Rainy Sunday

A latte and Lindsay. The perfect remedy.

The lost iPhone

Our first snowshoeing outing was such a hit last weekend we decided to head back to Mt. Hood yesterday to satiate our appetite for snow. Lucky for us, twin storms last week dumped over three feet of perfect white stuff on the mountain, so we knew the conditions would be ideal. (Meanwhile, in Portland, it rained about five inches over the course of the week.)

It poured the whole drive to the mountain, but as soon as we started our ascent through Mt. Hood National Forest, incessant rain turned into thick white flakes. To our delight, the scenery transformed almost immediately--under thick white clouds miles and miles of snow-topped forests glistened in the falling snow.

Last weekend, we hiked a 5.25 mile trail to and around Trillium Lake. From what I've gathered, it's definitely the most traversed snowshoe trail at Mt. Hood. Most of the trail is a relatively flat snow-covered road, so it's wider and invites big groups and families with kids. Although we enjoyed our hike, we were ready to try a different, more isolated trail.

The rental shop recommended the 4.5 mile Lower Twin Lake Trail, so we decided to give it a shot. The other trail we were considering, White River, was the venue for a 4K and 8K snowshoe race. Yes. Race. The guy who won the 8K last year ran it in 35 minutes. That's about 7:00 minute miles. On snowshoes! Since Lindsay is still recovering from knee surgery and we've only snowshoed once, we figured we'd try a different trail.

We pulled up the Twin Lakes trail map on my phone and drove about six miles south of Government Camp to the trailhead. As soon as we started our hike, I knew it'd be leaps and bounds better than Trillium. Within minutes it felt as if we were deep in the woods. The trail was pretty narrow so we were single-file most of the way.

After 1.5 miles and about a 500-foot ascent we reached the turn for Lower Twin Lake. We walked downhill for about a half a mile and then reached the lake, which was completely covered in a few feet of snow. We inched close to the lake to maximize our view. Lindsay was a little too trusting of the ice and ended up with a wet foot. If it was wet and cold the rest of the way, she never let me know.

While resting at the lake for a few minutes, we spotted a handful of birds in the tree above us hopping from branch to branch. It looked like they were enjoying the winter weather just as much as we were. After a water break, we continued onward to Upper Twin Lake. Close to a mile and a pretty good 300-foot climb later, we reached the lake. Another beautiful sight.

At this point in our hike, we had to make a decision. Turn around and head back the way we came for a 3.2 mile hike, or continue on. We both felt great so we decided to go further, continuing through rolling hills on the winding trail.

The parking lot was close to empty by the time we got back, close to four hours and 7 miles later. As we were packing the car, Lindsay said uneasily, "Um Maura." Ut oh. "I can't find my iPhone. It's gone." Great. A white iPhone lost in the woods on three feet of snow while snow is falling. It could have slipped out of her pocket two miles ago. She walked up the trail a few hundred feet, but no luck.

We decided not to stress about it and drove home. On the way, Lindsay's mom called. "Some guy has your phone. He found it in the woods." Hooray! Not only was it not lost, but somehow, it was still working. The lost iPhone had been found. Our snowshoeing outing was not ruined after all. In fact, it was quite lovely.

Winter

When I think about growing up in Binghamton, memories of white winters and snow day adventures sit high at the top of my favorites. Since moving to Portland, I've reflected more on my childhood and hometown than I can ever remember, and experiences I haven't thought about in years are suddenly at the front of my mind. Perhaps this welcomed clarity arises from packing up and moving so far from home, from grappling with major life changes.

When we were kids, snow days meant fun: waking up not to an alarm but the sound of shoveling and wailing snow blowers, sledding with the D'Abbraccis at IBM or Rec Park, epic neighborhood snow ball battles, hot chocolate, building massive snow forts and tunnels, shoveling, ice skating on our homemade backyard ice rink, cross country skiing in Chenango Valley State Park, along the Susquehanna, or occasionally, at the French Track. 

