Friends and Family

There are 101 posts filed in Friends and Family (this is page 7 of 11).

Blue Jay Riot

Poor Kris.

She hasn’t been sleeping well lately, probably because of the heat. This morning she nudged me awake: “You’re going have to get ready for work on your own. I’m exhausted. I’ve got to sleep more.” I got up. She stayed in bed.

Almost immediately a flock of jays gathered in the yard for an important 5:30 a.m. conference. They squawked and screeched and scolded, their voices raised together in a cacophonous chorus that nobody could sleep through.

Then I heard my alarm go off. Kris hates when I forget to turn off my alarm while she’s still in bed. I cringed, knowing that she was cursing me as she fumbled to stop the noise.

The jays took a seed break and all was quiet for a while. However, they soon returned to look after unfinished business. They yelled and screamed some more. This time they were joined by a pair of cranky crows, who cawed their support for one jay plan or another.

Kris came downstairs before I left. She wasn’t happy. I tried to strike up a conversation. “When did the cats come in?” I asked.

“At 4:30,” she said. “Nemo started yowling and yowling. He was hungry.” Both of the boys have been boycotting the house since I brought the kittens home the other night. They’re refusing even to come in to eat — a hunger strike in protest of the interlopers. (The kittens are all now back at the shop, by the way.)

Poor Kris.

The Long Weekend

Kris and I enjoyed a fun weekend with friends, though it wasn’t particularly relaxing.

On Saturday morning we hosted some Willamette friends and their children. We don’t see Chris and Cari or Michael and Laura as much as we used to. It’s great when we do; we enjoy their company. About twice a year, we gather for food and fellowship. This time, we hosted brunch. We’d hoped to be able to eat outside, but the week-long deluge prevented that.

On Saturday evening, we spent time with old high school friends. Dave and Karen came to dinner, and Mitch brought his kids. We ate hot dogs, played games, and talked about comic books.

My sister Shelley was in town Sunday, so the family gathered at Jeff’s house in Molalla. We had hoped to barbecue, but the very last of the rain kept us indoors again. Noah and Kendall were eager to clean up afterward:

By the time we took dinner to Craig and Lisa on Sunday night, the rain had passed. After dinner, I took Albert to the park. Or, rather, he took me to the park. He led me out the back door, down the alley (pausing only to look at a peculiar piece of gravel), down the sidewalk, and across the street to the park. He had me push him in the swing, but I couldn’t get him high enough to satisfy. I taught him how to walk up the slide backward, and how to go down on his stomach. We ran over to watch the pick-up soccer game. Albert gathered sticks. He hugged trees. He pulled moss from cracks in the sidewalk. Back at the house, we enjoyed some awesome chocolate pudding. Before we left, Craig showed us the progress on the basement.

On our way home, we stopped by Paul and Amy Jo’s. Paul gave us some of his posole (which, it turns out, is quite good).

Amy Jo gave me advice on writing, and loaned me a book about publishing non-fiction.

I had planned to do a lot of chores on Monday, but I got sidetracked. I’ve discovered that I love to prune. I’m not so fond of shearing hedges, but I love to lop off limbs and to prune for aesthetics. We have a several huge ungainly rhododendrons which haven’t been pruned in several years, so I spent three hours crawling beneath them, choosing which branches to prune and which to save. The largest rhodie took me ninety minutes to prune on its own. The plants look much better now, though they still need minor “haircuts”.

In the afternoon I joined Andrew and Tiffany for X-Men III. I had watched the first two films again over the weekend in preparation. My evaluations remain unchanged from first viewings: X-Men is pretty lousy and X-Men II isn’t a lot better (though it does have a few great moments). The first twenty or thirty minutes of X-Men III was fantastic, though; I was giddy with fanboy excitement at what I was seeing onscreen. Then the film bogged down — the plot stalled. The climax is a bunch of noise and nonsense (though I did love seeing Kitty Pryde — always my favorite X-Man (er, X-Woman?) — battling Juggernaut. (Aside: Enough Wolverine already! There should be a Federal law banning Wolverine from all media for a period of two years. Ugh.)

