough times.  They provided havens without judgement.  I talked of how I understood what it was like to be a child in such circumstances.  And how as an adult I realized the difficulties of being a parent in such dire straits.  I told them that I was one of the many faces of the homeless; who would ever know if I didn't share the fact?  I expressed the need that exists for society to realize that the homeless are real people, not simply faceless persons, deadbeats, abusers of the system.  I pointed out that communities are hurt when we don't incorporate the support of homeless and abused women and children into the fabric of our overall social plan.  Especially communities where churches play an integral part in the structure of a town or city.  I felt the responsibility and privilege of my words, my history, my participation.

It really was a pretty fabulous day, quirks, rain, time issues and all.  Next year, I'd like to be more involved in the planning and running of the Day of Hope event because I believe it is important.  Important enough to warrant a group effort to aid a man and his dream of a program to build upon its mission and its success.

And now, here are the pictures to prove it that I didn't simply make this whole thing up!

 Rodney and The Dog

 Vendor Alley and Shoppers

 Brad, doing what Brad does . . . 

 My Cross Point Co-Horts: AKA "The Dynamic Duo"

 Mister Lytrel -- My Son's Biggest Fan!

 Lytrel's Little Brother and His Sucker

 I Need to SEE This Shot!

 Some Things Still Are Free!

 Me and My Feet Making the Red Carpet Safe.

 Setting The Stage

 Sound Check

 The Gathering Crowd

 Musicians Taking Cover

 This Woman Moved after Katrina.  

She is Recovering from Addiction.

She Asked that I Post a Picture: She's Looking for her Son.

She Wants Forgiveness and A Second Chance.

 Josiah Getting Into the Meat of the Song!

 The Guitarist: One Cool Dude

 The Fair Maiden of the Keyboard

 One of The Way of Hope Ladies Sang for Us.

 And Here Come our Models . . . 

 Sashaying Across the Red Carpet . . . 

 Looking Elegant and Happy . . . 

 Working that STRUT!

 Lytrel's Gorgeous Mom . . . 

 And Here They Are: The Reason for This Day.

 Even Their Children were In The Act: Handsome

 She WORKS This Dress, Doesn't She?

 And SHE is Totally Working the Cuteness Angle!

 And Then Came Round Two of the Rain.

Not Good for Gowns or Weaves, My Friends!

 Ready for Her Close-Up.

 Brad Singing His Heart Out: The Way of Hope Song.

 As Each Women Left the Stage, She Carried a Sign.

One Side Expressed her "before . . . "

 And the Other Side Expressed her "after . . . "

 The Silence, Punctuated by Only The Simple Words on Cardboard . . . 

 Spoke Volumes.

 It Was Powerful . . . 

 Heartbreaking . . . 

 Hopeful . . . 

 And In The End . . . 

 TRIUMPHANT!

Say HELLO to Brad and His Extended Family.

A Success Story Still In The Making.