Braving the Cold

On Saturday morning we woke to snow--kind of crazy with all the blossoms and flowers everywhere. And the temperature plummeted. I think it was 80 on Tuesday, and then down in the 30s and 40s the rest of the week. Jess and I braved the cold to go to a baseball game Saturday night--the Nationals and the Diamondbacks. We don't need to really discuss the score, but we do need to discuss the fact that the D-backs have new uniforms. Who knew they decided to join the rest of the free world (or at least the league) and have red and white? While I'm not a fan of purple and turquoise, I rather liked the effect with the scary diamondback snake.

At any rate, we bundled up--layers of thermals, wool sock liners, big blankets, hats, gloves, turtlenecks, scarves, coats--and thanks to the hot chocolate that Jess had to walk all over the ball park to find, we stayed relatively warm. It was grand.

You're all worth it!

I am suffering from the worst allergies of all 32 years of my life. It started a week or so ago, and I figured the sneezing was kind of funny, but it quickly progressed to major congestion, headache, and a sinus infection. Well, $100 later, loaded up with Zyrtec, Nasonex, and Z-pak, I'm on the road to recovery... right?!?

So this morning to celebrate my road to recovery, I overcame my shortness of breath (yes, I run out of breath just by standing up and talking! I feel so old!), and my roommate and I went to see cherry blossoms! The jewels of Washington DC--and well worth the price. It was incredible... so many white ways of delight. We wandered along Haynes Point, then parked and walked along the Tidewater Basin. It was kind of chilly-but incredible. I guess only 20% of the blossoms are out right now, which means I must go again later this week. My favorites were the weeping white blossoms, but all of them were incredible. I even told the blossoms, with my plugged up nose, "You're all worth it!"

I'm including pictures of the great flowers in front of our house... and you'll see where the squirrels have wreaked their havoc on my tulips. If you know ANYTHING about how to stop squirrels, please, share!

Golda

My car's name is Golda, named after her color (a nice champagne) and the character on Fiddler on the Roof. She's great.

Well, was great. Last week Golda began sounding deep and throaty--you know--the good morning voice (thankfully without the breath), the congested feeling. I figured it was the muffler, but my pretend-mechanic friend figured it was the air filter. We tried all sorts of tricks, but nothing worked. He said not to worry about it, but poor Golda's voice haunted me.

Of course, I worried about money, how to find a trustworthy mechanic, and time. I discovered that another friend had a family friend from Vietnam who conveniently works at the Honda dealership. I took Golda in early this morning, and sure enough, Abee showed me the rusted out hole in the muffler. It looked horrible. I wonder if it's from all the road salt.

At any rate, within 45 minutes, Abee had replaced the muffler and given me his employee discount on parts, charging me only half for the labor. Bless his Vietnamese heart. I guess he only works one day a week now that he's back in school, and Wednesday just happens to be the only day I don't have class, so it worked out perfectly. I love that there are honest mechanics, that there are people eager to help and serve, and that I'm in the right place at the right time.

And Golda runs like butter now. Don't you all wish you could have a ride?

March Madness, or Spring Break JennyReeder style

I love filling out NCAA brackets. Every year I fill one out, and I don't really follow college basketball. I love choosing names and circling winners and striking losers. I love that it's all a game for me. My friend has two brackets: one by the head and the other by the heart. Another guy lets his son fill out a bracket according to mascots (who would win, a panther or a duck?). It's good times.

This week is my spring break. Instead of an exotic vacation to the beach somewhere, I decided (well, I like to think I decided when really it was more like a decision made for me in my graduate-ness--no money and the doom of 4 papers/projects due the first week in May) to stay here and work like a maniac. I did take a day off and went to Philadelphia with my friend Kelli. We hit the King Tut exhibit (definitely NOT worth $35, unless you count maybe $1 for every object you see!), then the small Rodin museum (which reminded us both of Paris--ah!), and up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. Then we walked down to all the historic sites--Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, etc.

