Summerisms

Summerisms

At dinnertime tonight-

Noah- "Mommy, I'm not going to have kids."
Me- "Really?"
Noah- "No, I'm not. It's true."
Me- " Ok"
Megan- " Well, ok, Noah. But you won't have anybody to play with."
Summer- "No, but he WILL have peace."

Fall Faves

Why is everyone doing these top ten lists now? What are we, Dave Letterman?
But ok- Far be it from me to go against the grain (ahem). So here it is.

#10. The frosty, clear mornings we get in the gorge. The windshield is coated, the grass is crunchy and my cup of coffee sends steam in a spiral rise upward as I walk to the car for the 1.25 minute drive up the hill to school.

#9. Children with backpacks bigger than they are.

#8. The way this sleepy, small town comes to life when school starts up again. Kids everywhere. Moms and sometimes dads walking back and forth in the early morning crispness or the warm afternoon haze of autumn.

#7.I hate to say it, it's so standard, but I have to. I live in an orchard town, orchards have tree's and tree's have leaves. And in the fall, when the orchardist's have harvested their apples and pears, the valley is a crimson carpet stretching to the east and south. Stout, white barns rise up in the center of the fields like stark stamps. It's charming and makes the leaves, if possible, appear even redder.

#6. The guy in town who sells fresh pressed apple cider from the back of his truck. I've never bought any as I have a strict policy about buying food products out of the back of pick-up trucks, but it's a nice thing to see anyhow.

#5. The stores in town decorating their old storefronts with leaves and pumpkins and hosting the annual halloween trick or treat fest. So fun.

#4. Mallow Creme Pumpkins. They speak for themselves.

#3. Six million turkey dishes made randomly and often from September to Thanksgiving. Tonight's favorite- Butternut-Turkey bake. Recipe below.

#2.Having an excuse to wear my super soft and squishy bathrobe in the mornings as I get the kids ready for school. I'm trying to devise a plan that will enable me to wear it throughout the day, but am still working out the kinks in that one.

#1.And my #1 favorite thing about fall? Mexican Pumpkin candles from World Market. If you don't own any- go get some. You won't be sorry.

ok- so for the Butternut-Turkey bake, here's what you do-

halve one ripe Butternut squash (the oranger in color, the riper and less watery) and rub with a little EVOO. Place cut side down on a baking sheet and bake at 375 - for an hour, or until tender. Scoop out pulp and place in mixing bowl and mash.
Sautee 1 cup onions in real butter until translucent and beginning to caramelize and add 1 cup cooked turkey. Cook until heated through.
Add 2 cups seasoned croutons, whatever flavor you like, and 2 cups (1 can) chicken broth. Heat to bubbling.
Add Squash.
Place mixture in casserole dish and bake at 375- for 20 - 25 minutes or until bubbling.
Sprinkle about 1/2 cp. shredded sharp cheddar cheese on top and bake until cheese is melted.
It's delicious and surprisingly low fat- as long as you don't count the cheese, which no one does. ;)

PS

At the request of a certain individual, I've gone back and posted some unseemly pictures of us at 3 am on the way to PDX. If you'd like to see them in context, scroll on down to chapter one of Yucatan Wednesday's. :)

