Holiday Detox

Christmas is quite the season.

All the festivities, the decked halls, and the love. 

All the baked goods.

Even in my thirties, I still get giddy with anticipation as the time draws near.

But dang if the holidays don't take it out of me!

And this last week - the last month and a half, really - has been particularly rough.

Rough in a mostly good way, I suppose. 

Though this season had its own unique {and sometimes torturous} quirks.

But here I am, so incredibly tired.

It's that bone-deep sort of weariness.

We've all been there.

And then the house needs a cleaning. And the luggage should be unpacked. 

And the gifts sorted. And the decorations shuttered away. 

And the piles of laundry addressed. 

And, mostly importantly, the desire to bake more cookies staunchly ignored.

'Cause what I wouldn't give right now for a plate of spritz. 

Or anything soft, chewy, and coated with sugar. 

Or a Christmasy beverage, heavy on the rum.

Yeeeeaaah. 

Typically, I'm not the Scrooge type, 

but tonight, as I find myself simultaneously ignoring a killer headache, 

whining kiddos {no, you may not take out every toy at once, and yes, it's an utter travesty}, 

and a family room strewn with left-over wrapping paper and ribbons, 

the answer is glaringly clear: 

I need a holiday detox. 

That's the bottom line here.

Less crazy, more calm. 

And so, I bid this season a heartfelt adieu.

Give me 10 months, and I'll be ready to dive in head first once again.

Fingers crossed. ;)

Thank You, Panty Claus

The holidays bring to mind many things, 

but panties aren't usually among the contenders.

I'm pretty sure they don't even make the list of second-tier contenders.

In fact, admitting that you think of panties during the holiday season 

may actually get you kicked off a Christmas card list or two. 

Ahem, funny thing: 

for me, panties are right up there with Christmas trees and manger scenes. 

Go ahead, remove me from your list if you must, 

but let me qualify the above statement by saying that panties really are the gift that keeps on giving. 

Day after day, year-round, people. That's some kinda hard-working gift.

I will also divulge that there are, in fact, a handful of other women in this world that would agree with me.

For the past 13 years or so, 

some of my favorite people have gathered on one special night in December.

The Pink Door in Seattle.

We've all known one another for much longer - 

before real jobs, marriages, and children entered the picture -

but this night out has become one of the defining points in our shared histories. 

After a year of the good and the bad, it's one of those events that we long for.

 It's on our calenders months in advance, and we always find a way to make it happen.

We dress up, 

grab drinks in a swanky, little bar, 

dine in a fabulously chic restaurant, 

and forget everything else in the whole, entire world. 

Champagne and oysters arrive at the table.

There is wine and non-stop chatter,

decadent entrees and desserts.

It hasn't always been this fancy, but the heart of the evening never changes.

We go around, and, one by one, share our thoughts on the year - 

our hopes, our successes, and our tragedies.

Generally, these are topics we've all discussed at some point already, 

but it's cathartic to speak of them again. 

One last time before the slate is wiped clean.

Before they're history. Our history.

And then, as if that weren't enough to wrap it all up with a pretty, little bow, 

we bring out the tiny packages.

I do mean tiny.

Panties for all, that's the theme of the night, 

and we buy each pair with a particular friend in mind.

We pass them around. 

We look at them from all angles.

We compare fabrics.

We laugh at the shockingly big or ridiculously small.

Or the seriously funny.

Panties, sexy or understated, remind me of Christmas.

Of lovely friends and a few hours of carefree fun. 

Thank you, Panty Claus, from the bottom {tee-hee} of my heart.

~

I wish you all love, panties, and a merry holiday!