Being the week before St. Patrick's day, we encountered a strange phenomenon: random runners wearing green prom dresses. We had to snap some shots. When Kelli asked what they were running for, they looked at her like she was crazy for not knowing and said, "We're running for Green!" The security guard at the Liberty Bell shook his head and said "They'll be drinking all the way through St. Paddy's."

The highlight of the trip, and the TRUE March Madness for me, was the Philadelphia Flower Show. I cannot express how much I love flowers. I love the color, the smell, the design. This show was amazing--apparently it's on the list of 1,000 things to do in your lifetime. The theme was Ireland, so many of the displays revolved around quaint Irish gardens. Some were a little over the top (one had wacky glittery shoes hanging in a dead tree with a leprechaun poem and another had a wedding party in the middle of a pond). I loved the window boxes, the lamp flowers, the variety and texture. I felt alive--grateful for God's creations and for what people can do with those creations.

2nd Grade Groundhogs Day

I have a very vivid memory of Groundhogs Day when I was in the second grade. My teacher announced that we would be making a little groundhog village out of paper. Being the little overachiever and perfectionist that I am, I immediately freaked out. I didn't know how to make a groundhog village! What was she thinking? I was only in the second grade, after all! How was I magically supposed to know how to actually create a groundhog, let alone a groundhog village? The audacity of it all! I believe tears were shed in my consternation.

My wise teacher kindly and patiently heard me out and quietly encouraged me to just try. Through my tears I scribbled out a little groundhog and then made a little house. Suddenly I realized that I could do better, and I added several features, like a mailbox and a windowbox. Before you can pause to see your shadow, I had caught fire. My groundhog village took off--I made a groundhog school, a groundhog hospital, a groundhog post office, a groundhog store, a groundhog library. By the end of the day, my teacher had to pry me away from my now expert groundhog village.

I've been feeling that same second grade panic again as of late. I have to create a website? I ask my digital history professor in sheer panic. But I don't know design! I don't know CSS! I don't know how to manipulate curves and levels in Photoshop! I just want to be a historian! How can you expect me to know what colors go together and how to create gradients and masks, how to use the right typeface to create an inviting ambiance and represent my time period?!? The audacity! I also have to write papers and read and complete assignments and maintain a busy social calendar and life a life of culture! How can you expect me to drop everything and EXPERIMENT? Who has that kind of time?

And yet there's a secret part of me that really does revel in color blending and texture--after all, isn't it like quilting? And I secretly could spend hours playing with fonts. So maybe my fear is really that I've found a new activity, one that I know I'm not very good at yet, but that I could be good. I'm afraid that I'll have to buy a new computer (no! not a Mac!) and the newest versions of Photoshop and Dreamweaver. I'm afraid that I will get sucked into hours spent hunched over my keyboard, digging through websites, creating digital groundhog hospitals and libraries. Who knows what this could start?

If only I had the energy of a second-grader... and my construction paper and crayons for tools...

Footloose, but not fancy free

After a restless night of tossing and turning (so many papers and readings and decisions running through my head), I finally got up this morning, anxious to get to work. I was planning on squeezing in time to go to the gym--at times like this I can be found with my latest reading, my head bobbing on the elliptical or the bike as I breeze through the pages and try to pump my body at the same time. But when I emerged from my basement room and saw such perfect running weather outside, I took off on foot.

It had rained all night and was supposed to rain all morning, but the sun was peaking through heavy gray clouds and warmed up the temperature all the way to 57 blessed degrees! Everything was wet--the trees glistened with tiny drops and I stomped through puddles in my old running shoes, the muddy water licking my lily-white legs. As I shed my long-sleeve T, I felt liberated and ran faster and harder. If only I could shed my other troubles... at least I got some great respite on the road.

Sierra rocks my world

This little note from my dear niece Sierra says it all. The crazy thing is that I know she just sat down and did this all by herself--no prompting or anything. Honestly. My sister, her mom, was just like that. I remember her writing these crazy entries in her journal when she was probably 8 that went something like this:

Today is MY day. Today everything is going MY way.

