It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!

It's October 26th, and it was 74 degrees when I picked Chelsea up from cheer practice this afternoon. What could be better? I've loved the cool weather and drizzle for the past month, but today my hair didn't frizz (too much), the sun is shining, and we went to Shave-It.
It would be beautiful to see the fall leaves change color, and I would love to wear sweaters and shoes other than flip flops sometimes, but who can argue with the view from my bedroom window (green trees, no real view)? I have an autumn leaf wreath hanging above the front door, and pumpkins out there, too. That's enough to say "Fall is here!" I'll never have to shovel snow or put chains on my car, we don't get tornados or hurricanes, and I seldom have to carry an umbrella.
I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. And more important than that, I'm grateful for the people that I get to enjoy life with. I have great friends, good neighbors, I live in the safest city in America (sometimes), and I have a great family.
I'm thankful for my family. Every one of them. Thankful that Heather is at BYU where I know she'll learn a lot, and be safe in the meantime. Thankful that she has a great work ethic, and oozes creativity. It's so fun to watch her work through her creative process on things. I'm grateful that Brandon is working so hard at school and at work. And that he sometimes likes to go to Taco Bell with me! I'm thankful that he almost never complains about anything. Grateful that Chelsea is still only 15 and that she likes me to drive her places. Grateful that I can stay home with her so that I can drive her places, see her cheer, enjoy a Shave-It with her, and listen to her sing at her voice lessons. I'm thankful for Alan. Thankful that he makes that long nasty drive every day so that he can support the rest of us. I know how icky that drive is, I've had commutes that long before. Not fun. I'm grateful that even though he's married to me, he still says that every day is the "greatest day of his life".
And I'm grateful that I know what I have to do to feel like this for the rest of forever.

Cafe Rio has finally come to Thousand Oaks!

I love it when my friends come to visit. It makes the same old thing new again. So my great friend Sheri Caringer is here from Denver, and in no time she has brought sunshine to the dreary weather we've been having. Along with a new blog that features * (ta dah!)* copycat Cafe Rio recipes!

The blog is called "Favorite Family Recipes" it sounds like every fundraising cookbook I've ever seen, but it's not. It's heaven!

Enough said. I'm off to the grocery store to find some "boneless pork ribs". And tomorrow we feast on Sweet Pork Burritos! Cafe Rio on a Sunday, and we're not on vacation.

party on, dudes

There is a world of difference between planning birthday parties and planning Ward activities. I don't know why. They both have the same elements: guest list, choosing a venue and theme, menu, decorations, set up, music, planning of games or activities, budget. Parties for my family aren't hard to figure out what to do, all I have to do is the work and figure out how much I'm willing to pay.

But Ward activities? "They're killing me, Larry!" I have no ideas. None. I'm always looking to others to inspire me, or, worse yet, outright tell me what to do. And to think that I considered the idea of being a professional party planner! What was I thinking?! Some things just kind of take care of themselves. But sometimes the status-quo is just not an option anymore. And I don't know why. I guess when I've "been there, done that" and "that" was too boring for words, I just can't repeat it.

So, the truth comes out. Yes, I have been to many Ward Christmas parties that I couldn't wait to escape. Why would I want to do that to anyone? But the very parties I hated, many other people enjoyed. So, I've complained (only to myself, and perhaps to Alan) even though I've had no idea how to improve. Well, I do have some ideas, but they involve taking away others' agency. Along the lines of "if you can't or won't control your child, kindly remove them". Then there are the programs that put me to sleep, or seem more like auditions. Oops.

I've been thinking that I want to do something Italian. I want to borrow Scott Bateman's cypress trees, and line up the long banquet tables end-to-end across the cultural hall with red tablecloths on them. And hang the little lights again. Someone will shoot me for that one! I've got the program figured out. It's the food that I'm stuck on. No lasagna! So now what? I've searched the web, but just can't find anything that seems "right". Maybe I'll get released before Christmas!