Meggie

I Heart Bend

"Over the mountains and through the woods 

To grandmother's house we go

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow."

~~~

I have always loved that song.

A family, all bundled up and filled with excitement as they travel through the wilds of winter
to see their loved ones. What an image. 

Normal Rockwell classic.

But truth be told, it's also not as glamorous as it sounds.

We made such a journey a couple weeks ago, and I can attest to that fact.

There was no sleigh, just a sturdy mini-van with low-profile tires
and a flimsy bag of chains in the trunk.

We weren't heading to grandmother's house {though MomLady was in attendance}.

I saw plenty of white and drifted snow, which was lovely,
but when semi-trucks are skidding out, it's slightly less charming.

And if we're getting nit-picky about stuff,
I'll just specify that the mountains were quite large, Cascade Mountain Range style,
with miles and miles of deep, dark woods on either side
 - the kind that freeze your ass in an instant, should you befall engine trouble.

There were some frozen lakes, too. And Lord knows how many miles of icy interstate.

It was quite the adventure,
and I'm not ashamed to say that The Russian white-knuckled most of it.

But we had good reason to trek southeast some 330 miles.
The Russian's family gathered together - all 17 of us
{not counting one bun in the over...and no, not my oven}. 

We stayed in a large rental property on the outskirts of Bend, Oregon - one of my
most favorite places on this round and magnificent earth. 

The house was tucked in among the pines, hiking trails,
and countless roundabouts of Sun River, a family-style resort and residential community.

Although it didn't snow during our stay, we enjoyed the spoils of that early storm that
blew in before our arrival. 

Obviously, sledding ensued. All seven of our Littles squealed and slid for two days,
and it was pretty great. 

They stumbled around outside, thickly padded arms and legs
like the ornamental stick appendages of snowmen.

Even though its kind of mean, I always laugh when they topple over face first. 

I woke with Mister, Honeybee, and Mac every morning, before the sun fully rose in the sky, before the rest of the family stirred, and we watched the light filter down through the tall, thin trees. We tiptoed out onto the decks and listened to the crackling quiet of ice. We cuddled on the couch and watched cartoons as the coffee brewed. 

And at night, after the kids went to sleep, the adults watched movies, talked about life,
and carried on the fine and admirable tradition of beer sampling. 

There is always much savoring and discussion, because in the immortal words of Stephen King,
"A man who lies about beer makes enemies."

So, there you have it. Just trying to promote world peace one beer at a time. :)

On our second day, we drove into town, and this turned out to be a most enlightening experience. One of my sister-in-laws led us down Tin Pan Alley to a hidden,
hole-in-the-wall cafe - Lone Pine Coffee Roasters. 

And there I tasted the best cup of coffee I've ever had in my Whole Entire Life.

This Lemon Cream Latte - true nirvana. 

Is it possible to be smitten with a delicately flavored, caffeinated beverage? Absolutely yes.

Long story short, it was a fun trip.

I wasn't sure what to expect of Bend in the off-season,
but I should have known that the time of year wouldn't matter. It's just one of those places...

...one of of those always cool, big sky, woodsy smelling, outdoor crazy,
coffee innovating, brewery laden places.

Exactly my kind of place.

I heart Bend.

A Fine, Fine Layer

It's back, the silvery shimmer in the air. 

I love that about this time of year. 

As the months wear on, and the icy winds of dark winter come down from the north, 

our atmosphere takes on a periwinkle hue. 

But for now, silver twinkles in the sky. 

A fine, fine layer of fairy dust.

All hours of the day, especially on those clear and sunny ones, it's there - just above the trees.

On the horizon-line.

Above the water.

Riding the rare sunbeams that burn away the grey.

And everything seems more brilliant, the fiery shades of Fall amplified.

~~~

Here's what I see: a silvery-shimmer spectrum of light.

A seasonal dimension of color.

Bloody Apples

The final product.

In the spirit of autumn and all things harvesty, I jumped on the baking-with-apples bandwagon the other day.

See, I have this habit of apple over-stocking.

They're always in our house. Always.

And yet, whenever I make a grocery run, guess what I buy?

More bloody apples, no matter how many exist in various states of waxy limbo at home.

Not sure if its a compulsion or a mental block or what.

So, what did I do?

I got a little Pinteresty.

{pause for eyerolls}

Let me state that I cautiously enjoy Pinterest. And, really, it's quite the thing these days.

Many skeptics are of the mind that it's a wormhole time-suck, luring people deeper and deeper into a world of make-believe and domesticity on steroids.

I get that, but still, I enjoy it.

Cautiously. Like one might adore the creative genius of a crazy person.

Thanks to Pinterest, I decided to put my apple stash to good use.

Apple Cinnamon Fruit Leather, to be exact. A whimsically unpractical choice.

Frankly, it's easier to just go out and buy the stuff. I can say that with authority, having now spent the better part of a day making fruit leather from scratch.

But can't that be said for pretty much everything? Take gnocchi, for example. Easy to buy, but so very satisfying to make.

Back to fruit leather, though.

I really did enjoy the whole process, and my house smelled like heaven.