As I say: a fun weekend, and great to see so many people, but not particularly restful. I have a feeling that I’m going to spend the next couple of nights doing nothing. And loving it.

A Map in My Heart

I had dinner tonight with two of my favorite people.

Kris had been invited by the Willamette University Chemistry Club to participate in a panel discussion about careers in chemistry. I drove her to Salem and then joined my friends at The Great Wall, a Chinese buffet.

I love Asian food. If I could, I would eat Asian food for every meal: three meals a day, 365 days a year. I love it. A Chinese buffet is a dangerous place for me, especially when I’m on a diet. Earlier in the day, I had the following exchange with one of my friends:

F: We are big fans of Asian food too. It’s probably worth a trip to the Great Wall if you have never been. Their food isn’t the best Asian food we’ve ever had, but the spread is quite impressive.

J: Sounds excellent. I’ve had 500 calories today, so will have 1500 to spare for Chinese food!

F: You’ll need about 15,000! It is a very large buffet.

I should have heeded the warning. The Great Wall does, indeed, have quite and impressive spread. Row after row of steaming treats: General Tso chicken (of course), grilled salmon, bacon-wrapped crab, BBQ spareribs, black pepper chicken (my favorite), sweet and sour pork, spicy steak, fresh fruit, sushi, and that traditional Chinese dessert, tapioca pudding.

I didn’t eat 15,000 calories, but I certainly had more than 1500.

It felt great to spend time alone with these friends. I mostly see them in group situations now, and I miss the time we used to spend together, the four of us. Those were some of the happiest days of my life. For two years, Kris and I had been quite close to with them. Over dinner, we talked about our house and their house. We talked about pets. We talked about vacation plans. But we also talked about stuff closer to my heart.

We discussed how cultivating friendships is a lot like dating, but even more complicated in the case of couples. For one thing, all four people must get along well in order for the group to have a chance. In order for the group to thrive, every person must really like every other person. If the group can have fun together, can talk and laugh and play, then the friendship has a chance at real growth. We talked about how the addition of children adds another dynamic to the group, often makes a couple more inwardly focused. Our former intense friendship was never explicitly mentioned, but it felt like an implicit subtext to me, adding depth to the discussion.

It was a good meal. I’m glad we were able to get together.

“…every man has a map in his heart of his own country and … the heart will never allow [him] to forget this map.” — Alexander McCall Smith, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency

After dinner, I returned to Willamette. I walked around a little, revisiting old familiar places on campus: the library, the botanical garden, the quad. As I entered the University Center, I stopped to inahled the old, familiar smell, and was swept away by a flood of nostalgia: a hundred different memories washed over me at once. Inside was worse. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of remembered faces, names, events.

Upstairs, in the Cat Cavern, I found a table against the back wall and waited for Kris to finish talking with students. I took out a piece of paper and began to write. But then I was no longer drowning in memories; I was living them.

In the back of the room, pen and paper in hand, writing, I might have been composing a paper for class. No — I am composing a paper for class. In a few minutes I will make my way to Eaton Hall for a study session with Heather James. I will spend an hour reviewing for the Psych final. Heather will just not get it, so I will play the role of the professor. She will sit three rows back. I will stand at the front of the lecture hall and scrawl psych terms and concepts on the board. She will be caught up in remembering every little detail about Maslow’s Heirarchy of Needs, and I will not be able to convince her that what is important is the Big Picture, understanding what it means. When we have finished, I will walk to Doney, or to York, where Andrew and Dane and I will spend two hours bickering about comic books and science fiction. And then, when I’ve had my fill of friends, I will find Kris and we will spend the night together, secreted in her room.

Pen to paper. It’s liberating. To hell with the computer — it’s been too long since I’ve written this way.

I Am So Many!

