Papercut

Nikki McClure is a papercut artist from Olympia, Washington. With only an X-Acto knife, she cuts beautifully whimsical and hauntingly serene pictures out of a single sheet of paper.

I love her work. Love it. Not only is she local, which makes it all the better, but the artwork has a distinctively Pacific Northwestern feel. Lots of water, beaches, beach creatures, forests, bundled up families. You get the gist.

In my home, we have six different creations by the amazing Nikki: a calendar, three baby journals (which I highly recommend), a black and white print, and a cook book. And today, I used two of the aforementioned (which sparked the idea for this post).

First, her cookbook, which is sweet and filled with unique, from-the-heart recipes and mealtime musings. It also happens to be home to the Midnight Morning Biscuits.

These fluffy, little wonders have become a regular in my kitchen. I can whip them up in a minute, give or take thirty. And, I'm thiiiiis close to having the recipe memorized. HUGE deal for me!

Only the coolest cooks can pull a meal straight out of their head, no recipes required. I'm pretty sure biscuits count as a meal. Especially if you toss in some chives and chopped up bacon. Am I right??

Second, the baby journal. My little Mac is nearly two, and I am scrambling to document as much as I can in the remaining pages. Seeing as its specifically meant for The First 1000 Days, my time is nearly up.

I have bought this journal for each of my babies. I have bought this journal for other people's babies. If you have a baby that needs a journal, or know of a baby that needs a journal, look no further! (Wow - enough of babies and journals, already!)

And just because I'm such a big fan, we'll enjoy some more snapshots of Nikki's work, though they'll hardly do it justice.

Remember - an X-Acto knife and a sheet of paper, people. Amazing.

*And in case you missed it earlier, you can learn more about her here!

The Calendar that I received for Christmas.

Midnight Morning Biscuit

January, I Love You

January, you never let me down.

Year after year, you bring new resolve, a quiet peace, the promise of spring, a fresh outlook, the desire to purge and clean, and at least one magnificently sunny day.

Saturday was that day. (And hopefully every day next week, but I don't want to get greedy).

It started with fog, which my neighborhood gets year-round. Love, love, love fog, BTW. But it soon melted off, giving way to the most amazingly crisp and blue afternoon. Temps hovered at 55 degrees, and we went to the park.

But not just any park. I'm talking about Discovery Park, the 534 acres of forest, grassland, and beach smack-dab in the middle of Seattle.

The neighborhood of Magnolia, in which the park resides, holds very special meaning for my family. And the park itself, which used to be a military base, holds very special meaning for The Russian and his family. So, we really dig this place.

That day, it was super busy, dogs and people milling about. Joggers brushing past, and hikers marching, their new-from-the-holidays outdoor gear strapped to various body parts.

The Olympics were crystal clear, cargo ships lumbered through the channel, and a thin, low layer of fog clung to the water and the shores of Bainbridge Island.

And, of course, there were all the beautiful, late-day, wintry shades of lavender, periwinkle, and grey. Sigh!

My kids ran and ran, their little legs making up for last week's rain storms, their faces looking Seattleite-pale in the light.

Finally, we came upon the sand dunes, perched on the bluff and high above the waterway, and they dug. They dug like prairie dogs with a mission. Covered in sand and grinning from ear to ear.

And I'm not gonna lie - mass quantities of sand make me a little squirmy. I think of scratched retinas, dirty cars, and granules for days. (shudder)

But we are water people, and that's how it goes. For us, sand is an inescapable part of spring and summer. And come fall, a good car detailing sorts most of that out, anyway. Not my anal retentiveness, of course, but I'm sure The Russian finds that to be one of my most endearing qualities. I'm pretty certain.

In summary, it was a great afternoon, one I would relive again and again. And we'll probably try to recreate some version of it many times in the coming months. Thank goodness.

January, I love you.

Polish It Up

I knew a boy who dreamed of beat and rhythm, music and sound. The inner workings of a true musician.

And when he grew up, that's just what he became. In fact, I went to his show last night, and it was great. Loud, thumping, alive. He drummed away on every surface, very much as I remember him from our younger years. Fingers tapping, head bobbing.