Most often those epic snowball fights would end with someone getting pegged in the face, and, subsequently, heading home in tears, head hanging dejectedly. Or, Tyler and Eamonn would get in a fight, and we'd have to go home. 

Once, while cross-country skiing down by the river with Anne, Kristin, and Chris, we came across a woman lying precariously on thin ice. Without hesitation, Anne ran up to a house to call 911, then within what seemed like seconds crawled out on the ice with her ski to rescue the woman while we stood by watching in awe. That was enough excitement for one snow day. 

On another, during the blizzard of 1996 (might very well be wrong on this date), the plows decided to skip the side streets, so we took advantage. My Dad, our neighbor, Jessica, and I cross-country skied up to the top of Johnson hill and back. (It seemed like quite the journey.) Our picture--just us three skiers and a vast sea of snow--made the front page of the paper the next day.

Some winters, if the temperature were consistently below freezing, our Dad would make an ice rink in the back yard. We'd skate and play hockey for hours. (Once, during a mid-winter thaw, the ice rink ended up in our neighbors’ back yard. It was perfectly smooth, which made for a superb skating surface. Let's just say they weren't as thrilled about it as we were!)

Bundled up, skating on our cousins' ice rink on Linden Ave.

On a different cross-country skiing adventure at the French Track, I remember being the Best. Skier. Ever. I didn't fall--even once! (My Dad's memory is perhaps more accurate: I fell every ten feet the whole way back.)

Sometimes, on snowy Saturdays, we'd bundle up, hop in the car and head out to Chenango Valley State Park to cross country ski with our neighbors. My favorite part came after the skiing: building a fire, having a picnic lunch and hot chocolate in the stone pavilion.

In the last ten years, between 60 and 120 inches of snow have fallen in Binghamton each winter. Portland, on the other hand, averages a whopping 2.4 inches. 2.4! So, in order to enjoy winter activities, one must venture to the Cascades where snow falls plentifully. (Close to 30 inches could fall in the next 48 hours on Mt. Hood.)

On Saturday, Lindsay and I drove to Mt. Hood National Forest to snowshoe for the first time. We did a 5.25 mile loop at Trillium Lake, which, on a clear day, offers a spectacular view of the mountain. When we left the city, a huge snow cloud sat on top of the whole mountain, so I knew our views would be seriously limited.

 Mt. Hood, cloaked by falling snow.

This could have been our view from Trillium Lake on a clear day.

Overall, I really enjoyed the trail and snowsnoeing. I am sure we will be back at Mt. Hood or on another trail soon to take advantage of mountain snow and what proved to be a great workout.

Enjoying a snowy winter day on the mountain.

An urban hike

Since early December we've had unseasonably dry weather. I've gathered this pleasant surprise from overhearing people on the street. Some with great optimism exclaim exuberantly, "Wow! This weather!" Others reveal their inherent pessimism, as if they are just waiting for the impending gloom, "Oh, just wait 'till the rain comes." Their voices trail off dejectedly. Meanwhile, I scream to myself, Woo hoo!

But, I've realized that I have to take advantage of the outdoors here even when it is cloudy and raining. The rain here isn't quite as day-ruining as it always seemed to be back east. (Or, maybe my memory is beguiling me. The grass is always greener, eh?)

I awoke Friday to oppressive gray skies. A heavy fog weighed on us in the valley. Rain seemed inevitable. It was darker than it had been all week. The real winter must be back. 

I had a few things on my agenda for the day: Job search. Find a mentoring service so I can start volunteering. Write a few emails. Read the paper. Blog about a 2012 goal. Walk to the library to pick up a book on hold, my fourth Kurt Wallander mystery. Start reading it. Go to the gym. (I know, I know. Really tough morning.)

Mid-morning, Lindsay's friend Curtis texted me, suggesting I look up urban hikes in the West hills. Realizing I would rather go for a strenuous neighborhood walk than go to the gym, I did just that. I came across about ten of them, but I knew immediately I'd do "Pearl District to Pittock Mansion." If I was going to forego the gym, I needed a challenging few miles. 