Yucatan Wednesdays...A Travel Journal ch.2

Philadelphia. City of Brotherly Love and Broken Brackets-

Fact: Honeymooners are a pain in the arse. They can't help it, also fact. They honestly believe that they are possibly the most In-Love individuals on planet earth and feel desperately sorry for the poor 'older' couples who've let their love die in the gutter after assaulting it with dirty diapers, two year olds and shattered dreams of success.
And so, our story brings us to a bustling and overcrowded airplane flying somewhere over the midwestern United States and to a lovely young couple in seats 22 A and B. In seat 22 C sat an exhausted, frizzy haired woman of a few years more than they. Her once tidy pant suit is stained with airport coffee and she is perpetually raining acid-laden glances down on the smooching young couple next to her. And why, you might ask, is this woman being such a wet blanket on the paradise of their love??? Because they're a pain in the arse. We've discussed this.
The flight to Philadelphia was LONG and as I said, crowded. As you may have guessed, yours truly was seated next to a couple of Love birds.
"So, how long have you been married?" Asks the honeymooning girl to the obviously more mature woman next to her after spotting the ring on the appropriate finger.
"Oh, let's see. Eight and a half years, I guess."
"Oh my gosh- that's like, forever. Eight and a half years ago I was eleven!" She giggles at her funny and I raise an eyebrow. Part of my self discovery this past year is realizing that there's no need for me to be polite to absolute strangers once I've assessed that they're dumb. Case in point, Suzie Q in 22 B.
"Yep. It's been a very long eight and a half years. You'll see. Once the first year has come and gone you, too, will start asking yourself, 'What in God's name did I see in this imbecile? He's broke, uneducated and full of faults. On the hot scale, I'm a solid 8, while he remains firmly lodged in the 3's. By God, I'm gettin' outa here." This is said with a knowledgeable nod of wisdom and a conspiratorial wink to the guy across the aisle from me. Suzie does not see the wink or the man's grin. He is hiding behind his Star Wars novel in a heroic attempt to keep from laughing outright. Suzie flinches slightly and finally remembers to close her mouth. In the seat beside her, her new husband has fallen into a drooling snooze to the soothing sounds of Pink Floyd. The latest issue of Drummer's Monthly is laying open on his lap.
Having successfully stilled conversation with the twittering newlywed, I resume my in flight reading and happily pass the next three and a half hours in silence.
We arrive, still with lingering humor, to a cramped, narrow halled airport and proceed to the ticket agents in order to secure our flights for the following morning. A quick jaunt out to the arrivals zone and soon we are being loaded into an air conditioned shuttle and anticipating seeing this new city.
Ten minutes later and it's clear that Essington is in exactly the opposite direction from downtown Philadelphia and we are going to see NOTHING in the way of the city. Not one thing. We briefly glimpse the skyline before launching onto the freeway in the other direction. We find ourselves later in a somewhat run down district of steakhouses, factories and nightclubs. It looked a little like Powell Blvd back home. Not good.
In an effort to keep costs down, and also to see if we could do it just for the sake of principle, we have not eaten since the day before. It's six in the evening in Philly and we are pretty sure we're going to die of starvation seizures any moment. Next to our cheapo motel, sits mecca- or as it's known in the Northwest, Denny's. But we bypass this traditional choice and take to walking around industrial Philadelphia at dusk, certain we can find someplace to eat that's a little more interesting. We ask around.
"The best place to eat? Oh that's Mike's for sure. That little place on the cornuh, right there. See it? Best Philly Cheesesteak around." Thick Jersey accent.
"What place? Where are you pointing?"
"Right there. See it? With the screen door? Acrossah street."
"That place? really?"
"Yup."

Hm. 'That place' is a tiny, hole in the wall 'joint' with a broken screen door hanging by the top hinge. The diner inside is linoleum floored and looks sticky, even from here, all the way acrossah street. I know there are flies in there. I don't know how I know. I just do.
We ask, "Anything else in this neighborhood?"
"Um. Yeah- there's the tavern. Just go down that street a block or so. You'll see it."
We take a moment to wonder if we're being set up for a mugging, thank the man and keep walking.
Sure enough, a few blocks later, the charming tavern sits huddled in the dark, a few paces back from the road. It looks promising. It's dimly lit and noisy- the first is suspicious, but the second is a good sign.
Cedar paneled walls sport horse racing photo's, there are candles on the tables and the menu boasts pickled beets. What more could one want? I order a dark beer and look across the table at Ryan. This is perfect.
"You know, you were outright rude to that poor girl on the plane."
"I know. I feel bad."
"You do not."
"I know. I feel bad about not feeling bad."
"you do..." he starts to argue "...ok. you know what? just order."