Robert DeLong

I stood in the crowd, next to his sister, who is one of my oldest friends, and marveled at the power of a dream. The power of an underlying passion that wouldn't be pushed aside.  

He makes me think of myself. Of my husband. Of my friends and family. Of my children. 

Each of us and our odd or inspiring or quiet or all-consuming desires. That purpose-driven seed that was planted at our very beginning. I think we all have it, that little starter, waiting in the dark. Waiting for the time to bloom. 

My rocker friend, he heard that constant drum in his chest, and with a lot of work and determination, it looks to me as if he's truly living his dream. Honest-to-God success. I could be wrong, because it's not my dream, and only he would know for sure. But, in any case, I'm inspired.

It makes me want to listen carefully to my kids - their musings, the activities they lean toward, the subjects they cleave to.  

It makes me want to write more, to be happy for my wonder-filled, escapist heart. 

But not all of us can be rock stars. No, most of us are just regular folks with jobs and kids, commute times and bills. And even though I like to believe that we're all gifted with a unique skill or mindset (teaching, painting, helping, healing, etc.), sometimes its enough to simply discover the thing(s) that makes us most happy. The most at peace. The most fulfilled. 

We do what we can, and life can get busy.

Sometimes its enough to sit down and grind out a chapter. Or work on a flower bed, because getting outside and digging in the dirt feels good.

Last night, standing in a crowded room and watching my friend's brother perform, was a Big Heart moment. I can only imagine how his parents must feel. Their son, doing what he loves. Doing it well.

And, even though it might sound idealistic or naive, I still believe there's some truth to it all: unearth what rests at your core, polish it up, and put it out there for all to see. 

Or, not. Big dreams don't always need big fanfare.

In the end, it's your heart. Your life. Your shot at being true.

Be your own rock star.

The Iron Sort

Honeybee was supposed to be a boy.

I had determined this fact through strict scientific research (i.e., Chinese gender charts...obviously), and there was not a doubt in my mind.

But when she came out, all purple and mad and absolutely, irrefutably female, I was shocked. And I was beyond bliss.

A girl! I felt so lucky. And I still do.

Honeybee is a tiny, pixie-like creature with a big smile and a mop of blonde hair. She's a force to be reckoned with, her raspy, robust voice projecting outward with the startling power of a Mini Jambox, her will of the iron sort.

There are many things that we share, but today (and I'm slightly embarrassed about this, especially considering my last post) it comes back to shoes. Converse, to be exact.

The heels are strictly her own taste. ;)

Enamored

I don't mean to be cliche, but I have a thing for boots. Flats, too, but this isn't about flats. And, if I'm being honest, Converse. But we're not talking about them, either. Not today. No, today it's about boots.

First, let me just say, up front, that I am NOT a shoe person. I truly believe this, even though you probably will not.

I have a modest number of shoes in my closet, and most are comfortably old or from Target (one of my favorite stores). Also, I couldn't care less about all the strappy things that Carrie wore in Sex and The City, though she did look fab.

Second, I will admit to having a sizable Pinterest board solely (no pun intended) dedicated to shoes. But doesn't everybody? Don't get me started on Pinterest.

Back to boots.

I think this obsession (did I say that? hmm...seems a bit extreme) is a product of my childhood. 

During my tween and high school years, I slipped on galoshes each and every morning at the crack of dawn to care for a slew of animals - cows, sheep, and a horse (not counting about a dozen other creatures that lived with us or boarded on our property). And in the afternoons, I often laced up my working boots and headed back out to the barn.

Consequently, my preoccupation is wholly focused on practicality, or at least the appearance of practicality. Even though I can appreciate their beauty, I have absolutely no interest in high-heeled boots or anything that will make me fall on my bum. And you never know when you might need to muck out a stall.

When it comes to a certain style, and I can't exactly put my finger on it - lower to the ground, worn leather, buckles, straps, laces - I am truly enamored. And over Christmas, I was able to purchase a new, reasonably priced (for boots) pair.

Steve Madden's 'Troopa' Boots in Stone Leather

Here they are, in all their sensible, low-to-the-ground, lace-up glory!