And she would go on and on. I love the confidence, the excitement, and the love in this style of writing--the firm expression and delight and hope in life.

And I'll scan and post the valentine Sierra sent me this year. It seriously made my whole month, just like this card.

Translation: Dear Jenny You are beautiful as spring time flowers! And as refreshing as the rain! Love Sierra!

There is nothing like the Finish Line Flourish. My roommate Jessica and I ran the George Washington Birthday 10K on Saturday. We laughed about paying $22 to run in 19 degrees cold, up and down, up and down a stretch of Eisenhower for 6. whatever miles. The course was supposed to wind through Old Town Alexandria or somewhere cool or something, but the recent snow storm created problems and left ice everywhere. So we literally ran a double loop up and down. It made things with the fast runners a little interesting--two police escorts created a nice path for them in the middle as they finished the race.

My favorite part is always the finish line. I don't know where the energy comes from--somewhere deep inside me--whenever I see the finish line. This course was a little tricky because I saw the finish line twice, but it was only the REAL finish line the second time, so the finish line flourish didn't happen until then. But this surge of energy comes literally racing out, and my legs just start moving and the rest of my body has to keep up with them. The blood courses and the oxygen pumps and I feel like a mighty moving machine. It really takes a lot of energy, usually when I'm the most spent, and I sometimes wonder if I'll be able to keep it up all the way through to the end. But I always do. And I'm pleasantly surprised at how strong I am and fast and how real my hidden energy reserves are. If only I could pull those out in the other areas of my life...

There is nothing like a full tank of gas. I'm talking literally, here, though of course there is a moral lesson. No, I'm talking about real life--being a student, not having a lot of money, trying to make every penny count. Part of that means really hoping for good gas mileage. And calculating every new tank. Lately I've gone down by up to five miles a gallon. I even got new tires--which weren't really in the budget, but extenuating circumstances (read NAIL) called and it really was time. Unfortunately, my spiffy new Costco tires haven't solved the gas mile problem, and I really didn't think I was pushing it too far with my low gas this morning. I think my car barely crawled into the gas station--my favorite in Fairfax, with usually much lower prices than elsewhere.

Luckily, I made it. Now I know, my sweet grandmother has always worried about me and has taught me to always have a half tank of gas in the same breath as to tell me to say my prayers. And I've always kind of laughed that off, thinking I'm a poor student and that I live paycheck by paycheck. Plus, there's something adventurous about living on the edge. But mark my words, there is nothing as beautiful as the relief that comes after I do make it, and my tank is full. I mean, with a full tank, I could drive all the way to Jamestown and most of the way back. Or just last about a week and a half on my student budget.

Last night, when I knew my tank was very low, I drove with my cousin and aunt on a little night tour through the District. We took my cousin's car so the boys' car seats would fit in the back, but I drove because I've been here the longest (and I can proudly drive into the District without getting lost). I noticed, though, driving my cousin's car, that her tank was full. And I realized how safe I felt. It was a huge relief--I knew that I could handle driving anywhere--or at least be clearly safe to make it to a gas station and refuel.


So yeah, I think from now on I'm going to follow my grandmother's advice.

Yes, it's true... it's official... it's a snow day. I have lived 32 years of life, a majority of them in Utah--the Intermountain West and the Everlasting Hills--and I've lived through the Blizzards of '05 and '06 in New York City--never a snow day among them. I move to Washington DC, there's a 1/2 inch of snow and the threat of ice, and after driving in to work for the afternoon, all evening classes are canceled. It's brilliant!

Part of me thinks it's wimpy. I want to protest. I've tromped through two feet of snow to take finals at BYU, and two feet of snow through the streets of Harlem to get to church. I've gone running in Central Park with a wind chill of 4 degrees (thanks to vaseline slathered on my face--it makes a great wind retardant). I've driven through the Rockies with 5 feet of snow (granted, I-70 was plowed). Where are the guts and muscle of the people of our nation's capital?

