Question of the Week

What is a Plant Mastard?  Please tell me what you think it is.  And don't even think about mentioning illegitimate vegetation.  Again, I think there is something lost in this translation.

The Gift I Gave to Myself

It was my birthday last week and during my morning errands I found myself singing in the car.  My iPod was hooked up, Blondie's hit "Heart of Glass" was blasting away and so was I.  No, I wasn't just singing when I was driving on a deserted road with no judging gawkers around (that is impossible in Doha anyway).  I was singing out loud with a wide mouthful of lyrics.  There were no mumbled words being swallowed and disguised at the intersections either. 

You might ask me what the big deal is.  Well, let's just say I have been pretty inhibited my whole life, and singing in the car always had me worrying about what those other drivers might think about the crazy girl in the SUV talking to herself.  So this was a big step for me.  I guess it is about time I gave myself permission to enjoy what few pleasures there are while driving.  It has only taken me . . . oh . . . about 47 years to do this, and while I'm at it, you now know my age, which is another thing I don't care about either.

Blog Vacation Over

I shut down my blog for awhile, but the vacation is now over.  I hope I didn't lose the few readers I had, but it couldn't be helped.  I took the time off to brush up on my blogging protocol.  For those of you still with me: Thanks for reading and commenting.  It means a lot to me.  And for those of you who aren't:  What's wrong with you?!  :)

Baylee "Boo" Kearney Adopted Us

We have a new family member.  This is Baylee.  She was found hanging around the villa where we go to church every week.  She tried to take refuge in the building a few times as members would come and go, so our friends took pity on her and carried her home even though their daughter is severly allergic to cats.  They were determined to not let this white princess kitty succumb to the Doha desert heat or the tough feline gangs that roam the Qatar streets with their crossed eyes and lame legs.  The one time I saw this white cutie at the villa she was sitting on a window ledge and we made eye contact.  When I saw those amber eyes look at me I could feel a connection but told myself that she would be too wild to even try and pick her up (I had tried that before with another cat with a not so great outcome). 

So when I went to officially meet her at my friend Cydney's home, Baylee instantly won me over with her limp purring body and her sweet pink nose.  The Woolleys had christened her "Marie" after the white kitten in Disney's movie The Aristocrats, but after having her in our home for a few days and trying out some different names for her, we arrived at Baylee.  I think the green collar that was on her even when she was homeless on the streets prompted an Irish flavored name, and then her spunky personality cut out the more prissy kitteny possibilities.

As you can imagine, Baylee's arrival caused some complications and intrigue.  Ci Ci was less than welcoming.  Baylee is fascinated by Ci Ci's every move and follows her around the house expecting to play, but this new "friend" is not of the same mind.

"Aha!  I have you now you young whippersnapper!  Just try and get past me down to the food!"

"How much will you give me to NOT roll her down these stairs?"

Baylee has chosen Brett as her favorite person, and you can tell by these photos, she has the same flash phobia he has.

Baylee's favorite spot in the house is anywhere by or ON the piano.  She often sleeps right behind the music stand on the top.  I will let you know if she turns out to be musically inclined.  She and Brett would make a good piano/guitar duet.  They could play "To All the Cats I've Loved Before," or "Blue Cats Meowing in the Rain."  Oh boy!  That's all we need:  another Willie Nelson fan in the house!

4th Grade!

Here she is folks, a grade four student!  Abbey has been in school for over three weeks now, so she is feelin' pretty comfortable in her fourth grade skin.  She loves her teacher Ms. Ossman, who is from South Africa and expecting a baby in February, and thinks she is ALMOST as wonderful as Ms.Verhoye, so that is saying a lot.  Abs says it is pretty difficult to rate her ASD teachers because all three are so amazing and have helped her in different ways. Mrs. Errico really helped Abbey with her confidence and her spelling.  (There is no photo with this year's teacher because for the first time, Abbey wouldn't allow me to take pictures at school because it embarrassed her. Oh, there are so many changes going on! Even her favorite color has changed to green!) 