They remind me so much of a black pair I had as a girl. I wore those boots whenever I rode my horse or showed sheep at the State Fair. They were quite utilitarian, just as these are, and perfect for every situation. At least every situation that didn't involve dresses or ballrooms, of which there were few. 

And since I still don't have much to do with dresses are ballrooms, my new beauties will probably get just as much wear as that old, black pair. In my opinion, that's a pretty good deal: all the love but none of the manure.

Full Disclosure

So...donuts.

It was never supposed to end with a bagful. Actually, it was never supposed to end with even one. But there you have it. Donuts. Five of them, to be exact.

Let me back up a bit.

A few days ago, I had an hour to myself during the middle of the day. And what do you think I did? Come on fellow moms - this is a no-brainer.

I went to the grocery store, of course.

So, there I was, cruising down 14th toward Trader Joe's - a route I could drive in my sleep, or at least half asleep with one eye open, which may or may not have happened back in the up-all-night-with-a-newborn days. Anyway, there I was, doing something I've done a million times, when BAM!

Top Pot Donuts. The store has been on the same corner for a couple of years, and every other time I've zoomed on past without so much as a second glance.

But that day, foot-loose and fancy-free (and slightly bitter to be grocery shopping), I noticed it for the first time. Really noticed it.

As in - nearly ran a stop sign, parked like a maniac, speed walked past Trader Joe's, squatted down in front of the display case so I could get a better look - noticed it. Yep.

I picked one for myself, a charming little confection with pink frosting and sprinkles (always my top choice).

And then, because I couldn't just buy one, and I felt a smidge guilty for chowing down while my entire family was at home waiting for me, I picked out four more.

Now, I have always loved donuts. Always. They remind me of my dad and my Grandma and my college town and my childhood church. They're gooey and sweet, colorful and blissfully aromatic.

And - let me make this perfectly clear - I never experience any guilt while consuming donuts. Not ever.

Guilt has nothing to do with this little story. And really, it's not even a story. More of a Strange Outing Confession, I guess you could say. My inner child clamoring to break free. A momentary lapse of willpower (of which, I have practically none).

In any case, it felt kinda good to give in to such an odd craving, at such an odd time. (And no, I'm not pregnant, Mom.)

But now it's time for full disclosure: the donut was mediocre, at best. A real grrrrr moment.

Next time, I'll have to "spontaneously" drive a couple more miles and find myself at Mighty-O Donuts. In which case, I'd still buy five but not a single one would make it home.


* And for the record, I did go grocery shopping afterwards, the seat portion of my shopping cart filled with donuts. Which isn't a bad way to roll.

An Interview with Honeybee

Q: What is your favorite time of year? 

A: Birthday time. I just like it.

It's true. She is pretty super.

Q: What do you love about school? 

A: Making reindeer food at Christmas.

Q: What do you think is really funny? 

A: I like jokes about chickens walking on benches and eating.

Q: Interesting. What do chickens eat on benches? 

A: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, of course!

Q: What do you want to learn how to do this year?  

A: I wanna bike ride and stuff.

Q: Where to you love to visit?

A: Lake Chelan, Portland, and Grammy and Grandad's house.

Q: What are you afraid of? 

A: Talking monsters. But not Mike Mizowski (clarification: Mike Wazowski from Monsters, Inc.). He's really funny and green.

Q: What is your favorite kind of animal and why? 

A: Hippos and horses. I like hippos because they have big teeth, and I like horses because they have some giddyup.

Q: Who do you love? 

A: I love everyone! (followed by a classic Honeybee thumbs up)

Anderson Island

So, I've got some really great friends, all different kinds: 

~ The hysterical, pee-your-pants-laughing kind

~ The emotional support kind 

~ The shared life experiences kind 

~ The old-school kind 

~ The newly-made kind 

~ The little-bit-of-everything kind

They don't all know one another or even live in the same areas. And some I get to see more than others (though that usually doesn't matter). But the take-away here is that I'm lucky for each and every one of them.

Once or twice a year, I escape with some of these gals. We leave our kids, husbands, obligations, jobs, chores, and laundry behind and head to Lake Chelan or Anderson Island - two very different and very beautiful kinds of heaven.

