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.

Chill the Eff Out

Summer. Two and a half months of long, hot, wide-open days.

No school. No soccer or gymnastics. No hounding PTA emails. No frantic mornings and packed lunches.

Summer. Sounds pretty damn good to me.

Ironically, this spring I dreaded its onset.

After a year in which two of my children attended some form or another of school, I should have been ecstatic. Jumping for joy. Cart-wheeling down the street with a drink in my hand.

Instead, I was nervous.

For the FIRST time ever, summer had lost its shine.

Reason number one: Entertainment

Basically, we go from ultra-structured days to 'hmmmm, what should we do?' days. It's a little shocking, even for the kids, and anyone who's had children will understand what I'm talking about.

This has never bugged me before. I am not an overly structured person. In fact, I'm pretty sure I don't fall anywhere within the Overly Structured paradigm.

But somehow I got wrapped up in the busy-kid mentality that pervades in my neck of the woods.

Even in the summer, parents {working or not} tend to keep their children running from one activity to the next. Educational lessons built in wherever possible. Play dates up the friggin' yin-yang.

God forbid my children should have any long stretches of unfettered free time. Or a day or two to themselves - no plans, no friends, no coaches telling them what to do.

So, the first month of summer was pretty busy, at least by our standards. I even scheduled them to attend a week of VBS at my parent's church {which they loved, btw}.

But it was so unlike me to stress about being busy enough. About keeping them busy enough.

Freedom induced stress. Lame. Even I wanted to kick myself.

Reason number two: The Canine

We rescued a 6-month-old puppy in May through a wonderful organization called Animal Aid & Rescue Foundation {if you're looking for a furry buddy, I would highly recommend them}.

I mean, what family with three young children living in a cramped house in the city doesn't need a puppy? I know, I know - what was I thinking? But we went ahead and did it anyway {God bless The Russian for caving in}.

She was sweet from the start - a heart on her sleeve kind of dog. But still a rowdy puppy, and one with her own bag of issues.

The Russian had little time to care for her, as I knew would be the case, and so the responsibility fell on me. And it hit me hard.

What the hell was I going to do with a hyper, rough-on-the-leash puppy all day? How would we get out and do our summery things without crating her for hours on end? How would she behave on our various vacations?

It was a physical and emotional dilemma - and yes, a trivial first world problem. And yes, one I might have foreseen, had I not had puppy blinders on.

Even in the midst of my meltdown, I knew it was ridiculous. I mean, she's a dog for crying out loud.

But somehow it felt as though I'd adopted a fourth child. A fourth child that ate everything, yanked your arm off on walks, and wouldn't mind getting a taste of every cat within eye shot. You get the picture.

I'm a capable woman. I am strong and determined. But for some reason, this dog brought me to my knees. I can't explain it, and I'm  embarrassed by my reaction, but that's the truth.

Conclusion: Chill the Eff Out

So, yeah. Basically, I needed to take a chill pill. Or down a couple shots of tequila. Make that a whole round of shots.

By July, all was well.

We'd found our way back to an unstructured summer. And guess what? My kids don't combust when faced with a week of back yard play and old toys. A fact I'd once known but lost sight of.

And our puppy is awesome! She's got her quirks {and still considers cats fair game....good thing our feline steers clear}, but she suits our family and we suit her.

When next summer draws near, I'll be ready. If I feel the pressure to over-entertain my children or get the nutso urge to adopt another creature, I will take a moment.

I will walk to the liquor cabinet and grab trusty ol' Jose Cuervo. I'll take a long pull and then a deep breath.

Then all will be right with the world. :)

The Lake

Beautiful Lake Chelan from Tsillan Cellars' vineyards.

Lake Chelan.

In the dead of winter - my down coat a veritable extremity and my pallor closely resembling the hue of a bone fish - I close my eyes and dream of that place.

I pull up a picture from the previous summer and stare with yearning.

I think of my afternoon swims to the floating dock.

I imagine myself on our deck, the frosty glass of my mixed drink a reprieve from the heat.

I smell the balmy wind as it blows down through the winding channel of the lake.

I see the orchards and the vineyards that run for miles, and the sun setting below the crisp and jagged line of the forested Cascade Mountain Range.

This isn't just any lake. No, Ma'am.

Tsillan Cellars vineyard, overlooking the lake.