As you can see by her fashion statement, the 80s Madonna era is back.  Even more anciently, fourth grade was my favorite year in school because Mr. Cannegator was the kind of teacher who carried us along the learning adventure, with his treasure hunts, guitar, and 60s folk songs, without us even realizing we were in school.  Even in his 70s polyester pants and horned-rimmed glasses, he made a Pete Seeger song cool enough for a nine year old to sing.  I hope this school year will be as memorable for my sweet Abbey.  So here's to all the Mr. Cannegators and Ms. Ossmans out there who make school such a great place to be, and here's to another year of homework, piano lessons, packing lunches, and mostly learning, lots of learning - for Abbey AND me.

There Are No Zs in Snoring!

Abbey:  Mom, why do they write zs above a cartoon's head when he is sleeping?

Me:  I don't know.

Abbey:  I don't understand why they use zs because there is no z sound in gwquaaaaaggggggg (how do you spell a snore?).

The Romantic In Me Gets Carried Away

There are days that I know I need to write something but I just don't know what.  Today is one of those days, so I'm forcing myself to sit at the computer and let my creative juices flow.  Okay, so I might just get a trickle, but at least we will all be surprised at the end, right?

I never thought I would ever say this, but I have traveled a lot in the last three years.  People have asked me how we do it, going back and forth across the ocean and enduring 25 - 30 hours on a plane or in airports.  I think I have traveled from Utah to Doha and from Doha to Utah about 13 times (counting each way as two times).  Weddings and funerals have increased the number of trips so there are quite a few.  It hasn't been easy, for sure.  It has even brought me to the edge of insanity at times, being cramped in the tightest spaces (yes, you know who you are British Airways) possible and wondering if I could endure another moment of claustrophobia.  Somehow we always seem to reach our destination in one piece though and even have a few stories to tell.  You may have heard the saga of my four day trip home to Utah with Abbey in June, so I will spare you that torment.

I have traveled a couple of times by myself, and that is certainly not my favorite way to go, but I do get a lot of nice reading time in and I get to study the entertaining people around me.  I have always been a people watcher, so this is nothing new, but traveling has opened up a whole new arena of unique characters to ponder.  Sometimes I even get to talk to some of these interesting folks and that gives me extra material from which I can build my perceptions, but I always seem to learn something.  This last spring I found myself in a boarding line in the Frankfurt airport bound for the U.S.  The name of the travel game is waiting in lines, so I was passing the time watching people.  I began noticing the couple directly in front of me when the man came back from buying a sweet roll and offered some to his wife.  Now she could have been his girlfriend but after you read about the delicate display that ensued between them, you will probably agree with me that they had been married awhile.  Thus began the most unique nonverbal communication I have ever seen between a man and a woman.  It became an almost imperceptible choreographed stationary waltz that blew me away.
                              

Without even turning to his wife, the man pushed his sweet roll-filled hand to his left, offering her the sweet roll.  I thought she would just grab the whole roll and be done, but no, she carefully took the bag and roll from him and held the bag toward her husband.  He reached in and pulled out a chunk of the roll while she still held the bottom of the roll and bag firmly in her hand.  I thought for sure that the husband would stuff the yummy German pastry into his mouth, but no.  She reached over and grabbed the piece that he had broken off.  They both held the chunk between them and pulled it apart.  They then ate their pieces simultaneously.  Their ritual continued until the roll was completely gone and I watched in amazement at this sacrament between them.  No words were spoken.  There was no impatience from either of them if one finished chewing before the other finished the bite. I could tell this was not the first time they had savored something together in this way. I then began imagining how they had travelled the German countryside in previous weeks enjoying each mountain peak and sunset, each strudel and sausage, and every magnificent part of their trip together in just this same intimate way. Even though this couple never made eye contact, I imagined my own version of wistful, penetrating gazes that can only be dreamed up and executed on movie screens. Dialogue just isn’t necessary with vampire love, right?