So, this last weekend was one of those times (squeee!). 

One of my friends has a family Inn on Anderson Island, and eight of us hunkered down for a night.

Storms swept up and out of the channel day and night.
It was awesome!

I got to man this beast over the weekend.
And because I LOVE wood-fire stoves, that was fine by me.

Gale force winds, whitecaps, wet beach rocks, spotty power, cozy fires, blustery beach walks. The quintessential Pacific Northwest experience - all packed into 24-hours.

Yes, it was a dang-quick 24 hours, but that didn't matter. We laughed our butts off, emptied an unmentionable number of wine bottles, played games, and caught up on all the little life details that had fallen through the cracks.

We ventured out for a walk...

...and got caught in a downpour. Sprinting ensued.
That - right there - was the extent of our exercise. 

Awkward and funny, two of my favorite things. 

And now, I'm back home with my family. Man, I missed my people, and they missed me. I truly don't like to be away from them for long.

The same goes for my girlfriends, though - all the different and amazing women in my life.

The end.

*If you'd like to stay at the lovely August Inn, learn more here!

My First Foray

It's no secret that I've always wanted to be Italian.

The wine, the style, the food, the history. What's not to love? 

Alas, the closest my ancestors got to the Adriatic was France. It's a good thing I love all things French equally as much. At least there's that.

To make up for it, I've visited Italy twice, I've drank more than my share of wine, and I've been carbo-loading for decades. I like to make my own red sauce, and Adriana Trigiani is one of my favorite authors. 

You'd think, what with this love affair of mine, that I'd be confident in my skills as a homemade pasta maker. I mean, what could possibly be more Italian than that?

But, honestly, there's something about the whole process that really freaks me out. 

Maybe it's the mixing of the dough - not too little and not too much. 

Or the vast amount of flour that seems to be involved - floating up into the air and settling down like a fine layer of drywall dust (I know A LOT about that and have been actively avoiding it).

Or maybe it's the fact that I didn't have a little, Italian grandma who spent years teaching me her skills in the kitchen.

Whatever lame excuse I might provide will be just that - lame. And I'm owning up to it. So tonight, even though it was just another night, and all three of my kids hovered like no-see-ums on the counter, I ventured into the world of homemade pasta.

Ricotta Gnocchi with Brown Butter Sage Sauce. My first foray. I've always been a sucker for gnocchi, so it was a natural choice.

And guess what? It wasn't so bad! 

Yes, I severely underestimated how much I should make for a family of five (we saved a plate for The Russian). And yes, we were all covered in flour by the end of the process. But all in all, I'd count it as a success. And I will definitely attempt the recipe again. In fact, I'm planning on making sweet potato gnocchi next week. (All right...settle down there, Meggie. One win at a time!)

That said, here's the recipe. You should try it one night when it makes absolutely no sense and you're home alone cooking with all of your children. Trust me - you won't regret it.

So, enjoy our first attempt at pasta-making, an event that was celebrated with a handful of bad pictures, many participatory hands, a kitchen full of dirty dishes, but more excitement than I thought possible. 

Mixing the ricotta, egg yolks, salt, and parmesan.

Mister and Honeybee, gettin' in on it.

Baby gnocchi. Aren't they just the cutest things?

Boiling the babies.

An Interview with Mister

Q: Right now, what's the thing you are most proud of?
A: Learning how to tie my shoes.

Mastery, at last.

Q: If you could do anything right this moment, what would it be or where would you go?
A: I would go to the fair. I like the squirmy worm roller coaster.

Q: What are you most excited to learn about in kindergarten?
A: I'm excited to learn how to write. Because then I can write down all my stories. (a boy after my own heart!)

Q: What do you love most about having a brother and sister?
A: That they are my best friends.

Q: Who or what do you love a whole lot?
A: My mommy and daddy and family.

Q: Other than your family, what else do you love a whole lot?
A: Little Bear. (his favorite stuffed animal)

Q: Is there anything you are really afraid of?
A: Great white sharks and the dark. 

Q: What do you think is unfair?
A: Having your friend like someone else more than they like you. (sad face)

Q: What is something you miss about being little?
A: I used to get all the attention, and now I don't. (so true)