I LOVE power tools

There are few things in life that are more fun than a trip to the tool store. In Denver I would go to THE TOOL STORE which was more like Home Depot on a whole lot of steroids. If at some point I ever get to heaven I will know because it will have a tool store there.


Of course this picture shows that I am not the only one around here that thinks that way.

Christmas tree farm ~ Portland 2009

Northwest Wanderings: Note to the old stomping grounds

Dear Idaho ~

You've been draped in snow for a few weeks now. I miss watching you cover your shoulders in white as the year turns round. Things are so green in my new neck of the woods; it makes me wistful for a snow-drifted visit.

Alas, home sweet home, I have a confession to make. Much as I miss your amazing winter coat, I've been having a little tete a tete with Christmas tree hunting here in this maritime climate. Do you remember how we used to go stomping up into your hills to find a tannenbaum for the holidays?

The snow always crept damp, icy fingers into our boots.

Prune-toes inside itchy wet socks.

Ring of sodden jeans, crammed like a vise round the calves.

Dad always wanted to look just a little further; maybe there was a better tree round the bend.

Shivering kid-folk just wanted to grab the first Charlie Brown-style sad little conifer and get warm again.

Stamping the drifts away from the base of The Tree once we found it.

Bending over, baring that slice of lower-back hide to the breeze while the dull hacksaw zup-zup-zupped.

Someone was often crying by this point.

Dad's usual reply: "Start being grateful, dammit!" or some such encouragement.

But not this year, dear Idaho.

Not this year.

You see, my Spouse is a man with distinctive taste in tools. No more interminable zup-zup-zup while we bang our frozen limbs together for warmth. One smooth,  subtle "buzzzzzzzzzzz", and the job is done. Even the tree-cutting dude stood there in his official sweatshirt, hacksaw in hand, looking on with quiet admiration.

Bart at Furrow Tree Farm, December 2009 ~ by Katie

One more thing, sweet Gem State:

We've discovered a delectable alternative to post-holing a sweaty, chilly trail up the hillside.

It's called an Oregon tree farm, and it is a level, mossy, balmy little place. No drifts to clear. No icicles to combat. {"Those things have been known to kill people!"} No dad gently instructing us to hurry up and have fun, dammit. Just a leisurely stroll, a quick application of the ol' power tool, and a two-minute jaunt back to the truck. Much as I love you, this kind of beats the pants off your frostbite picnic, Idaho. 

Bart at Furrow Tree Farm, December 2009 ~ by Katie

I'm going to say that Oregon wins on this one teensy weensy count.

But Idaho...I do love you. There is no place on earth quite like you. Can we still be pals?


All my love,
Katie

Northwest Wanderings: New Se@sons Grocery

The Husby and I have been treated to a few surprises since we moved to the Pacific Northwest. Every region has their little identifying markers. Portland, for example, is:

Green.

Crunchy.

All-natural.

{Or at least mostly natural.}

But even this knowledge had not prepared me for what lay in wait on the hygiene aisle of a local grocery store chain.

Behold: Exhibit A

New Se@sons grocery store ~ Portland, OR November 2009 ~ by Katie

My choice comment upon encountering this little nugget:

No WAY!!

And yet, way.

I submit photographic evidence of box-less, mint-less, veg@n-tested dental floss {cause it's got to be free-range, uncaged, organic, fair trade floss, or nothing}. I briefly considered purchasing some just for the novelty. I mean, when in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? But then I paused to wonder just what if that unboxed, wild 'n woolly floss say, got loose in my purse or the medicine cabinet? I mean, it might be an un-minted flossapalooza free-for-all, and I don't know if I am quite ready for that degree of Northwesterliness.  {Besides, Rome's empire came a-tumblin' for good reasons...maybe insidious floss was among them?}

There has got to be a market for some such product, and I suppose something had to take the place of the hair-removal section. For example, let us consider Exhibit B:

Based on the convincing chesticular region of this individual, I'm persuaded that there were lady-parts in the mix. Then again, that would make her a bearded lady. {Sorry for the lack of facial elaboration. While I do shoot random photos of strangers, I am not yet to the point of letting them catch me in the bold act.}

Girl-person of questionable authenticity ~ Portland Nursery apple tasting event, October 2009 ~ by Katie

Oh, Portland, you make me smile.

Ledger o' thanks

Shiny red eBay shoes: $40

Hospital cafeteria chicken curry for two: $5.25

I.C.U. scrubs: $7,948,672.35 {'cause you have to leap through the fiery hoops of med school/residency/fellowship to get the dang code, dontcha know}.