On the other hand, I'll be honest. I'm delighted. I honestly think it's a blessing--a true tender mercy. I'm exhausted and I don't know if I could make it through 2 1/2 hours of Clio 2 Digital History, then drive 20 miles home on an inch of ice at 10:00 at night. Instead, I am going to sit at home. I am going to read The Making of the English Working Class (I know, I know--you're all going to run to your nearest Amazon.com to order your very own copy!) for my Thursday class, and I'm going to actually watch a movie! On a week night! And go to bed early! I am so excited.

Meanwhile I look out the window and drink in the snow. All 1/2 inches of it. Maybe there'll be more in the morning--and maybe there'll be ice on the trees. I can't wait to wake up and see. Maybe work will be canceled tomorrow, too!

Oh, the comfort of food. Southern food. Southern comfort food. Last night my good friend Sue invited me over to her house for dinner. We're both so busy: she's a lawyer for the EPA and I'm a full-time graduate student. We see each other in passing at church and try to catch up as she runs up to play the piano for Primary and I rush off to our New Member meetings. So she invited me over to her house so we could catch up.

I think it was the nicest thing anyone could have done for me yesterday. Wednesday nights are the only weeknights I have without class. Of course I try to cram everything else in--yesterday I had a haircut and a paper due, not to mention work and reading like a mad woman. I didn't have time to even think about making dinner. Sue made, from scratch, oven baked fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits with strawberry freezer jam. And for dessert: cookies with oatmeal, chocolate chips, craisins, and cashews. Delicious. The warm food, the conversation, the combination of tastes--I felt well taken care of. It was delightful.

I think food does wonderful things. I love that as a culture we look to food for healing--when a new baby is born or when someone is sick or has passed away, we take over a plate of food. If we can feed someone something warm and tasty, we can contribute to relieving burdens. Of course there's always the strange concoctions that you really don't want to eat (why do we make so many casseroles?), but for the most part, food always tastes better when someone else makes it. One night recently my little brother wanted some leftover chicken noodle soup, and he wanted my mom to warm it up. She was busy--but Josh insisted that it always tasted better when she did it. So he brought her into the kitchen and physically moved her hand to ladle soup into a bowl and push the microwave buttons. It was definitely more work than it would have been to just do it himself, but I think he wanted the human connection even more. Of course Mom laughed and loved Josh and his quirky ways even more.

One of the kindest parts about my meal last night was that Sue packed up leftovers for me to eat today. I have class until late at night, so three days a week I end up packing both lunch and dinner. Today I'll have some fried chicken. I won't ask Sue warm it up for me, but I will remember her sweet service and effort to feed me. And I'll eat every last crumb. It'll give me the energy to get through a long historiography class tonight. So I think I'm hungry right now...

I love the sun. It's been cold and gray lately, and I've been doing a lot of reading down in my basement. This morning I had to go in to work earlier than usual, and I realized that in addition to being earlier than I anticipated, I also needed to finish reading the History of the Conquest of Mexico (grrrr... 456 pages... written in 1843... super small type). I headed over to the Johnson Center to the upper atrium in the library and found the room filled with early morning sunlight. It was actually interesting to read about Cortes and Montezuma and conquest and gold. The book turned out to be quite the romantic adventure (not as in love, but more as in adventure).

But more then that, I loved basking in the winter sunlight. I had forgotten the power of warmth and light. I know there's vitamin D or something and there's some chemical balancing out, but I yearned for the emotional warmth. I actually fell asleep up there in the ragged old cheap easy chair. It was one of the best naps I've had in a long time. The sun made all the difference.

It's all about perspective. This morning in my yoga class, I saw myself in the mirror in a new angle and was horrified. My downward dog looks so clumsy and awkward! All this time I thought I was smoothly gliding through my sun salutations, but as I peeked behind me between my legs, I realized that my knees are totally bent inward and my back makes more of a table than a nice inverted angle. I tried and tried to belly in, but my body just wouldn't slide into it like everyone around me. And I think my butt is crooked. I swear--I've never noticed so many weird angles where it should have been straight... It was all a bit disconcerting, and the stretch felt awkward and almost painfully weak.