 I guess the romantic in me took over and I continued writing this couple's story in my head.  They spoke so little that it was difficult to decipher any real facts about them.  I could tell they were American by their casual manner of speaking and fashion, but that was about it.  They weren't beautifully dressed or ready for a movie scene by any means, but I could see their real charm.  Their togetherness was not about eating a roll, nor was it about the fascinating conversation they were having.  An uneducated observer might have thought they were bored with each other.  I could see that their togetherness was about the experience of sharing something.  When I noticed the husband had only one roll in his hand when he got in line, the shrewish, glutton wife in me had thought, oh boy, he's going to get it for not getting one for each of them. 

That breaking of bread that I witnessed stayed with me for a long time that day, and I tried to figure out what was so remarkable, so noteworthy about what they had taught me.  I'm still not completely sure, but I think part of it has to do with the connections we make with those we love.  When Brett and I knelt across the altar on our wedding day, my eyes reached over that altar and begged my soon-to-be husband to return my meaningful gaze.  I wanted the fairy tale, the Hollywood dream to come true that would symbolize our eternal love.  But his eyes would find mine for only a split second and then be gone.  I didn't realize how disappointed that made me until months later.  The immature, wounded, temperamental bride I was had a difficult time letting that go, and it took me years to realize that because we had known each other only four months, the bridges of trust and silent security had not had enough time to settle into our relationship even on our wedding day.  Now, after almost 28 years of marriage, I can watch a couple in an airport who don't even look at each other and see their strong bond, and there are days when the mundane tasks Brett and I share are transcended by a sacred communication that no one else can interpret, but we still have to keep working at it.  I still have to work at not wanting my own sweet roll all to myself and he has to keep working at remembering not to eat all the Kentucky Fried Chicken I picked up for us to share for lunch, but that is a story for another time.

Strawberry Torte

A few weeks ago my cousin Gerd was here from Germany.  He had just finished fulfilling a life-long dream of traveling through a few U.S. states on a Harley Davidson motorcycle.  He chose to go to Mount Rushmore and Yellowstone; I'm not sure why he chose Mount Rushmore of all places, but he really enjoyed himself and got a good tan in the process.  Because he was here I thought it would be a good idea to have a mini Drawe reunion, invite my aunts and uncle and step-mom over, and have an authentic German delicacy - strawberry torte or erdbeere torte. 

The recipe comes from my Grandma Drawe who taught it to my mom before I was born and then my mom taught it to me when I was a young married wife.  I have been impressing guests with this simple recipe ever since. 

The key to the recipe is to have the right pan.  It is like a giant tart pan with an inverted bottom.  This is necessary so that when you pop it over onto the serving dish you can then fill the "torte canyon" with the fruit.  You can find these pans at German delicatessens or other kitchen stores.  Here is the recipe:

2 pkgs. strawberry Danish Dessert (prepare these according to package directions while the cake is cooling)

1/2 cup butter, softened

2/3 cup white sugar

1 egg

Beat the above three ingredients with an electric mixer.

Add and mix in

2 cups white flour

1 1/2 tsp. baking powder

1/2 cup milk

1 tsp. almond flavoring

grated lemon rind (optional)

Spray the pan with Pam then dust lightly with flour.  Fold the batter (which will be quite stiff) into the pan and, with a butter knife, spread it around the pan and mold it into the edges.  Bake at 400 degrees for 8 - 10 minutes or until cake is slightly browned.  Immediately invert the pan onto the serving dish and allow to cool.  Cover the bottom of the cake with whole strawberries and then cover with prepared and slightly cooled strawberry Danish Dessert gelatin.  Chill for four hours and serve with whipped cream.  Bananas, kiwi, blueberries, and raspberries can also be used for the topping.

Gerd and I got to know each other in 1995 when he and his mother Tante Trude visited Utah.  Gerd attended some of my Weber State classes with me just for fun.  Surprisingly, his favorite was my German class.

Pat, Aunt Ruth, Gerd, and Aunt Lucie

Uncle Harold, Aunt Ruth, Gerd, and Aunt Lucie