The hike would take me from the "flatlands" (my neighborhood) up about 800 feet over 2.5 miles to the Pittock Mansion in the West hills. On a clear day, the chateau would greet me with magnificent views of the Cascades. I knew my views would be limited today. To get to the mansion, I had to climb a few sets of staircases--about 400 stairs total--and walk up steep, windy west hills streets. By the time I reached the mansion, I had been breathing heavily for the previous mile. 

Although there were no spectacular views at the mansion thanks to the heavy fog, the walk was well worth it. I'm excited to make the trek again on a clear day.

If the fog sat only deep in the valley, this could have been my view.

(Can anyone guess where I took the picture that is directly under my blog's title? Yep. You guessed it.)

"Love people. Cook them tasty food."

For whatever reason, I’m usually not one to make serious New Year’s Resolutions. Usually, I just try to be a better person—a better friend, girlfriend, sister, daughter, granddaughter, and, the past three years, teacher.

Now, I’m in a new city I’m still exploring, a city so far from home, with (for now, and hopefully, not much longer!) a little extra time on my hands. So, here is one thing I’d like to do in the New Year. (More of them to come.)

Cook more interesting meals… for friends

I’ve always loved home-cooked food. Growing up, eating dinner at home with my family was the norm. My parents cooked, we set and cleared the table. Eating together was a non-negotiable, regardless of how much homework we had, piano lessons, athletic practices. I have no memories of ever eating at friends’ houses during the week. That’s because we ate at home, together. (When I was younger I’d sometimes gripe about not being able to, but now as an adult I understand why it was a non-negotiable, and I’m very thankful for that.)

Occasionally, usually on Friday or Saturday, but never during the week, we’d go out. Although I didn’t complain when we ate out, I always thought my parents’ cooking exceeded restaurant-cooked meals. (I have to say, though, my favorite take-out meal of all time—even as a kid—is rice and lentils from the Indian restaurant on Main Street in downtown Binghamton.)

There is something almost invaluable about cooking food and sitting down at a table to eat with loved ones. For most families—I know this was true for mine—dinnertime is often the only time of day a family can truly spend together—without distractions. No TV. No checking email. No answering the phone. It’s a cherished time to eat and talk. Nothing else. How was your day? What did you learn in school? How was practice? Anything interesting happen? It’s time to connect over good food. It’s the most basic form of community. Eating and preparing meals together creates togetherness, embraces a sharing of tasks. It supports discussion, welcomes human connection.

We live in a society where people no longer eat at a table. We eat while we walk. We eat while we talk. We eat while we drive. We eat on the train, on the bus. We eat at our desks at work. We eat on our couches, in our beds. Rarely do we sit down at a table, take 10 minutes to disconnect from our devices, to eat and engage in real face-to-face conversation with loved ones. I’m no social scientist, but I think our society is worse off because of this basic loss of simple human connection.

This brings me back to my resolution—to cook more interesting meals… for friends. Although I really enjoy sitting down to eat with Lindsay (what could be better!), cooking for friends brings me great pleasure. For my three years in New York, cooking dinner was often the only time I had to think about something other than school, and I welcomed this distraction.

Lindsay and I often cooked for my roommates and friends. Everyone was usually responsible for bringing something to share—wine, beer, a dessert, or just ingredients for the meal. We didn’t have a table big enough for everyone, so we sat on the futon, bar stools, and other chairs. (It was New York, after all!) After the meal, non-cooks would do dishes, and we’d all chip in to clean up. Then, we’d talk, laugh, talk some more. I always looked forward to these communal meals.

This week, I opened my Moosewood Cooking For Health cookbook. I wanted to cook something different and more interesting. I chose curried red lentil burgers topped with a mango slaw. In total, everything took about two hours to prepare and cook. (One advantage of underemployment.) The burgers were delicious and extremely hearty. The mango slaw was a perfect blend of sweet, salty, and spicy.

Yesterday, I made quinoa-stuffed peppers following another Moosewood recipe. They definitely take some prep time—mainly chopping vegetables—but they’re simple, tasty, and pretty light.