The Samaritan versus online video

"Tell me whom you love and I will tell you what you are" (Arsene Houssaye). This thought intrigues me. It sounds like it comes from a mystic or a prophet or a charlatan. How do we know who someone else really is? Back in the day, when I was single, this was the biggest question in life for me. How do I get to know who someone else really is. How much of life is a charade and what parts are real? I would have loved to have had a crystal ball to see into the heart and minds of those around me.
Tweek one word and the quote becomes easier to believe - "tell me what you love" and it's easier to figure you out. But how many of us really know what it is that we love? And what about the "who's" in our lives. We're supposed to love our families, and anyone who doesn't top the list with their closest kin goes on the list of suspicious people. Then there are those who put the right people on the top of the list, but don't act accordingly.
The story of the Good Samaritan seems like a good placed to start in examining this philosophy. The Samaritan showed love for a stranger, but not just any stranger - a stranger whom he had been taught to despise. In reality, an enemy who needed help. And the Samarian helped to the point of inconveniencing himself. He loved. So "what is" the Samaritan? He is the person we all want for our "significant other", or a friend, family member, neighbor, or the person to be nearby when we need help. We all want him near. He has earned his reward in heaven, probably on regular occassions. What he is is Christ-like.
The news abounds with stories of those who are on the other end of the spectrum from the Samaritan. A recent example is the college dorm-mate who posted video of his gay roommate's sexual encounter on the internet, which led the gay young man to commit suicide. Who did this roommate love? The frat house mentality of this event would indicate a very immature desire for the attention and praise of equally twisted minds. "Love" from those who can't or won't give it. All he could get from that audiance would be online "comments". Is that where we are today? There is no REAL interaction between people, it's all virtual. Who does he love? He who cannot love in return.
"This new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another as I have loved you". Christ loved us enough to suffer all the pain of the world for us. Who does He love? Each one of us, regardless of who we are, how we behave, where we're from, or how much we love him in return. That's why it's called Christ-like love, or god-like love. They, the perfect, are the only one's capable of it. But they ask us to try, as the Samaritan did.
It's worth thinking about. How does my behavior show whom I love?

Little Lovisa

I'm an addict. I've discovered family history and I'm obsessed. This is probably only because I'm Swedish, and the Swedes conducted "household examinations" annually starting in the 16th century. So when I was in Salt Lake City, I told them my great-grandparents names and dates of birth, and they found them! Each parish had a record book with a page for each household. The head of the household was listed at the top of the page, with spouse below and then each child was added as it was born. The priest kept track of who attended communion and what each persons knowledge of church doctrine was ( with some symbols that I don't understand). The record was updated annually for 10 years, then they'd start a new book. So there they all were, in 30 minutes or less I found a household full of people that I'd never known existed!

When a child married, if they stayed on the farm, the spouse was added (with a notation of where they came from - either a page number if they were from a family in the book, or with a moving certificate number if they came from somewhere else), and then the children, as they were born. I guess that's the advantage of having ancestors who were farmers, they tended to stay in the same place for a long time.

Now that I've found these lists of names, I've become curious about them. How did they meet a spouse from another parish? Why did they immigrate to the U.S. ? They tended to use the same given names over and over. That can be a clue that I'm looking at the wrong Johansson family. What?! A son named Erik? No Eriks in this family, must be the wrong Johansson's. And names that sound so ugly in 21st century California actually sound nice, such as Lovisa. Imagine Lovisa as Louisa with an accent. It's kinda cute. Lovisa is a three year old in wooden clogs and tights. And bangs.

I don't know what their reality was. But my imagination is very charming. They all bathe regularly and have three meals a day. And they brush their teeth! My grandma said that her father had 2 brothers and two sisters. But the household examination shows he had an older brother, Pehr Anton. Maybe Pehr was never mentioned in America because he was the one that inherited the farm? And there was another Clara ten years before Klara. But she died at two years old, several months before my great-grandfather was born, so I guess he can be forgiven for never having mentioned her.