Long and narrow, it cuts deeply through the foothills of the Cascades.

On the far west end is the remote hamlet of Stehekin, reached only by foot, air, or water. Then there's Manson, a small, quaint town on the north shore. Finally, Chelan, the lake's biggest city, which sits on the far east end.

The lake is fed by roughly 100 glaciers that trickle down from the surrounding mountains. Which makes the water a liiiiitle bit chilly, but so clean and beautiful. In certain places, the color rivals that of the Caribbean.

It's the third deepest lake in the Unites States, with a maximum depth of 1,500 feet {though the eastern-most end, near the city of Chelan, seems pretty shallow in comparison...you can usually see the sandy bottom}.

Having a drink at Benson's.

There are over 200 acres of wine grapes and over 20 wineries in the area. My favorites {in no particular order}: Tsillan Cellars, Nefarious Cellars, Benson Vineyards Estate Winery, Vin du Lac Winery, Tunnel Hill Winery, Karma Winery. New vineyards and wineries are cropping up ever year.

There are hundreds of miles of hiking trails in the summer, and in the off-season, when an average of 39 inches of snow typically falls, the hillsides beckon to the winter sport enthusiast.

The lake gets over 300 days of sunshine. What the hell?! Being a Seattelite, and living only 160 miles east, it's hard to believe that such a place exists within driving distance.

Chelan is one of my very favorite escapes year-round. If you haven't already visited, you should definitely make plans. Learn more here.

As a child, I spent my summers vacationing on the lake, and as an adult, I still spend as much time in Chelan as possible.

I love this lake, but I am only the latest in my line of people to feel that way.

Back in the late 1800s, my Basque ancestors ran massive herds of sheep through the surrounding hillsides.

Dusty, tired, and stinking of lanolin, they'd often stop to rest in what was then the small town of Chelan. They would stay with their friends, the Campbells, a family well-known today for their lakefront resort.

My great-grandma returned to visit the Campbells for her honeymoon in 1918.

Her grandson, my father, spent many summers playing on its shores.

And fittingly, The Russian and I honeymooned in Chelan and Stehekin, as well.

Now, our children come with us.

The days and weeks blend together in a glorious mess of sunscreen, grimy feet, and pink cheeks.

So, like me and all of those relatives before me, they will grow up with the smell of lake and pine forever embedded in their memories.

For us, it's a second home.

A place to escape to or put down roots.

Whatever it is, it's surely amazing.

For the Love of Eggs

I think eggs are beautiful.

Bird eggs, specifically. {Snake eggs give me the heebie jeebies...too soft and elongated....bleck!}

I love the gentle shape of birds' eggs. I love their milky colors. I love their hard shells.

Brown, white, cream, peach, blue, green. Speckled.

Visually, they're perfect. At least to me.

That's not to say that I can't appreciate the taste of an egg. I'm an omnivore, after all. {But puulease keep those hard boiled abominations away from me!}

Yes, I do eat them, but this is about my appreciation for their outer beauty.

I love to run my fingers over their sides. To feel the weight of them in my hands.

They make me happy.

And have you heard of the Tinamou?

Tinamous are from Mexico, Central America, and South America. They're plain birds - brown/gray/tan, ground-dwelling creatures with trim, little bodies.

Nothing to write home about, at least not in my bird-judgin' opinion.

But don't let the bland plumage fool you. Tinamous lay the most gorgeous eggs. Ever. EVER.

Deeply colored and glossy, they come in a myriad of colors: turquoise to pink to aubergine to slate to dusty rose. They're coated in a porcelain-like shell that gives them the look of carved and varnished stones.

I've never seen these eggs in person, but I guarantee if I did, my heart would flutter.

In fact, I had an egg-induced flutter moment the other day at a friend's house.

They've got a coop and run in their back yard, and those three hens of theirs produce more eggs than they can handle.

Several had already been laid, but we waited patiently while one slow-moving old biddy took her sweet, sweet time finishing up. We'd crack the door to the nesting box and she'd squint her dark eyes at us, as if to say, 'Seriously? Have you no shame?'

We did not. And we checked back every few minutes until she begrudgingly retreated to her roost.

That night I made a spinach, garlic, and mozzerella frittata with those eight lovely eggs. They tasted soooo much better than store-bought {at least in my imagination}.

Even if it was a little sad to crack 'em open.

Oh, for the love of eggs.