I’m excited to continue exploring new recipes and styles of food. I’m also looking forward to meeting new people, building relationships with them, and sharing conversation, laughs and tasks over home-cooked meals.

Christmas in St. John

OK, OK, now that I've shared enough about past Christmases, I'll get to the most recent.

For Myles's (pending...) graduation, my parents took us (and our new addition to the family, Caitlin!) to St. John to celebrate. And boy was it a celebration. I won't share everything I loved, but I'll try to share some of the highlights.

After what seemed like days of traveling (a splendid red eye to Newark--highlighted by a screaming, less-than-pleasant smelling baby--, flight to San Juan, followed by me co-piloting a prop plane flight to St. Thomas--more on that later, ferry ride, 30 minute car ride...OK it was about 18 hours), I reached the beautifully majestic Caribbean island of St. John. 

My Dad handed me a Presidente for the road (you can do that in St. John), and within minutes, I almost lost a tooth over a speed bump. (Thankfully, disaster was averted, and I enjoyed my cold beer.)

What struck me first about St. John was the rolling, lush hills spanning the whole island. It felt almost surreal being there. I was immediately reinvigorated by the hot sun, squinting while trying to soak up such beauty. Only hours before, I was thousands of miles away.

I'll never forget the breath-taking sweeping panoramic views of the island, Coral Bay half a mile below us, Sir Francis Drake Channel, and various British Virgin Islands sprinkled about from the villa (I feel weird saying that, so I'll say house) at which we stayed. (Although, thankfully, if the clarity of my memories ever fade, I have pictures to enhance them.)

Christmas Eve dinner was similar to our traditional dinner. Kristin bubble wrapped Sam Smith's brews for us to enjoy while preparing dinner. I brought Oregon Willamette Valley Pinot Noir--renowned as some of the best in the world--for the main course. My parents packed a carry-on bag full of frozen meat. Yes, you heard me correctly. Frozen meat. The beef tenderloin took two days to defrost, and my Dad cooked it perfectly (Uncle George to the rescue for tips on how to cook it without a meat thermometer!). My Mom made her famous twice-baked potatoes, which were just as tasty in the Caribbean as in Binghamton. Although I'm a lover of tradition, looking out at Coral Bay after sunset on Christmas is something I won't forget, and a memory I'll hold onto.

In total, we visited nine beaches, all beautiful, all uniquely distinct. I'll share a few highlights.

Maho Bay, one of my favorites, is long and narrow. It's protected so the water is calm, which invites snacking pelicans to soar and dive as well as schools of needle-nosed fish to flop about at the surface snacking on the same fish the pelicans enjoyed so much. Sting rays glide ominously along the bay's floor in mere inches of water. Sail boats moor and spend the day. While snorkeling, I saw a grouchy looking barracuda and a HUGE sea turtle! (Which instantly reminded me of Finding Nemo....heyyyy dudeeee... seee ya later, dude!)

Francis Bay invites you to just stay all day. Like Maho, it's pretty calm and long. Sting rays meander and manta rays glide through the water, almost as if putting on a show for everyone on shore. It proved to be the ideal spot to throw the frisbee to a diving receiver, as there was a nice drop off right past the shoreline. Just past the sand is a trail that leads through a mangrove forest with HUGE termite nests, which brought back memories of walking among mangroves in Australia (minus the termites).

In order to get to Denis Bay, one has to walk about 0.2 miles through dense national park forest. (In reality, the walk feels a LOT longer than that!) The walk is well worth it, however, as the 240 degree views from the beach are spectacular. Less protected than all other bays and more windy, Denis Bay is not for the weary.

Salt Pond Bay is nestled on the island's south shore. It's pretty small, but the white sand and calm waters are inviting. Before hitting the beach we hiked to Ram Head, which offers an incredible views at the top of the hill. At the halfway point, we came across a beautiful blue pebble beach and took an impromptu photo.

