Mea Culpa

Disclaimer:

I wrote the following "Mea Culpa" post in the early summer of 2015.
The words were very hard to get down
- so hard, in fact, that I was never able to post them.

Now, as I sit in front of the Christmas tree in our new home,
my heart is light. My family is settled and well!
And so much has changed since last spring - thank God.

But I still feel this post deserves a place.

So, here it is - in all its morose glory! ;)
I'll catch you up on more current happenings as time permits - promise!


~~~

I've been M.I.A.

Mea culpa.

In the distant future,
when my stress level and blood pressure have taken a nose dive,
I might look back on this time with an odd sort of fondness.

It's not likely, but maybe.

In any case, these last four months have been a lot.

Nothing we can't handle, but still, a lot.

There was the entire kitchen demo and the remodel,
the listing of our home and subsequent burglary,
and the countless hours of packing.
Now, finally, the move.

And here it is, the last night in our home.

The beds are broken down, and the three Littles are camped out in sleeping bags.
Our possessions are boxed up and lining the walls.
There's an unsettled feeling to the air - an empty, flighty way of things.

It's been this way for weeks.

We've danced around goodbyes, but the time has come now,
and I'm terrible at goodbyes. 

I'd rather write a note or a blog post. 

Honestly, I don't revel in the sharing of tears.

I'm the one that lets them loose in the dark, after the house has fallen silent.
When I can feel them on my own terms and no one watches.

And the process of leaving this home has laid us low.
Consequently, there have been many tears.

This, the building that welcomed our children into the world;
this, the never-ending project that taught us patience and resilience;
this, the street that brought us dear friends and Americana memories;
this, the neighborhood that fed our urban dreams.

Leaving is a wound that will only heal with time.

We are onto new, uncertain things. Better things, I hope. 

But still, I smell the familiar sea air tonight; I hear the hum of the City.

I know our future has so much promise, but I ache for this loss. 

~~~

Love: Ballard. 

Love: 12th Avenue Northwest. 

Love: a tiny, pink home that shaped our adult lives. 

Be well, little house, we have loved you.

The Salty Darlings

Back in January, I attended a baby shower.

I've attended literally countless of these celebrations {as we all have},
and they tend to run together in a  homogenized blur of pastel burp clothes,
trivia games, lactation implements,
and hand-held appetizers.

But not this one. 

Oh no, dear reader, this particular baby shower was different.

Obviously, the mother-to-be was the star of the show. Obviously. 

Buuuut, I'll admit my attention was stolen by a not-so-pregnant runner up.
A stand-out of the dessert variety, in fact.

Here's the simpleton truth:
I was dazzled by the Browned Butter and Sea Salt Rice Crispy Treats.

*Dazzle factor, in review: Browned butter. Sea Salt. Marshmallows. 

And not to get fanatical, but lumping them together with their lack-luster
Rice Crispy Treat cousins is hardly fair.

Instead, I've dubbed them The Salty Darlings
{which makes me giggle and The Russian roll his eyes}.

So, back to the baby shower.

Amidst the small talk and tissue paper,
I gobbled up five of the neatly cut squares.
Then, I asked for the recipe.

And since that miraculous day,
I've managed to find four separate occasions
which "required" the making of a double batch.

Let me restate: four double batches in two months.

Things are clearly getting out of hand.

Therefore, I feel the need to pass this most coveted recipe along (here it is).

Maybe by popularizing The Salty Darlings,
I'll stop craving them.

But probably not.

Choose Love

Love, 

let's talk about it.

Specifically, my love of brie. 

Also, bacon.

And....basil.

Maybe some waffles and maple syrup, too.

Hey, here's an idea: 

let's just pile all those things on top of one another. 

And voila - a crazy-brilliant combo is born.

I want it, of course. Urgently.

You should, too - trust me. And guess what?

The Ridgeback Cafe & Market invented this bacon/basil/brie-awesomeness, 

and they call it the Triple B.

It gets better.

This enchanted palace of waffles and crepes is just a few blocks from our house. 

Given my complete lack of will power, 

this could be dangerous.

So, The Russian and I have resolved to go only when it's just the two of us 

{which means practically never}.

Reason being: kidlets.

In the case of small, city-type cafes, sometimes five can be a crowd 

{an adorably rambunctious, syrup-slinging crowd}.