But then a little later with a shift to the side, I caught myself in a very beautiful reverse triangle. I was in form, in line, everything going the right direction--you could have fit me between two glass walls just like the yoga instructor always says. Suddenly I was strong and capable and graceful. That's the perspective I want to keep with me.

I come from a family of sewers. Crazy quilters. My great grandmother, my grandmother, my mother, my sister, my cousin, my aunt--we are all drawn to fabrics and patterns and colors and textures. For weddings and babies, we quilt. We have to touch and create and cover and warm.

I grew up playing under the quilts my mom and GrandNomi quilted in her basement next door--I loved playing with the thumbtacks and scraps (I still remember the box with the yellow rose on the top where she kept thumbtacks) and looking at the underbelly of the quilt, helping them roll the boards over as they moved in and fetching thimbles and thread and whatever. I have a quilt made by my great grandmother hanging on my bedroom wall--with its wild, bright colors and cotton peeking out. I was told that she picked the cotton on her farm in southeastern Arizona. I remember walking down the long rows of cotton plants as we trekked from her house to the Gila River to play in the mud, and I wonder if she did the same thing to escape the summer heat.

My mom bought me a sewing machine for a birthday and graduation present five or six years ago, and it surprisingly has become one of my most prized possessions. It's not even fancy--something on sale from Sears--but I love it dearly. I felt separated when I had to leave it in Utah--no space in my Harlem apartment. I brought it home to Virginia with me on the airplane after Thanksgiving. I called Delta to find out if I could carry it on the plane--and after a long pause and wait on hold, I discovered I could as long as I removed the needle. It fit snugly in the overhead bin, and then some nice guy carried it for me along the concourse to baggage claim. I now feel like I'm fully moved in--at home--with my sewing machine.

I don't know what it is. It's not like I'm a stay-at-home mom, and I'm not super domestic. I don't have tons of time to sew. I don't make clothes or costumes. I had my love affair with my sewing machine before the whole new sewing trend with Project Runway. Over Christmas I helped my brother make a quilt for his girlfriend, and I loved watching him participate in this ritual, crossing the traditional gender divide with his own brand of breezy acceptance. I loved watching his rock-climber, river-running, skier hands pick through fabrics, cut, run them through Mom's old machine. I loved hearing how excited his girlfriend was to get her new quilt. I can picture her and him rolled up in it, keeping warm in their freezing cold house in the Colorado mountains.

Recently I decided to make a quilt for my bed that matches my great grandmother's quilt--and I picked out fabrics of the same patterns and colors. I never would have put them together on my own, but I feel her inspiration and guidance. And I realize how much I need her to play an active role in my life. So now, even as the semester starts and I scramble to stay on top of my readings and papers, I have fabric spread across my floor and I puzzle over their patterns. I come home from a late class with my brain so full of questions and critical theory and notes that I need sewing-therapy before I can unwind and go to bed. There's something soothing about cutting things apart and sewing them back together.

Something soothing, and something healing. I love that I can mend something or fix something at the flip of a switch. I love the feel of the fabrics, the comfort that this quilt will cover me and warm me, and that it is of my own making--with the silent and sure hand of my great grandmother--and in turn, my grandmother, my mother, my sister, my cousin, and my aunt. I feel their love. And it all stems from a Sears sewing machine.

I had the most divine meal in New York City last Saturday night. I was in town with a friend and her dad and sister, so we went all out.

Appetizers: butternut squash dumplings and edamame dumplings, spring rolls with ginger mustard and plum sauce, and wan tons.

Rice: vegetable rice with coconut curry foam (and pineapple!).

Vegetable: sugar snap peas with carmelized mushrooms.