After Salt Pond, we ventured further down the South Shore to Great Lameshur Bay. And later, we found a deserted Kettel Bay with the sun well on its descent. We decided if we were locals, it'd be the perfect place to park yourself with a beer at sunset. (Right after we got there, a couple showed up with their dogs, chairs, and beers for just that.) 

At Hawksnest Bay, we were lucky enough to be spectators of a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue-like photo shoot. An arrogant Dad in his boat passed the buoys where boats are supposed to stop and dropped off his wife, their prized daughter, the neglected sun (who could not care less), and a photographer. For the next 40 minutes, everyone on the beach watched the photo shoot in an almost disgusted astonishment. Thankfully, for your sake, I refrained from taking pictures.

Other than that display of bad parenting, we thoroughly enjoyed Hawksnest, even though it was super crowded.  

Leinster Bay, like Denis, requires some work to get to. We walked a little over a mile from the car to get to the beach. The bay is small and tranquil (especially once my Dad, through his masterful use of rhetorical questioning, successfully shooed a boater back behind the buoys). 

The bay is best known for its calm waters and excellent snorkeling. Here, my parents saw a nurse shark! The highlight for me was the short hike to sugar plantation ruins and the spectacular view of the bay and the Sir Francis Drake Channel from the top of the hill.

In addition to lounging around on pristine beaches all day reading, snorkeling, walking along the beach, and playing frisbee, in the evenings, we ate a lot of delicious home-cooked meals, marveled at the views from the house, and played a lot of Hearts and Eucher. We even had a slight run-in with a very large and hairy spider. Dauntless Dad swept in to the rescue and brushed Mr. Tarantula well off the porch, but not before everyone screamed for about a minute.

On the last day, we had a blast laying out for the frisbee at Francis Bay. Dad won the "swan dive" competition, but really, when does he not? We also took a few family photos.

On the trip home, once again, I had the honor of co-piloting the nine-seater prop plane. Coincidentally, the pilot was from Portland and gave me some bar and restaurant suggestions.... before takeoff, thankfully, not during.

Myles, just remember, Dad will "kick your ass" if you somehow manage to not graduate.

Overall, it was the vacation of a lifetime (thanks Myles for graduating and Mom and Dad for your generosity!), and I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to spend a week with my family in such a beautiful place. 

Tradition

As I begin to reflect on my family vacation to St. John and think about what I want to write, memories of past Christmases flood back. I realize I can't write about my Christmas experience this year without reflecting on the previous 25.

For the first 25 years of my life, I spent Christmas in Upstate New York. I've always found great comfort in traditions, especially those involving my family. I think I always will.

Our Christmases (for as long as I can remember) went something like this. Christmas Eve morning I'd wake up to the sound of my Dad grinding coffee (actually, now that I really think about it, that was my alarm until he and my Mom stopped grinding coffee circa... 2000?). I'd roll out of bed, full of anticipation and excitement, as Christmas Eve was almost just as wonderful as Christmas. Downstairs, my parents would be listening to a Christmas Eve mass in England over my Dad's short-wave radio (now he can get that mass over satellite radio). More than anything, I remember how beautiful the boys' voices were as they sang. 

Sometimes we'd have to run off to the Town Square Mall if we had really procrastinated our Christmas shopping. Once, the Flynns had us over for a Christmas Eve morning gathering. I remember Diane's delectable cooking and even an Irish Coffee. But usually, we just spent the day hanging out around the house--listening to Christmas music (Handel, Wynton Marsalis, the Chieftans, Chanticleer, Bruce Cockburn, and more recently, Sarah McLachlan), playing games (often ones Grandma Nancy had got us the previous Christmas, always the best), watching Christmas movies (TBS's 24 hour marathon of A Christmas Story is the most memorable), or movies I've always somehow associated with Christmas-- the Sound of Music-- which always aired on Christmas Eve.