Dressing up and stealing across the hill for a midnight Thanksgiving date with the Husby:

Priceless.

We hope you all had a beautiful Thanksgiving.

We catalogued our blessings.

We are thankful.

And perhaps one day we will bust out of the on-call room to join you in the festivities.

Best. Weekend. Ever.

Reb & Jeb ~ Multnomah Falls, November 2009 ~ by Bart

These two hoodlums came and charmed all of Stumptown last weekend. Indeedy, Reb and Jeb took Portland by storm.

There was...
Lots of eating.
Waterfall peeping.
Ridiculous smack-talk.
A primped-out mac walk.
Photo-snapping.
Dartboard mapping.
And a dam fine tour.

Yes, we four were meant to be pals. {For Pete's sake, halfway into an Ikea excursion, Jeb was ready to fortify the shopping experience with chocolate...that is someone with whom I can maintain a deep friendship.}

These saucy, sassy, splendid people jumped through some serious hoops to make it happen, but by golly, they forged the path to the soggy Northwest and made some adventures with us!!

Sooo that begs the next question...
When can we do it again??

And the follow-up question...
When are the rest of you coming to play??

But I thought we had TWO pumpkins...

Sallie Cat ~ November, 2009 ~ by Katie

I was sorting photos this week, and this snapshot made me laugh. Repeatedly.

It would seem that I'm not the only one having a hard time with the switch to apartment dwelling.
{Ahem. Someone please tell me that in the past 3 months my posterior has not undergone an expansion quite like Sal's fuzzy rump. Go ahead and lie if you must.}

In the spirit of the season ~

I am thankful for a fur buddy to keep me company up here in the rain. There is nothing like winding down a hard day while a warm little beastie lays on my chest and purrs.

I am thankful to my parents for teaching me about the stewardship that is being owned by a pet. So glad I passed Sallie-Cat's audition screening.

I wonder how thankful La Kitty will be when I take her with me for a spin on the treadmill?

Really, I am innocent

Bronchoscope image from Medline

Some background: I am enjoying my fellowship right now because I get to do a lot of procedures. My favorite is bronchoscopy. To do this I stick a camera in the lungs and take a scenic tour (think of it as a very clean colonoscopy). While in the lungs there are needles and forceps that go through the bronchoscope to get samples of whatever is seen. The needles are called Wang needles after the inventor, Ko Pen Wang.

Last week there was a case where the patient had cancer in the lungs but we could not get enough samples to get an answer. During the bronchoscopy, I used the Wang needle to get a sample but no little clumps of cells came back through the needle. It just filled up with an ounce of purulent liquid. The attending (the doctor over me) looked at me and said "I have never seen that before". Because nobody had ever seen this I was excited to tell EVERYBODY about it.




"Did you hear about my pus filled Wang?"

This statement is now all over the hospital. Looking back I should have chosen different verbiage.

Northwest Wanderings: Oregon Wildlife

Halloween weekend was quiet for us this year. After work, we drove south to a little state park where I'd reserved an even littler cabin, and we had a lovely sleeping bag slumber party while the rain drizzled intermittently on the roof. It was perfect, cozy, and I was thrilled to see the over-worked, exhausted Husby in person. 

Champoeg State Park, Oregon ~ October 31, 2009 ~ by Katie

Our intrepid travels chronicled a few Northwestern-flavored wildlife encounters with appropriately Halloween-ish creepy crawlers:

 

Champoeg State Park, Oregon ~ October 30, 2009 ~ by Bart

I found this  tiny  dude in the ladies' room and took him back to the cabin for subsequent inspection, measurement, and documentation.  After which he hopped under the bed and steadfastly refused to be easily evicted.

Our morning walk yielded a second critter run-in that required precisely scaled representation. We are scientists by training, after all:

Champoeg State Park, Oregon ~ October 31, 2009 ~ by Bart

Garmungo slugs are like car crashes; you can't quite look away. They also bring out the five-year-old boy in me. I desperately wanted to poke the thing with a stick and see what would happen. {Rest easy, you invertebrate-rights activists, this photo op is all the hassling that Slugzilla received at our hands.}

And then, the piece de resistance...a rare sighting of the quick-as-lightning Barefooticus sprintor.  It was amazing; the man was full-on running, sans shoes. I wonder if if he ever has close encounters with trailblazing slugs. Personally, I'd have to pause and heave up my breakfast, but I suspect that someone with the chops to run barefoot is made of sterner stuff than me. 

Champoeg State Park, Oregon ~ October 31, 2009 ~ by Katie

When we discovered a stretch of primordial trees shedding their clothes, Husby took a leaf from the book of Genesis and declared he had finally found a Halloween costume that offered sufficient coverage...