But back to love.

As you may know, Valentines Day is around the corner.

During this brief 24-hour span of time, sentiments of adoration are often expected.   

Typically, these sentiments involve spending copious amounts of money on 

sub par chocolate and drooping roses.

Or...you could choose to forgo the conventional offerings 

and opt for waffle-bacon-brie-basil bliss.

Yes. Do that. 

This Valentines Day {or any day, really}, 

choose love...

...the sublimely delicious kind. 

Because I'm pretty sure bacon speaks louder than words, anyway.

Blood & Tears

If I had a quarter for every day that I've found a tape measure in a kitchen cupboard...

...or duct tape on my walls...

Of course it would be right there.

...or a screw driver on the counter...

...or a huge, cardboard box with a sink or lighting fixture in my living room...

...if I truly added those days up, well, what's 365 by eight?

I guess I'd have about 2,920 quarters.

{Hmm...maybe I should be counting imaginary lattes instead of quarters. 

These years have demanded more coffee than I could get my hands on.}

As mentioned in my bio, we live in an old house. Built in 1938.

Back in 2007, our desire to live in the city overruled common sense.

We ignored major issues - such as livable square footage {860 sq. feet} and the general condition of the structure {who needs windows that open?} - in order to live in our dream neighborhood. 

I wouldn't say we purchased a lemon, 

because we've turned it into something so very different over the years, 

but it was dang close. 

This one cracks me up! 'Cause if it weren't for the tape,
I definitely wouldn't notice the plaster that needs patching. ;)

But seriously, we had absolutely no idea what we'd gotten ourselves into.

The Russian, and any friends/family who would lend a hand, 

spent the better part of a decade on this transformation. 

Almost eight years now to be exact. 

{Though we did take some time off after Mac was born.}

But truly, the rest of those years were game-on.

And this was formidable work. 

Random remodel stuff in equally random places.

These were big, Big, BIG projects, like, oh...

removing seven layers of old siding and putting up hardiplank, 

replacing ALL the windows, 

cutting massive holes in our walls for new windows, 

building two decks, 

knocking down a chimney, 

rewiring and replumbing everything, 

removing the octopus-shaped furnace, 

building a stairwell and stairs, 

and finishing {from the foundation up} the entire basement.

In the burning heat, driving rain, freezing cold. 

Before and after his eight- to sixteen-hour works days.

The Russian did it all. And not just to make things prettier.

This remodel saved our asses, because shortly after we bought our home, the recession hit. 

We had no choice but to dig in and stay put. 

To raise our family in a tiny house with no insulation, 

one that we'd only intended to live in for two to three years. Max.

Aforementioned sink in living room.
I think of it as an end-table now.

And for the record, I wasn't twiddling my thumbs, people! 

I had our three kidlets during those years. 

And, because the work was non-stop, 

there was also the constant job of making sure they didn't fall through actual holes in the floor, 

or step on roofing staples hidden in the grass, 

or inhale the never-ending clouds of drywall dust.

To say that The Russian and I have aged a bit throughout this process is a polite understatement.

But in the end, we doubled our square footage.

We created some lovely, new livable space.

We turned our lemon of a house into a cute, little home. 

A home in my most favorite neighborhood in Seattle. 

A home on the cheeriest, most wonderful block you could imagine.

Still, there's work to be done. 

Like a living, breathing thing, this house requires more from us.

The kitchen is rough. Real rough. 

And the walls need work, as does the upstairs bathroom. 

There are other projects, too.

Our make-shift pantry in the ROUGH kitchen.

Bottom line: a move is likely imminent. Not written in stone, but close.

And despite our love/hate relationship with this old heap of lumber and glass, 

admitting that we may leave often elicits a wide range of emotions. 

Typically the teary kind.  

But change is good. I know this.

A bigger space that requires less work will be best for our family. 

I know this, too.

And a part of me does long for adventure - the chance to start fresh.

So, we begin final projects on a structure 

that has stood through three quarters of a century. 

In all likelihood, this house and these projects will outlive me.

Despite the blood and tears, 

our little pain-in-the-ass home will be held in my heart forever. 

All the love and uncertainty and dreams and fear tucked safely away within its walls.

Funny how that works. :)