When we were young, we'd attend the Children's Mass at St. James, which I loved mostly because of how beautiful our church was decorated and how amazing the folk group's music was. When we were in high school and college, we'd stay up for midnight mass. Most memorable was the darkened church alight with candlelight and Jan's chanting of major events in the Church's history before mass started. Sort of weird, but enchanting at the same time. Once, after midnight mass, we helped Myles do his paper route at 1:30 am. The peaceful silence and whiteness of the sky in the middle of the night were comforting. Last year, we discovered the UU church around the corner (I guess you could say, for one reason or another, I had fired the Catholic Church a few years ago). It was different from what we were used to, but welcoming.

When we were young, we'd be allowed to open one present before dinner, and if my memory serves me correctly, it was from our Grandma Nancy. (My siblings might beg to differ on this, but oh well.) Gram always got us a new game, a new game we'd never heard of. A classic game. I know when I am a parent some day, I'll hope to continue this tradition. Although the iPad is revolutionizing games kids play, tangible games are great to have lying around the house. Later, we'd open presents from Grandma Jano and Grandpa Jack. (Which were also often new games!)

Christmas Eve dinner has always been my most favorite meal of the year. Again, I think it has a lot to do with a preserved tradition, but also because my parents are wonderful cooks. For an hor d'oeuvre, we'd have brie and crackers, which always somehow disappeared about two seconds after my Mom put it out. A few years in a row, I made my famous guacamole, which has since vastly improved (once I discovered the joys of garlic, lots of citrus, and handfuls of fresh cilantro). When we got older, we enjoyed Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale and Oatmeal Stout as well as Sierra Nevada's festive Celebration Ale. For the main course: beef tenderloin (always twice as much as we needed so we could have roast beast sandwiches for dinner on Christmas Day), bearnaise sauce (to die for), pearl onions (my Dad always loved them; us kids, not so much), and my Mom's famous twice-baked potatoes. As we got older, conversation dominated the table as our plates emptied, and we'd sit for what seemed like hours just talking. Sharing our thanks. Laughing. That's what meals should be about-- sharing good food and drink, conversation, and thanks with the people you love.

Christmas Day would come, and, of course, we'd wait eagerly at the top of the stairs while my parents/Santa finished up, drank a pot of coffee (sometimes with a little Kahlua, a once-a-year-occurrence), and called us down to open presents. 

After we opened presents, we'd prepare for our annual Brunch with Bev. I remember most often being in charge of the fruit salad, while everyone else helped with bacon (extra crispy), bagels, and eggs. Bev would arrive around 11 am or noon, and we'd enjoy a great feast (after she helped fix all of our computer woes and download our new King's Quest games). Later, Dick and Susan would come over, and we'd sit in the living room talking, laughing and eating cheese and crackers. (Christmas won't be the same without Dick, as he passed away this year.) More recently, we'd head next door to enjoy the McManus's annual Christmas Party--Kathy's warmth and kindess and Mike's hilarity--then heat up the leftovers for another feast.

(When I was teaching, Christmastime always highlighted a stark dichotomy--one that will always stay with me, reminding me of the hardships our impoverished kids face, and reminding me of my desire to do something to help them transcend poverty and be successful. I was so blessed to have a healthy family and good food and cheer. Yet, I couldn't help but feel sadness for many of my students, who, on the day before break, often looked helplessly despondent knowing they'd have to spend 10 days at home.)

The day after Christmas, we'd pile into the van and make the 3.5 hour drive to Buffalo. When we were kids, we'd stay with my grandparents on Starin and sometimes with Grandma Nancy on Linden. I remember her sitting in her old rocking chair whistling a tune, a tune only she knew, while we played with cards at her feet. Aside from seeing our grandparents, which was always a highlight, we loved visiting with our aunts and uncles and cousins. Some years we saw only a few cousins, others about 20!

When I have my own family someday, I'll preserve this Christmas tradition, or our own version of it. But, it will always include generosity and giving, sharing thanks, remembering what's important, good food, conversation, and those we love and hold closest to us no matter where they are. I know that the values on which this tradition is built have shaped who I am today.

So, without fail, every Christmas night I'd drift off to sleep feeling incredibly blessed. For me, whether in Upstate New York, Portland, or St. John (a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence), above all else, Christmas will always be about family.