I turned thirty-seven yesterday. Because it’s a prime-number birthday, I threw myself a party. It’s been six years since my last prime-number birthday party; the theme then was Guilty Pleasures, and I invited nearly everybody I knew. This time I threw a poetry night, and Kris convinced me to keep the guest list small.

I had an awesome time.

The food was great: pickled carrots, pickled olives, pickled aspargus, pickled cucumbers, two types of little smokies, various nuts and crackers and breads, myriad cheeses, salami, and all sorts of chocolate treats. Guests brought wine, and Kris and I broke open the bar.

Throughout the night, we gathered in the parlor periodically to share poems. I was worried that this might fall flat, but it actually seemed to work quite well, despite the lack of seating. The big winner of the night was actually Mary Oliver. Three (four?) people shared her poems. Courtney read the following:

When Death Comes
by Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

and Naomi read this, which I think is brilliant:

Sunrise
by Mary Oliver
 
You can
die for it—
an idea,
or the world. People

have done so,
brilliantly,
letting
their small bodies be bound

to the stake,
creating
an unforgettable
fury of light. But

this morning,
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought

of China,
and India
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun

blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises

under the lashes
of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?

What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.

I’m taking the day off from work tomorrow. Every year I take a day off for my birthday: it’s a personal holiday. If I’m lucky, the sun will shine and I’ll be able to mow the lawn, take a walk, and perhaps photograph the magnolia and the camellias. And, of course, I’ll take time to have lunch at the Chinese place!

Adelaide Esther Miron

And last but not least, here is Adelaide Esther Miron:

To summarize: my niece Emily Lenae Roth was born on February 24th 23rd; Eleanor Pearl Briscoe was born on March 13th; Chase Thornton was born March 16th; and Adelaide Esther Miron was born, well, I don’t know when. Here’s what Joel has to say:

She’s Here! Adelaide Esther Miron!

All I have time for right now are the bare facts: She was born 3/18/06 at 6:15 pm. She weighed Seven pounds, one ounce (she’s dropped down to six pounds, 14 ounces since), and stretched out to 20 inches long.

She has very dark brown hair, charcoal-colored eyes, and a terribly loud voice. After taking a bunch of pictures at the hospital, I realize know that I’m at home that the only one suitable for emailing is this somewhat out-of-focus shot. Once Aimee and Adelaide are a little more rested (they’re both doing fine, just a little tired) I’ll post more at our website: www.foldedspace.org/toads.

Congratulations to Joel and Aimee. I wish this little Adelaide better luck in love and health than her namesake.

Nora

Now you can interpret Lisa’s blog silence as a good sign. Writes Kristi:

Eleanor “Nora” Pearl Briscoe arrived this morning at 7:30 am. She weighs 8 lbs. 1 oz. and is 21 inches long. Mom and baby are doing well. Albert has met her new sister but was more inthralled with the view of the construction site and the cranes out the window.

Congratulations, Craig and Lisa!

(The whole “construction site” thing leads me to believe that the family is at Kaiser Sunnyside.)

Food Day

Saturday was a brilliant day. The sun shone. We worked in the yard. We listened to opera. Best of all, we indulged in some of Portland’s finest food.

Sahagún
Sagahún is a tiny chocolate shop located just north of Burnside on 16th. (The actual address is 10 NW 16th Ave.) I’ve been hearing about this place for weeks. On our drive to pick up AmyJo, I had Kris read a doting profile of the owner to me out of a local hispanic paper. ExtraMSG, a Portland-area foodblog, recently raved about Sahagún’s hot chocolate:

At $4.00 each, they aren’t cheap. But they’re unequivocally worth every penny. Easily the best hot chocolate in this survey and truly ruined me for the others since I had this one first.

You all know how much I love my hot chocolate. I went in prepared to be blown away.

I was disappointed.

This was not the best hot chocolate I’d ever had. It wasn’t even the second best hot chocolate I’d ever had. It wasn’t even close. Don’t get me wrong: it’s fine stuff, but it’s no better than my dear-departed chantico (though it’s a different kind of drinking chocolate, to be sure), and it’s certainly not worth the trouble, the time, or the cost. The stuff I make for myself at home is still the best hot chocolate ever; why should I drive all the way to downtown Portland to spend $4 on an inferior cup of hot chocolate? Answer: I shouldn’t, and I won’t.