I order the flank steak and he the spaghetti. Discussion with the waitress yields information and we learn that this restaurant has been in this neighborhood for over fifty years and that most of the waitstaff has been here since it opened. You can tell.
Our food arrives and it feels like years since we've eaten last. I am about five bites into the best steak I've ever eaten when I hear the snap. Ryan looks up from his pasta with a "What the?" look on his face. Delicately, with fear, I reach up and remove the wire from where it's stabbing me in the cheek. This has happened before. I was afraid of this. I've broken a bracket trying to chew the World's Best Steak. It's rattling around in my mouth and making it impossible to eat. The rest of my meal goes untouched and the oldest waitress on the planet is slightly annoyed.
"Maybe we should see if there's an orthodontist who can do emergency work." Suggests Ryan.
"I'll be ok." I insist. "It's nine o'clock at night, I'm exhausted. I was planning on drinking my meals on this trip anyway." He rolls his eyes and I wholeheartedly pray there will be no need for me to find an orthodontist in the tiny Mexican town of Puerto Juarez. That just sounds scary.
We pay and begin the walk back. It's fully dark now as we make our way to the main road that will take us back to our hotel. Cars streak by us and I have a moment to appreciate how pedestrian-conscious Portland driver's can be before I glance across the street at another couple making their way in our same direction. They're obviously having a great time and look a little unsteady on their feet. And then, as if it were the most natural thing to do on a Philadelphia streetside, the man drops his drawers and pee's.
Safely back in our hotel room, two miles and thirty seconds later, we collapse. I'm still starving, but have had enough humor to at least keep me occupied today and am rolling in a fit of laughter on the motel bed.
"Did you see that!?" I'm still laughing and Ryan's pulling off his t-shirt and chuckling.
"Yeah."
"Happy second honeymoon!" I guffaw. He looks disappointed.
"I feel bad about this." He says in his serious, discussing thermo-dynamics voice. "We never really took much of a real honeymoon, and when we finally do, your teeth fall apart and strange men are peeing on the sidewalks."
"Would you feel better if it had been someone we knew?" I ask, but barely get the words out.
I can't help it now, I'm hysterical. When I can talk again, have caught my breath, I shake my head.
"We're not newlyweds, thank God. Can you imagine? Nope. We're partners in crime, among other things, and those twittering honeymooning idiots ain't got nothin' on us."
I hold out my hand to him and he takes it. I flip on the T.V. and cruise the cable channels.
"Hey, look. Family Guy's on." He says, feeling better. We get comfortable with snacks for him and water for me and spend most of the night watching the inappropriate cartoon marathon in our jammies.
We fall asleep later to the sound of our own laughter. Our non- honeymoon has begun.

*Please stay tuned for next weeks episode of
Yucatan Wednesday's... Thunder From Down Under*

Yucatan Wednesday's...A Travel Journal

( 3 am)

Chapter 1.
Indecision, Maybe.

