Feeling

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This morning’s walk – a frigid one of icy sidewalks, red cheeks and noses, and beautiful skies. Winter has yet to loose the weather reins, but in these drought filled times, I’m glad for whatever moisture is delivered.

Red chile with chorizo, delightfully topped and dipped. Oh, and one of my best-ever margaritas. Birds of a feather and all.

I think this is going to be on the frequent dessert rotation list. It’s a very crave worthy gelatin, yogurt or sour cream, and cream cheese no-bake cake that whips up lickety-split quick. Since I am not terribly fond of cheesecake crust, I left it out, and it reads more like a wonderfully silky pudding, with minimal sugar. I love how any topping would make it shine. These are blueberries. Bananas and peaches forthcoming.

The hubster got a new job! As always, I am proud to be his #1 gal and cheerleader through a pretty exhausting process. We’ve decided that many tech companies, when interviewing, are more keen on what a candidate does NOT know than their actual strengths, both in software development and as an individual, relating human to human. Kinda sad. The very cool socks were part of a fun welcome-to-the-company swag box.

Carrot ginger soup with turmeric cream. I find it very curious that super orange carrots turned such a neon shade of yellow.

Double the yolk breakfast sammy. Isn’t nature a wonder?

This isn’t the prettiest in the land (see carrot soup above) but boy was it delicious! It’s a fish chowder (shrimp, clam, sea bass) with the ultimate chicken-style dumpling lily-gilder. More, please.

Simmering. The word that describes my rage. I have not spoken of this latest incarnation because I needed to wait. Wait for my disbelief and wonder at the actions of the worst president of my lifetime in our nation’s capitol. Of people in positions of power in my own state harming peaceful protestors.

I wrote this post almost FIVE years ago, with much hope that by now something positive would have happened for my brothers and sisters of color. But yet, here we are. This time, maybe? Please. Please. Because unless and until Black Lives Matter, the expression All Lives Matter (uttered by the clueless and privileged) holds NO currency. Because a life that truly matters is not held at the neck by an oppressor while three others in positions of authority blithely look on or, worse still, aid in holding down his body.

All the blooms to greet me yesterday morning and some greens, too. Not every beauty is a blossom. How I love this space and this patch of earth that is ours, no strings, save those attached within our hearts. Sometimes, when the city noise rattles uncomfortably beneath my skin, I ponder leaving for more solitude, more quiet, but then I list all that I love – Palmer Park a quick walk, downtown the same time via car, a little longer on the bike, and all our wonderful neighbors and growing things, I know it isn’t terribly likely. How my heartbeat quickens to witness the lodge pole climbing skyward, leaves in a slow motion unfurling, the coming of green, green, green, and every color of the rainbow. Home.

And how I look as I sit mesmerized, t-shirt, ponytail, no frills. An hour spent gazing. wearing my Grandma glasses, as Greg calls them, because I remind him of her when I wear them. A favorite hat, bought in New Mexico, of course. My best canine companion. And that light!!

 

Full

Yesterday afternoon, sweet rabbit necklace resting on an equally sweet magazine read. Greg took a very long lunch. Sadly nothing remarkable until we stopped for dessert at Amy’s for bomb-diggity donuts – Nutella fluff, apple fritter, and chocolate filled with cream. Eeek, that place!

We ran errands, too. A cookbook purchase, a stop at the grocery. I bought a Camerons stove top smoker about a month ago, and delight of delights, discovered¬† they have an outlet in Colorado Springs. I am having all kinds of fun with it, so we went to buy more chips. Smoked ribs, smoked chicken, smoked trout, smoked steak! I’ve done each up differently. Ribs with¬† barbeque sauce, chicken with sticky Asian ginger, and an Italian rosemary rub. Plain old for the trout and steak, which is not so very plain. Good fun!

It was one of those magical afternoons of big nothings and feeling full –¬† of all the best in life and of gratitude, too. For a husband who has the great privilege of working from home AND wanting to spend the afternoon with me.

Coming home to a dog eager for a sunshiney walk and a cuddle was pretty great, too. So very full, indeed. My sincerest thanks to whomever is in charge.

 

Teary

My visit to Portland. I never thought I would return – a twofold fear of the BIG one and the notion of visiting a city I would no longer know. A city that is no longer mine.

But I did it, without a moment’s hesitation. For Solveig, my daughter from another mother and her sweet kids. The family not born but built with infinite love.

And I kept crying. At the Eastern Oregon wrinkle of rivers, I cried. At Mount Hood towering beautifully over the forest, as it has for eons, beacon of the eastern skyline, I cried. Just about everywhere. Walking, eating, driving – snaking up and up the magical 20th-21st southeast to northeast ribbon, crawling past Alameda, Elliot Smith singing along. And me lamenting my latent appreciation. Better late than never.

Why the tears? Why so many? I never experienced such overwhelm when returning to Arvada, home of my youth. I realized that is precisely it. Portland is the birthplace of my adulthood, our FIRST house. Place where I learned to plant, to love plunging my hands in soil to witness the miracle of shoots turning to leaves, to plants, to boisterous blossoms. Even trees!

It is the place where my sense of self turned from liquid to solid, or at least the appearance of it, a slow moving slab of glittering glass.

Where I decided on friends, realizing I am worth kindness, not snark, open hands and hearts, worth goodness and the very best in people. Honesty and accountability. LOVE.

Where my politics and lofty dreams rooted, deep and sequoia strong. Be NICE. Don’t be a doormat. And as I wandered, I suppose my unconscious remembered before I did, saw the places where the first seeds were planted. Odd corners and unpaved roads of one great and glorious city.

And so the tears and sobs. Heaps and tons.

And hugs, conversation, blessed quiet, with the dearest people of my past and present, almost like I never left, but with it hanging in the air. The sweetest start of a soft storm, soaking me through, puddle jumping, LAUGHING, to myself and Portland, a city that remains very much mine.

 

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