Now I just want to find Uncle John's wife. We use his sugar bowl every day, I ought to be able to find his wife and son somewhere. I think that he might have snuck aboard the ship that took him to America, because rumor has it that he was only 16 when he joined the US Navy. These people's stories are something! I'd love to meet them, but not in person yet!

Just so that you don't miss camp....

Lately cooking had become.... drudgery. Still love to eat, though. Then I started browsing through epicurious.com, and I can usually find something there that I feel like eating. Or I should say, cooking then eating. There's a difference.
There are lots of things out there that I'd love to eat, but don't want to cook. Like anything that it takes more than one sheet of paper to print the instructions for, or that has a list of ingredients more than 2 or 3 inches long. And there are lots of ethnic foods that would require MORE spices. The cupboards full - no room for more. So anything with lemongrass - got to eat it at a restaurant.
So I've been surfing the easy section of epicurious, because the same old things just seem - old! Found some winners and some losers. The spicy pork stir fry the other night was AWFUL!! Usually I eat whatever I cook and try to convince the family to stop being such babies and just eat it! But this was so bad that, yes, I ate it. But the leftovers went down the garbage disposal.
The kitchen drain has been stinking for the last couple of days. I guess it didn't like the pork either. I've tried the baking soda-bleach-boiling water rountine several times. Then I tried adding coarse salt. Then a lemon. Nothing has helped. Now I have the stuff pulled out of the downstairs closet, and I'm contemplating pulling the drain plug and checking for a clog. But that really scares me. Don't want that yucky stuff oozing out all over the wood floor in there.
Like much of the rest of my life, I'm hoping that if I ignore it, the smell will go away. I guess that means we'll have pizza tonight. And eat it in the backyard on paper plates? Maybe. Welcome home from camp, Chelsea. Our kitchen smells as bad as the lake at camp. Sorry.

Grandma, this one's for you!

I spent 11 1/2 hours yesterday on the computer doing family history research. Sore rear end. And what did I find? My mom's family found their ancestors long ago, but my dad's family seems to be descended from ghosts. They hopped the pond and left behind -- nothing. Is that why they came?
My grandma used to tell me stories from her childhood growing up next door to an Indian reservation. She was an artist, and painted scenes from the stories. Sometimes she's take me on her shopping trips to Aaron Brothers. She loved the one cent sale! Those paintings lined all the walls of her home, and I'd fall asleep with those cowboys and Indians staring down at me. They invaded my dreams, so I didn't sleep well....
When I was eight she wrote the story of her parents' lives and published copies for all of their descendents. But now, trying to use that information to trace their roots has proved, well, useless. In Sweden a last name doesn't last long, so who knows what name to look for! I have all these little heirlooms from her life, but so little to tie them to.
She was the kind of Grandma who thought I could do no evil. Whenever I got in trouble with my mom, Grandma would hold out her arms and let me curl up in her lap. She had the softest skin I've ever felt, and soft words to cool my temper. As "tweens" my cousin Sherry and I flew down to vist Grandma for a week. Of course she spoiled us rotten! One afternoon she brought us little cream cheese sandwiches on date-nut bread, and served it on tv trays in front of "Let's Make a Deal". Woo hoo! Heaven! One evening she pulled out an old record of music she and Grandpa used to dance to. She was humming dreamily away when I decided that it was really un-cool and proceded to make fun of it all. I'll never forget how bad it felt to make my Grandma cry.
She never met her Grandparents. They were in the "old country" and never came here. She grew up on the prairie where everyone worked hard and didn't mess around. But somehow she became my soft place to land. Somehow she became the greatest Grandma ever. She did it without any example to follow, it just came from within.
I imagine my Grandma being there when I set foot in heaven, and her soft arms hugging me again. Somewhere, she has a Grandma, too, and I hope that I can find her Grandma for her.