It came as no surprise to me to find myself rumpled, undressed and checking email the Sunday afternoon before our Monday morning departure. My suitcase sat empty on the bed in our room surrounded by a pile of shoes, styling irons and various warm weather attire, none of which was actually packed.
Hurricane Ike was making a run through the Yucatan and into the gulf at that very moment and I, with Ryan leaning over my shoulder every few minutes, was closely watching the projections for this cat 4 monster. Needless to say, I was a bit nervous.
"Do you think I should take the Teva's?" I ask Ryan as he goes back to packing after one of the over-the-shoulder checks on weather.com.
"Why? We're going to be at a resort."
"Well, because of the hurricane." Is my exasperated response.
"Because of the hurricane? How will Teva's help you in a hurricane?" Typical man question.
"Well, I'm not wearing Coach flip-flops in 20 feet of water! That's just ridiculous."
Ryan, appreciating my logic and having back packed through a large portion of the Philippines' tropical climate, shrugs his shoulders, "Yeah, take the Teva's. Better safe than sorry."
"Oh, who am I kidding!?" (I'm beginning to lose it now) "Teva's aren't going to help unless they can identify a body by footwear!"
"In that case, better wear the Coach flip flops. No one will believe you own Teva's." At the panic glazing my eyes, he changes his tone and raises a hand for peace, "Calm down, Honey. It probably won't even rain. You'll see." Ryan continues to put things in his bag and is now putting things in mine as well. For fear that he might actually try to pack for me, heaven forbid, I reluctantly leave the minute by minute updates and start the process myself, muttering about varying evacuation plans.
Ten minutes later, and having made zero progress on the packing situation, I am back on the computer, this time having printed a map of the city and am industriously highlighting 6 different evacuation routes, when I hear Ryan on the phone. From his end of the conversation I gather he is talking to a US Airways rep about the flight.
"Oversold? Tell me something..Kathy, is it?...Tell me something Kathy, why is it, do you think, that when there are 150 seats on a plane, the ticket agents sell 175. I know I'm not a rocket scientist, but tell me why that makes sense to you and not to me. I just don't get it."
I can hear only his side of the conversation, but I'm pretty sure I know what's happening and panic starts to rise up in my throat. I can't stop the questions even though I know it makes him crazy when I do this when he's on the phone. I find him in the next room and begin to frantically whisper in his ear.
"Oversold?! What does she mean they're oversold!? How can that happen? Is there another flight tomorrow? When's the next flight?!"
"Ssshhh!" He waves me off with a flick of his hand and marches into the living room. "No, not you Kathy. I was shushing someone else.." He shoots me an incriminating gaze. "Perhaps you'd be able to tell me when the next flight to Phoenix leaves Portland on Monday....Three in the afternoon? Nope. Not going to work. Our connecting flight leaves Phoenix at 9:20 am. Is there another flight from Phoenix to Cancun on Monday? Not till Wednesday?!"
At this point I'm following him around the house, literally biting my tongue and clasping my hands behind my back in a saintly effort to restrain myself from wrestling the cell phone from my husbands hands and ripping the illustrious Kathy a new one. I am repeating, "What are we going to do?" like the whispered mantra of the insane. The logical side of me is thinking it's convenient that I haven't packed yet.
"Ok, Kathy. Here's the deal. I'm taking a second honeymoon with my wife and on top of that, tomorrow's my birthday. I know that doesn't matter to you- but it matters to me. So if there's any way at all you can get us to Cancun tomorrow, we would really appreciate it."
I wait an unending beat while Kathy clicks what are probably ugly acrylic fingernails on her demon possessed keyboard.
Ryan responds with lifted brows, "Philadelphia? And there's a connecting flight? hm. ok, that's an option. Well, let me talk to my wife and I'll get back with you. Thanks." He hangs up the phone and looks at me. By this time I have made a plan. I'm very good at plans. I start talking even before he has relayed her words to me. I caught enough that I've been able to keep up to speed.
"A flight tonight."
"What?" He's looking at me, uncomprehending. "What flight tonight?"
"Is there a flight to Phoenix tonight that we could get on? Then we'd be there for the Cancun flight in the morning and we already know a cheap motel from last years trip." *see earlier post- The Phoenix Shenanigans*
His eyes light up. I can see his Smither's type scheming coming into them. "Yeeesssss....this could work."
He flips open the phone and rapid dials Kathy's associate, Darlene somethingorother to re- explain everything we've just discussed with Kathy. Soon he's hanging up and a panicked look is skirting around on his face.
"Ok. There's a flight that goes to Phoenix tonight and it's oversold by one. There's a good chance we could get on that flight. We'd be there in time for the Cancun flight in the morning IF there's room on that flight for us. The way it looks right now for that flight is pretty sketchy, there's already 6 people on the waiting list and the planes full, but it looks like our best shot."
"We're not going are we?" Despair settles in.
"Yes we are. We are." He insists. "But the issue is that the flight for Phoenix leaves in two and a half hours. The kids aren't packet yet. Your mother isn't expecting them until four. You haven't finished packing either." He holds up his hands, questioning. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know. Is it worth it to rush? I don't know."
"I don't know either." He looks at me for a minute, waits for the plan to formulate in my mind.
"So what are we doing?" He asks again.
"Running." Is my only answer as I speed dial my mother, send her into a panic of her own and begin throwing random articles of clothing into the suitcases. One high heeled white sandal, one parka, three umbrellas... Stop! I order myself. Pull yourself together! Only ONE white sandal?!
I throw the other in and continue on the rampage.
My mother shows up minutes later to finish packing for the kids and get my house ready to be empty for a week. We toss half packed bags into the back of the car, synchronize our watches and blaze into traffic for the eighty mile trip to the Portland airport with a heartfelt wave to the kids out the car window. Gone are the days when we linger over teary good bye's with the children. We wave. They wave back. And then it's back to business.
"We're not going to make it."
"I love how you always have a positive attitude."
"I'm just saying, we're not going to make it." I adjust my newly purchased Paris Hilton type sunglasses and check myself out in the side mirror.
"Would you stop? You look fine." He slaps at my hands that are reaching for the cosmetic bag in my purse.
With a huffing sigh I sit back, try to force myself to breathe. Fifteen minutes ago I was checking the weather on the computer.
"C'mon FedEx. You can do better than seventy, can't you? We're late here!"
"Don't start."
"I will start. Pretend you have late deliveries or something and use that handy pedal on the right."
"That's it. I'm slowing down."
"No! Ok, ok. Fine. I can't even look at how fast you're NOT going." In rebellion I reach for the cosmetic bag and fill the car with the fine dust of Covergirl, sending Ryan into the much anticipated fit of sneezing.