I also loved knowing that my children found deliciously healthy treats in their lunch boxes for a couple weeks.

Will I do it again?

Weeeeell - I'll get back to you on that...after we finish the ginormous box of fruit leather recently purchased from Costco.

But come berry season, I might just try my hand at it again. :)

Mac's sneaky finger, trying to snag a wedge!

I divided them all up like this and kept them refrigerated. 

High-5, Honeybee

Today, Honeybee turns five.

She was born on October 15, 2009, at 8:16 PM. She had a mop of dark hair, a round head, and fiercely clenching fists.

In all honesty, she resembled an adorably angry heirloom tomato - all reddish-purple and ready to burst.

But then, she wrapped her tiny hand around my arm and rested her head there, and in the midst of the nurses and the doctor and the bright, glaring lights, she settled.

Fight replaced with the solid, serious weight of trust. And I was in love, even before I got a good look at her. Even before I found out she was a girl.

Fast forward five years, and here I am, trying to sort through my thoughts. 

I look at Honeybee, with her thin body and lanky legs, her blonde hair and hazel-green eyes, her tinderbox temper and snuggle-bug charm, and I don't know what to do with myself.

I want to hold her in my lap indefinitely, but the world inches closer.

With it's questions and adventures, horrors and beauty - one day, she'll see it for what it is: a place worth exploring.

And with more than a little pride, I can see that she'll be ready.

With her tender heart and steely spine, someday, she'll be a fine explorer.

Someday.

But today, she's only just five, and she doesn't seem that different than yesterday. Or the day before that, or the day before that.

Four, five, or years beyond my mothering grasp, she'll always be my sweet Honeybee.

And I will always be here for her, a place to settle and rest. Her mother.

Happy birthday, Little Tiny.

A Toasty Mug

That, right there, is my first homemade latte in months.

True story.

In an effort to offset the expense of summer, the Russian and I opted to let our Nespresso capsules run out in late spring.

I wouldn't consider it a hardship, as The Russian has perfected the art of making cold-press coffee. He makes great batches of it every week, and, typically, we needed little else to give us our daily pick-me-up. 

My summer morning ritual went as follows: grab mason jar, fill with ice, pour in lovely mixture of milk and cold-press, swirl around {the coffee, not me}. Voilà!

But let me tell you about the best part - the part that's even better than the delicious, chilled brew. 

The sound of the ice cubes clinking as they shift in the liquid, nudging the glass and bobbing about.

Isn't that just one of those quintessential sounds of summer? The right way to start a warm day.

It wasn't until this week that I began to crave the warmth of a latte. A toasty mug to hold close as the mornings grow dim and blustery. 

Rainstorms have descended upon the Pacific Northwest. We wake to the pattering of drops at the window.

As I've written about before, way back in one of the first blog posts, part of living here is coming to terms with the rain. For me, a hot latte is key.

Thus, our first shipment of Nespresso capsules arrived yesterday. I was excited to make my latte this morning! 

But, of course, the hectic pace of things - school drop-off, dog walking, birthday party planning, chicken-curry making, grocery shopping - pushed it off. 

So, here I am, at mid-afternoon, finally sitting down to enjoy that first cup. 

And yes, it's so very nice. And yes, I hardly mind the rain. :)

Birchbox

Sure, I like wearing a little makeup.

I like to smell good, too.

Sometimes I even put this goopy stuff in my hair to make it less frizzy. Or maybe it's a curl enhancer. I'm not really sure.

So, it's probably time for me to admit something: I am uneducated and cheap when it comes to product.

Product, ubiquitous product - the stuff us females are inundated with.

The word that seems to stand for everything under the beautification sun.

When it comes to this subject, my knowledge is extremely limited.

I happily use free samples and hand-me-downs from my mom.The Russian's Momlady gives me the Mary Kay hook-up, for which I am thankful. And I rarely stray from the items I have used before.

Most of my product is related to skin care or make-up.

I do have a bunch of hair stuff, but I am the laziest hair-care person known to man. Seriously.

Only two haircuts in as many years. Enough said.

Anyway, I'm a product idiot. That's the bottom line here.

Having spent time with several friends and family members who are product gurus, I know where I land on that scale.

Yep, down on the idiot end of things. 'Tis the truth.

And that's okay. I'm perfectly fine the way I am, and no amount of product is going to make me a better person. I know this.