Entrees: Kung Pao chicken with apple, shrimp and lobster chow fun with noodles, and the most amazing filet sirloin with wanton potatoes (hello--a cup of Lays potato chips, I swear) and butter garlic soy sauce. I seriously get chills just thinking about it. I have never had beef melt in my mouth like that--I didn't even have to chew! It was amazing.

Dessert: Kaffir lime tart--steamed yuzu souffle, candied citrus, and lemon custard ice cream; and a pumpkin souffle with hazelnut ice cream.

It was amazing. AMAZING. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it--so succulent and full of texture and flavor. My afternoon popcorn snack just doesn't cut it.

I think luggage says a lot about a person. I have a navy blue set, cloth, with a black and yellow strap that snaps around each piece. And my set has 4 pieces--the largest being so super big that only Jet Blue will take it without paying extra. I bought the set on a super BYU bookstore sidewalk sale a couple of years ago and it was served me well, thought it is beginning to show signs of wear. My smallest piece, a carry-on, suffers from a broken slide-out handle: you can still use it, but if you pull it all the way out, the metal handle slides right off. The other pieces suffer from typical airplane baggage-handler mishaps--a few scratches and slipped stitches here and there. And then the second biggest piece is becoming mishapen--I think from all the stuff I've stuffed in and sat on to zip closed. You all know what I mean.

Well, I started thinking about all of this when I flew home after Christmas. I sat at the baggage claim in Baltimore for what seemed like a really long time (doesn't it seem like the earlier your flight arrives, the longer you have to wait for your baggage? It's almost like the baggage handlers stick to the flight schedule and deny you of any excitement of actually arriving early), but I found myself purely entertained as I waited for my blue set. You see all sorts of course: from flashy Louis Vuitton leather bags to pink Disney princess little kids' stuff. I spied one suitcase that came out opened with clothes falling out. Now that's embarrassing. And my favorites are the old school hard suitcases with metal snaps. I saw a green one.

And the little ribbons and labels that people attach so they can know what is theirs at a glance. I saw rainbow straps, green Christmas ribbons, knitted pom-poms, professional black labels, etc. It always makes me wonder what's inside, if the owner is coming or going, why the need to travel, etc. While I'm sure many of those suitcases are full of dirty laundry, I hope some of them have seen grand adventures and good times.

When I flew home for Christmas, I was sort of stuck on the plane in a crowded row with a dad and his 2-1/2 year old and his 1 year old, with the wife and 4-week old baby across the aisle. At first it was quite fun entertaining the girls, but the fun wore off as they got tired and couldn't get comfortable to fall asleep. Covered in cookie crumbs and feeling slightly overwhelmed as an unintentional passenger-made-babysitter, I decided that it as much as I have wanted my own kids, it was ok to be single and free.

Today in church, a woman shared her thoughts and thanked the single women around here who had been able to help take care of her kids. She mentioned that they were often better mothers than she was, that when she was stretched to her limit, they seemed to step in with the extra energy to give her sons attention and love that depleted her.

I had dinner this afternoon with my cousin and her husband and two sons. I love how much her little boys love me. They gave me a million little hugs and kisses and showed me all their tricks and asked me to help them make decorations and to watch them play on the playground out back and to finish their dessert. When Bryce poured his mom's makeup all over the bag, I calmly stepped in and helped her clean it all up. I remembered the words of the woman at church and I was eager to help. On my way home, I called my nephew and niece. As I hung up, Sierra told me, "I love you a hundred percent." How grateful I am to be an aunt and a cousin and an airplane babysitter. While it's especially nice to go home to my own quiet, clean house, with adult conversation, I recognize that I can be a mother in my own way. I've always grumbled at the concept in my very single life, but I realize it's actually a unique blessing to me, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Except maybe a husband and my own kids. And only if they come one at a time in increments and they are clean and well-behaved. And they love me 100%.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever
Last night I went with my mom and my sister to the traditional Christmas Eve pageant at church. Every year it's exactly the same--same songs, same narration, even usually the same people playing the same parts. Sure enough, last night we saw the same multicolored lights lining the pews along the walls and the same tinsel on the angels as they stood to sing "O Holy Night."