His parents meet us at Troutdale on the outskirts of Portland and his dad agrees to drive us the rest of the way and take our car back to their house. The last fifteen minutes of the drive prove to be the most grueling as Dave tries to get the feel of the Subaru's clutch. We arrive with minor whiplash and most of that covergirl smeared on the back of the seat in front of me. We jump from the still moving car, grab our bags and rush to the counter.
It is two hours later when we call his dad again for a ride back to the Sr. Kendall's. The flight was full.

"Are you telling me..." I begin as Ryan and I make our way out of the airport, "That we just did all of that for nothing? You know I only packed ONE pair of shorts? I'm probably going to have to go around butt naked the whole time thanks to this fiasco."
"Don't worry. The sunglasses cover most of the rest of you."
I slide him an impatient look.
"Give me something to be pleased about here. One thing. I'm begging."
"Well...we're going to Philly in the morning. That should be interesting."
"Doesn't count."
"And why not?"
"Because it's only a possibility. Not an absolute."
"There are millions of possibilities. You could have been struck by lightning walking into the airport tonight."
"Is that supposed to be the thing I'm glad about?"
"That's the spirit!" With a clap on the shoulder he breezes through the revolving doors to meet his dad, still trying to drive my subaru, who's waiting in the arrivals zone.
I have a moment to think, 'Happy Second Honeymoon to Us' before his dad rips into airport traffic and launches us down the freeway in first gear.
Either way, I think sunnily, I'm not driving kids to school or making peanut butter and jelly, taking phone calls or paying bills. I remember Cabo well and how misfortune often turned into adventure on that trip.
By the time we reach the small suburb of Gresham and his dad is cheerfully pulling into the KFC parking lot, I'm in a much better mood.
Philadelphia awaits. Maybe. Or Phoenix. Or possibly Charlotte. For now, we are falling onto the food like starving Ethiopian's and planning a rousing game of Pinochle. For now, I don't curse whoever it was who thought of 'stanby' tickets.
Ryan is chattering with his dad about trying to catch the 5:20 am flight to Phoenix even though it's oversold and there are several people on the waiting list with higher priority than us. I try to talk sense into him, like all good wives everywhere, but he's not listening so I give up.
Later, we crash onto the couches in the Sr. Kendall's living room and set the alarm for three a.m. We will have about three hours of sleep tonight and all for a flight I'm positive we won't make. But I let him entertain his delusions and when the alarm goes off a heartbeat after we've drifted off, I continue to let him have them.
It's Monday. Dave will drive us to the airport, again. Coffee in hand, we set out. Ryan is talking about the plan for Phoenix and I am going over the restaurants in the airport in my head, choosing one that will serve a decent breakfast since I know we'll be there at breakfast time as there's NO WAY we're making the Phoenix flight. I say nothing to Ryan, but am not happy as you can see. Note the contrast between his travel euphoria and my own sense of REALITY.