However, it sure can help as the body ages. And on those rough days, when I'm feeling less than stellar about myself, a little perfume, decent moisturizer, lip gloss, and mascara makes me feel slightly improved.

So, I like to have it around - a little of this, a little of that.

My first two Birchbox shipments!

Aaand here's where we come full circle, back to the part where I remind you how clueless I am about beauty potions and such.

Enter, Birchbox.

For my birthday, my brother and sister-in-law gave me a little brown box. It was simple and unadorned, and I thought, probably, filled with socks.

I always need socks, so that would have been fine, too.

But no - there were no socks. Birchbox is something much better {depending, I suppose, on the state of your sock drawer}.

With a monthly {$10/mo} or annual subscription {$110/yr}, they'll send you "4-5 personalized beauty and lifestyle samples".

Higher-end product I didn't know existed and would never, ever think to buy for myself.

I've received two boxes so far, and the goodies range from various facial serums to perfumes to hair treatments to eyeliner. I love eyeliner.

That eyeliner is deep, midnight blue. Siiiigh!

You can try the samples, learn more about them online, and, if you so desire, purchase particular items through their shop. There's no pressure to do so, though.

I see that box arrive in the mail, and I get giddy! Giddy, people. Like a kid on Christmas morning.

I don't even know what half the sh!t is, but I'm so excited to pull back that pink tissue paper and see what treats await.

And chances are, I won't buy any of it {okay, maybe a few things...sorry, The Russian}.

Probably, I'll make these samples last for the rest of my life, 'cause that's how I roll.

But for me, it's about the discovery.

That eau de purfum, Folle de Joie, is heavenly.

Here's a world I've never quite understood or cared to explore - too overwhelming, too expensive, too shishi.

Birchbox simplifies all of this for me, culling a vast sea of products down to 4 or 5 items every month.

Pretty practical. Pretty economical. Pretty, frickin' awesome!

Just sayin'.

Dear Summer,

Dear Summer,

Officially speaking, you reign for another 22 days, but...uh...lets get real.

Today is the last day of August. Labor Day is tomorrow. School begins on the 3rd. The leaves are already starting to fall.

Who are we kidding?

So, I'm callin' it.

Good bye, Summer - dear friend and fancy-free cohort.

Clearly, you're taking your leave, which should come as no surprise.

It's sort of an annual thing, right? I would know, seeing as I'm no spring chicken {as Mister so lovingly mentioned one day}.

But I'm still kinda sad.

Okay, really sad.

I miss your steamy days and balmy nights; your booze-hound benders and low cut tanks; your bonfire chatter and charcoal aroma.

Your good times never come with any strings - I like that about you.

So, let me return the favor: no more guilt trips, no more pining. {Can I pine for something before it's gone? Yep.}

A short and sweet farewell is in order, classy-like - in remembrance of you.

Until June, keep hot, sweet thang.

XOXO,
Meggie

Berry Magic

Berries.

When I think of my childhood, I can't help but think of berries.

I mean, they're not the only things that come to mind, but they're right up there with skiing, my big ol' family, sheep, tall grass, Chelan, marzipan, and bedtime stories.

Berries were just always around.

Salmon berries, huckleberries, and blackberries - we could find them all over our property.

And every fall, we picked enough blackberries to make pies throughout the coming months.

Our recipe is a special one, and it reminds me of my mom.

You bake the crust first {there is no top crust}, work some berry magic, pour the filling in, refrigerate, and voila!

It's usually eaten cold, which is divine.

The best pie ever, hands down. At least in my book.

For whatever reason, the last few summers have been sparse with the berries at my parents' place. Enough for them, but not for both of our families.

So, I took the kids and the puppy to our all-time favorite green space - Discovery Park.

We hiked up to our secret spot, and the four of them waded through the tall grass, lounged, and smeared themselves in berry juice.

Literally.

It was hot and there was some whining.

We're all a little scratched and bloodied.

The puppy pilfered enough from our bowls to guarantee a colorful evening of intestinal distress.

But I picked enough blackberries for two pies!

And it was so nice to enjoy the solitude and peace that often comes with gathering.

When I think of Autumn {yes, I know it's still summer}, I think of gathering.

Pumpkins, leaves, apples, evergreen boughs, berries. The coming together of loved ones.

I like gathering all sorts of things.

Maybe that's why I love this next season so very much.

And now the berries are cleaned and frozen.

Ready for berry magic.