We also picked up some miscellaneous chocolate bits at Sahagún, including the pepitapapa, which is a candy made from bittersweet chocolate, chili peppers, and pumpkin seeds. Again, this wasn’t as good as I had hoped. Nor was the cherry-cashew cluster.

Sahagún let me down; I feel deceived by the hype. My expectations were too high. I may return again, but it’s not a priority.

Ken’s Artisan Bakery
Ken’s Artisan Bakery, on the other hand, is sure to become a regular stop for me and Kris when we’re downtown. This homey little bistro is located a short walk from Sahagún, at NW 21st and Flanders. Many people seemed to be picking up bread products to go, but there are several tables available for those who would prefer to sit and chat with friends.

Ken’s offers an assortment of fresh crusty breads, of course, but there’s so much more to choose from: tarts, croissants, pastries, and more. (I went home with a lovely brownie.) On Monday nights they do pizza! (I’ve got to try that.)

Kris had a savory ham-and-cheese filled croissant. I tried a bite and wished I had ordered one, too. I contented myself with a cinnamon roll, but not a gloopy gooey cinnamon roll. (Not that there’s anything wrong with gloppy gooey cinnamon rolls.) It was a light, flaky cinnamon roll with a sugary glaze. Different, but delicious.

In many ways, Ken’s reminded me of Willamette‘s Bistro back when it was a swank little coffee house (as opposed to now). I love that the bakery’s web site features little essays on baking.

Ken’s Artisan Bakery is a gem.

Pix Patisserie
On a whim, we stopped by Pix Patisserie on north Williams. “This place is good,” Amy Jo told us, enthusiastic. Pix seemed like a cross between Sahagún and Ken’s Artisan bakery: there was a case of hand-made chocolates, but there was also a case of pastries. And behind the counter was a vast assortment of liquor. Is the place also a licensed bar?

I loved what little I saw of Pix Patisserie. I loved the gaudy red wallpaper. I loved the absurd chocolates for sale. (Buy hand-crafted chocolate chess pieces for $20 per set.) I loved the various savory croissants that were available. (I took home one embedded with chorizo sausage, which made a nice breakfast Sunday morning.)

We didn’t spend much time here, but I’m sure we’ll return soon.

Sinju
To cap off our evening, we joined the Gingeriches and the Proffitt-Smiths at Sinju to celebrate Jeremy’s birthday. We’ve been to Sinju once before (with Dave and Karen), but it didn’t leave any sort of impression, for good or ill. This time it did.

This time, Sinju was simply amazing.

As before, we were ushered to a private, screened room. We took off our shoes and sat at the recessed table. I ordered sake. “I’m getting better at sushi, but I still can’t eat it without alcohol to grease the way,” I explained. “Hey — this is hot,” I said when my sake came. The rest of the party laughed. Apparently it’s supposed to be served hot. And you know what? I liked it this time. (I’ve never liked sake before, but I’ve only tried it cold.)

We ordered appetizers: chicken karaage (fried chicken with garlic ginger sauce), gyoza (pan-fried dumpling filled with beef, pork and vegetables), and the ahi tower. The gyoza was outstanding. While we waited for our meals to arrive, I shared the special sake I’d brought for Jeremy: Scottish Lagavulin sake!

Dinner was alarming. The waitress kept bringing more and more food. Had we asked for all this? First she brought individual dinners for those who had ordered them. Then she brought a boat of sashimi nearly as long as the table. (Seriously: this was a boat — a stylized wooden ship.) Then, to top it all off, she delivered a heavy tray packed with sushi rolls.

The only disappointment of the evening was the salmon teriyaki portion of my combination dinner. The chicken teriyaki, on the other hand, was wonderful, sweet and smoky and cooked to perfection. The sinju steak was good, too, pungent with ginger and a little bit crispy from the bread coating.