I think the most touching part this year was the very human experience. I have to say that I loved the little shepherd boy who totally winced when the spotlight came on, covering his face with his crook. And I loved that Mary came in on her solo early, right when the angels were supposed to sing. She sang beautifully, without error, other than the fact that it wasn't her turn. The angels patiently waited, and sang their song later. Then, after more narration and music, Mary's real cue came and she sang her lullaby again, not missing a beat. No embarrassment, no shame, no wrong note. It was great.

My favorite part, though, was the first wiseman. This is one of the strangest, crustiest old men in the ward. I couldn't figure out how they convinced him to dress up in a shiney gold paisley robe with a velvet turban on his head. But there he was, resolutely marching up the aisle with his pearls (I don't remember pearls in the original story, but they were pretty fancy). He didn't really keep time with the slow melody of "We Three Things" as the traditional script called. Instead, he glided along quite quickly, with his eye on Mary and her baby doll the whole time. I realized that for him, this little pageant was very real--I watched his eyes glistening in the light of the Christmas icicle lights hanging in the front of the chapel. He sincerely, genuinely wanted to bring something to the Christ child.

Suddenly the Christmas message is a very real one--it means everything that Christ was born in a manger, because then He understands the depths and depravity of life. He also understands and welcomes our sincere efforts to know and serve Him.

A dear friend of mine shared this Christmas message with me. It is beautiful art set to sacred music, illustrating the true and very real meaning of Christmas. http://beholdingsalvation.byu.edu/presentation/presentation.php

Merry Christmas. May you find peace and light and healing in the very human, real, genuine experiences of your life.

Ah... relief! I love the feeling of relief! I just turned in my final project for the semester, and I'm done. I finished my first semester of my PhD...

Relief is also the feeling I experienced when I woke up and realized my dream of being back in the MTC to go on yet another mission was just a dream. I don't even know where I was going... I was just wandering around the MTC in a bathrobe, trying to find a shower before the first orientation meeting, and wondering how in the world I could get my hair highlighted before I left...

So many ways to find relief...

I am a believer in red onions. I think a good red onion takes food to a whole new level. It makes a normal ham or turkey sandwich for lunch into a divine repast (add avocado, cucumber, pepper, and a good cheese and it's quite grand). So yesterday I made my roommate's famous bowtie pasta salad for our Sunday dinner, and I had nearly mixed the whole dish when I realized I had forgotten the red onion. With my penchant for perfection, I had to remix with the necessary red onion. I chopped a few slices and dropped them into my overflowing bowl. The more I chopped, the more my eyes began to sting. Finally, I had reached Red Onion Trauma. I could no longer see anything, and I had only added a few thick slices of diced red onion. My sinuses became as clear as they have ever been, and the only escape from Red Onion Trauma I could manage was a hot shower. The salad was a success. Here's the recipe:

Poppy Seed Bow Tie Pasta Salad
1 16-oz. bow tie pasta cooked and cooled
1 red pepper sliced (it's fun to use yellow and orange, too)
red onion sliced or chopped (watch out!)
1 can black olives drained
1 can mandarin oranges drained
*sugared pecans (your desired amount)
**poppy seed dressing

Divide dressing in 1/2. Add peppers, onion, olives, oranges, and 1/2 the pecans. Mix with pasta. Add remainder of dressing and pecans on top. Garnish with a slice of pepper.

*To sugar pecans, heat a non-stick pan. When pan is hot sprinkle sugar in pan. Watch for the sugar to melt. When all melted, add pecans and mix. Let cool.

**Poppy seed dressing
1 cup olive oil
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1 1/2 T. minced onion (again, beware)
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. dried tarragon
1 tsp. mustard
1 T. poppy seed

Blend ingredients all together in blender/processor for 2 minutes. Sauce will be a little thick.