Champoeg State Park, Oregon ~ October 31, 2009 ~ by Katie

When we got home, I stumbled across an image from last October's pumpkin catapult festivities in Colorado. My dear man is so discriminating in his choice of thematic material. While I can't decide whether to laugh or shake my head, at least I know my own personal animal kingdom representative is consistent, no?

Aurora, CO Pumpkin Festival ~ October 2008 ~ by Reb

A little birdie told me...

Neighborhood flock ~ Portland, October 2009 ~ by Katie

...to take advantage of a rare moment of Portland sunshine last weekend. I am so hungry for a glimpse of the sun now that it has dipped into wintertime shyness. These little warblers sweetened what was previously a cloudy, melancholy day. I love it when I'm granted a simple moment to be thankful for my senses.

The things I'll do for a photo...

My grandma is a model citizen. She donates blood like clockwork, she engages in consistent community service, and she only recently retired as records queen in the police department of my hometown. While I was in my formative years, Grandma's citizenship left its mark on my psyche. Let's delve into a smidge of history...

Through her employment with Idaho's finest, Grandma was privy to the goings-on in the not-so-seamy underbelly of our little corner of the world. Idyllic as our home was, she knew that all it takes is one bad person to change a life, a family, a community. She knew the patterns and profiles of perpetrators. As the matriarch in a family with lots of daughters and granddaughters, she wanted us to be savvy and safe. She wanted her girls to plan ahead, to think, and to be dialed in on potentially lifesaving information. Every so often, therefore, my e-mail box would flash with a little nugget detailing the latest techniques of rapists, kidnappers, and Those People Your Mother {or Grandmother} Warned You About.

Occasionally, I'd find myself reading an epistle that directed me exactly where to aim strategic blows at a bad guy {Aim for eyes, nose, and fella-bits, and be sure to get a good look at his mug so you can give an accurate description to police}.

Or some cautionary instructions addressing what to do if you find yourself stuffed into the trunk of a car and being driven away to a hideous fate {attempt to kick out the brake lights/taillights/blinkers from the inside; if possible, wave your hand through the opening. At the very least, try to disable the lights so as to get the Bad Person pulled over.}.

Or {this one was sent to me after a rash of assaults on female runners}, how about a list of the top characteristics that an assailant looks for when selecting a target {long hair--gives them something by which to drag you off; earphone wearers--you are distracted and less tuned into your surroundings; consistent timing and route of your run--they can predict your pattern}.

This was Grandma's way of warning her nubile, naive grandchild about the wiles of wicked folk. It was her effort to present some realism about the perils of being ignorant to dangerous places and people. A public service announcement looking to inoculate me with a few street smarts, if you will.

Sooo, couple these nuggets of sage advice with my overactive imagination and the fact that some of my weaker moments have involved soaking up some permutations of Lifetime Television/CSI: The Very Scary Episodes/Readers' Digest Drama in Real Life, and you'll understand that I'm a little paranoid when I catch a creepy vibe from someone on the street. {The Husby mocks me for my mental readiness on a regular basis. But then at six feet and 200 lbs, he doesn't exactly seem like the type of morsel that could get dragged off into the woods by someone with evil intent.}

That background brings us to the story:

This weekend, I decided to go out and shoot some photos.

Some nighttime photos.

Some nighttime photos all by myself.

Some nighttime photos all by myself on an interstate bridge overlooking the river.

In a questionable quadrant of the neighborhood.

This is where I say to myself, "Self, that was a departure into colossal dumbassedness." Grandma would probably say something similar. In more ladylike terms, of course.

But I was a completely distracted in my quest for the perfect photo-op, and off I went.

After a stroll, I found a place with the sweet spot combination of lighting and vista. I stood on the bridge sidewalk, fiddling with the tripod and wrangling the perfect shutter speed. Cars zipped past, kicking up little breezes and rumbling the pavement under my feet. And when I looked up from the viewfinder, silhouetted against the flow of headlights, there was a man striding down the sidewalk. This particular pedestrian and I were on the only sidewalk on that bridge. Traffic was flying inches from me on one side, a lengthy drop to the railroad tracks and the river on the other side. Nowhere for me to sidestep out of the way, nowhere to go. As Dude got closer, I saw that he looked mad. Actually, he looked pissed off. And he was walking and glaring straight at me. I gulped out an unconvincing "Hi", and smiled at him. He kept walking, kept glaring, and didn't respond. Just kept striding ahead and staring me down.