After dinner, I joined Jeremy outside for a brief smoke. I bathed in the scent of the cloves. “You reek,” Kris told me when I returned to the table, but I didn’t care.

What a marvelous day for a food-lover.

(And remember: we squeezed in sod-removal, too. Amazing!)

p.s. Apparently Sinju has a second location at Bridgeport Village, the new mall in Tualatin. We may have to add that to our list of regular restaurants.

Emily Lenae

StephEmilyBWweb.jpg
Steph holding Emily (photo by Jeff)

The Roth family welcomes a new member: Jeff and Steph are proud to announce the birth of Emily Lenae. She was born on 23 February 2006 at 9:08 a.m. She weighed 7lb 13oz and was 20-1/2″ long. Everyone is doing well, though Jeff reports big brother Noah is more interested in the heavy construction equipment outside the hospital window than in his baby sister.


Jeff and little Emily (photo by mom)

Bluefoot

Warning: This entry contains graphic images that may not be safe for children. (Or for you.)

Our house has a cellar. The cellar does not have an earthen floor (as you might expect from the house’s age), but one of concrete. At the far end of the cellar there is hole in the ground. In the hole in the ground is a sump pump.

There isn’t much light in the cellar. There’s a small window above the sump pump, and the previous owners installed a light fixture without a switch. Meaning: to turn the light on, you screw in a 100-watt light bulb; to turn the light off, you unscrew it. If you forget to unscrew the bulb, the parlor floor gets warm and you can smell an odor like warm oak.

Last Spring I was down in the cellar, rooting around for something or other. I didn’t have the light on. I turned around and began to walk away when suddenly I plummeted thigh-deep into the sump-pump hole. I was stunned, more out of embarrassment than anything. I sat on the floor, twisted and tangled, for nearly a minute. I was angry. Finally I pulled myself from the hole and hobbled upstairs.

When the bathroom was being remodeled this summer, our contractor pulled me aside one afternoon. “Did you know there’s a hole in your basement?” he said. I nodded. “Well,” he continued, “I’ve put a milk crate over the top of it.” He didn’t say it, but it seemed clear that somebody had stepped in the hole. The milk crate was a great idea. After construction was finished, I left it there to protect against further accidents.

Apparently Kris, however, was unaware of the milk crate’s noble purpose.

On Christmas Eve she went downstairs to futz with wrapping paper and ribbons and suchlike. A few minutes later she came limping upstairs in pain. “I stepped in the hole,” she said.

“Didn’t you notice the milk crate?” I asked, perhaps not as sympathetic as a husband ought to be.

Fortunately, Kris isn’t severely injured. She is in pain, it’s true, and her foot has turned blue, but she’ll live. I think. Meanwhile, she’s completely fascinated by the various bruises on her feet and toes.

Two facts about Kris Gates: she bruises easily, and her feet are her worst feature. (Kris has many wonderful qualities; her feet are not one of them.) Her already hideous hoofs have mutated into something even more grotesque.

“Take some pictures!” she commanded last night. “You could put them on your weblog.” As repulsed as I was by her hideous feet, I obeyed. Aren’t you glad I did? Here is closeup of Kris’ toes.

sigh I was going to eat lunch after posting this entry, but now I am no longer hungry…

U2 Dance

On Friday night, we joined the Gingeriches and the Proffitt-Smiths for a small pre-Christmas gathering. We shared good food, good wine, and good fellowship. (We also learned that butter and water seem to have have surprisingly similar densities!)

Kris and I stayed the night so that she and Jenn could spend Saturday baking cookies. In the morning we had a breakfast of bacon and French toast. Jeremy played U2 (in preparation for Monday night’s concert), and danced around the living room with his children.

Somehow I hadn’t anticipated that baking would take all day. Though I had fun chatting with the women and writing stories with the kids, the day felt like a waste. I had things I’d wanted to get done, but they just didn’t happen.