Little does he know, I also researched several Philadelphia hotels the night before and chosen one with a free shuttle and continental breakfast near the airport. I am nothing if not prepared, and sneakily so.
The drop off is smooth and we check in. It doesn't look good, says the ticket agent to Ryan. But Dave has already left and we're stuck. Through security and down the long corridor we go, lugging our suitcases and the giant carry on I intend to pass off as a purse regardless of the fact that you could fit a large purse, a laptop computer and a medium sized terrier breed dog in there.
We wait. Somewhere there is a TV blasting the Pink Panther theme song all over the terminal.
Ryan is making his eyebrows dance up and down with the music in an attempt at entertainment. It's not working.
Finally the crowd converges, the lines form. The plane is boarding AND (drumroll please) you guessed it. Full flight. No room for standby's.
Ryan looks dismayed. He was so sure.
"Alright you. You're buying me breakfast. Get up." I stand in front of him, hands on hips.
"I was so sure we'd get on." He looks confused.
"You can think about it over french toast and let me know what you come up with. Let's go."
We lug our baggage back down the unending corridor and flop into hard plastic chairs at the diner.
"So," he begins. "I suppose we're going to Philly."
"That's right." I say as I butter my toast, unperturbed.
"You knew all along, didn't you?"
"We have a reservation at the Comfort Inn in Essington for tonight."
"Essington...hm. What other sorts of things do you know?" He's interested now.
"Oh."I say, glancing up at him. "You wouldn't even believe..."

*************************************************************************************

*Please stay tuned for next week's episode of Yucatan Wednesdays,
City of Brotherly Love and Broken Brackets*

Something funny

Well, I just had to share this one-

It is a common occurrence in the Kendall household that when leaving the house, we will often get precisely one block from home and go, "Wait! I forgot my wallet." Or "Oh, jeez- you have to turn around. I forgot my sunglasses." or, often from the backseat. "I have to go potty!".
When I say this is common- I mean practically every time we leave the house. It's daily. There's just so much going on, a veritable hurricane of talking, directing, grabbing things to take (which inevitably are never the things we've forgotten as that would be too easy) that things are left behind. And not the small inconsequential things that you can live without- but the really important things...like going potty and remembering to take our phones or *forpetessake* our wallet/ purse, those are always the things we forget.
And so, now rushed at the thought of an extra 1.75 minutes spent retrieving the forgotten item, we speed around the block and swerve recklessly back in front of the house, where we slam out of the car and race through the front door in search of bathroom/wallet/sunglasses/whatever. Keys in hand, we zip through the house (because there's no way whatever it is that we're looking for is going to be wherever it's supposed to be (except the bathroom which, surprisingly, is, often enough, right where we left it)) scanning furniture surfaces, turning over couch cushions, digging through handy 'organizational' baskets (yeah right) until we've found said item.
We then grab it up and race out the front door, click the flimsy, Good-Thing-We-Live-In-A-Small-Town-That's-Relatively-Safe lock into place and race back to the car, where we clamber in, hastily buckle our seatbelt, look at our spouse (whoever's driving) and go, "C'mon! We're late! Let's go!" only to see aforementioned love of our respective life look at us in an also frustrated way and say, "Keys??"
Oh yeah. I took those in with me didn't I? Hm. Open the clenched fist. Nope, don't have 'em. Crap. Crap. Crap. House is locked. Door could be broken in, but really, what a shame.
Ah yes- the old standby. A skill we hope he will never use in criminal activity, we shout, "Noah! You're going in. Mom (it's usually me who does this) forgot the keys again."
At which point my valiant four-year-old who fancies himself a hero (and really, he kind of is) when pressed into this situation, flips his seatbelt off in much the same way as his hurried mother just did 2 minutes ago, leaps from the car and makes a bee line for the back yard, two steps in front of whatever adult happens to be going to give him the boost. This time it's his father.
Through the gate, down the walkway and to our bedroom windows.
My four year old deftly pops the screen and uses the flat of his hand as traction on the glass in order to slide up the unlocked window. (He's doing all of this while being held as the window's kind of high)
Once the window's up, he scoots a hip onto the sill, swings his legs into our bedroom, and this time (which was yesterday by the way) he slants a look at his father, lays a hand on Ryan's shoulder and with absolute manliness says, "It's ok dad. I do this for mom occasionally." (he seriously said 'occasionally) With that he jumps to the floor (only about 18') shuts the window in Ryan's laughing face and disappears. We know the routine. Ryan meets him at the front door, where our boy is on his way out having locked the door behind him and has the forgotten keys dangling from his fingertips. He climbs back in the car, buckles himself in and sighs a deep sigh of self-satisfaction combined with boredom. Ah, the hero again. The role gets so mundane.
Now, as I mentioned before, this skill could prove to be one we regret instilling in him when he's 25. But for the time being, my four-year-old is pretty handy to have around.