That's when Grandma's notes bounded to the front of my brain, and I felt a jolt of adrenaline. I actually felt the chemical rush in my body as I balled up my fists and got ready for Dude and his dirty looks. If he was going to bring his dirty looks and who-knows-what kind of intentions into my space, I was going to let him know exactly what this little girl is made of. I wiped the smile from my face, got a firm grip on my tripod {the better to wallop him with}, clenched my other fist around my keys in case I needed to gouge something, and looked right into his face.

Dude walked forward with a purpose and drew even with me. My gut clenched as I summoned every bit of rage in my arsenal and got ready to pummel his eyes, his nose, and his fella-bits if the need arose. {I noticed that the bridge railing looked like a good place to self-defensively bash a Bad Person's head.} Dude strode alongside and turned his creepy, pissed-off face toward me as he stalked by. This man did not give off a good vibe. I returned glare for glare and pivoted around in case he had any ideas about getting behind me. He kept shooting daggers at me over his shoulder. One move from the offense, and I was ready to freak out on him. He kept walking away, kept staring back at me with angry eyes.

With that, he turned away and just kept going.

I stood there and watched him walk away until I couldn't see him anymore. Just to prove that nobody tells me where to go or what to do, I shot my dang photos, looking over my shoulder the whole time.

And then I ran home as fast as I could, paranoia nipping at my heels with every step.

Moral of the story:

Listen to grandma. Be street smart.

And don't watch any of that made-for-TV, mess-with-your-inner-fears, play-off-your-paranoias junk ever, ever again.

Portland skyline at night, October 2009 ~ by Katie

Everyone, meet Ugggglay

Thanks to a persuasive veggie-booth proprietor at the Portland Farmers' Market, we've had a recent encounter with experimental munchies of the homely sort.

Behold, a repulsive root.

A tortuous tuber.

A gnarled growth.

Presenting for your consideration:

Celeriac, also known as celery root.

Celery root ~ Portland, October 2009, by Katie

I know.

It took my retinas a little time to get over the initial shock, too. Let's just cut to the chase and call it the fugliest vegetable out there.

Once you get past the impulse to run, however, this dimpled denizen of the dirt has a surprise up its sleeve:

It is delicious.

This little guy cleans up pretty well. Diced up, skinned, and sauteed in a little olive oil, dashed about with kosher salt and cracked pepper, and topped with an egg over easy, it transported us to breakfast heaven.

The flavor: firm, smooth, and starchy. Potato-like, with a tiny whiff of celery flavor. {And all without having to saute it in "aromatics", as my kitchen ninja teacher discussed.}

Call it home fries with a twist. Or hash browns in a new suit.

Whatever you call it, though, I recommend that you bypass the initial cringing at this ugly stepchild of the vegetable world and go find yourself some. Or just come over and consume some Ugly with us.

Thank you

There are some days I don't like my job. I wonder why I traded having 4 months of vacation a year for working 80 hours a week and getting three weeks of vacation. It has to be worth it. RIGHT?

This past weekend during hour number eleven on a Saturday I had the pleasure to tell someone he was going to die from cancer. Now there are those who might think I am very morbid for the previous statement. Although you are right let me explain.

This man survived Iwo Jima. He was wounded and left for dead amid all the death and destruction. He underwent surgery in a grass hut that saved his life.

When I thanked him for his service he said, "It was an honor."

When I called him a hero the answer was "BULL$*&%!, the heroes died over there."

"I had a good life and thank you for seeing me" were his words when I told him he had lung cancer. Seriously, who says thank you to the person that tells them they are going to die.


Thank you for serving this country and helping me be free.
Thank you for being a hero, you are one if there ever was.
Thank you for showing me how to be grateful for all that I have, it was an honor to have met.

In which I am schooled by a fuzzball

Our little household has had some adjustments to make over the last few months. One change that has really brought me up short has been the transition from a three-bedroom house {oh! the closets...the storage...the kitchen...the yard...} to a two-bedroom apartment.

A quick disclaimer: I am glad for a place to call my pad, a spot to stow our stuff, a homey hacienda, BUT. Color me wistful for the home I left in the Rockies.

I'm not the only one wrestling with change. La Kitty has had a rude awakening from the luxury of her own personal deck and fenced-in backyard. All the scents and tactile experiences of her protected personal slice of the outdoors have been rudely pulled from beneath her little paws. She wants to go outside sooooo badly, she rushes the door when I come home.

In an effort to be a good pet owner and make amends to the little apartment-bound princess, I attempted to take her for a walk last week. You know, a little stroll through the neighborhood so I can keep my watchful eye on her declawed self and make sure she stays safe. I sought out an idyllic opportunity to show my fur-child her surroundings at the end of a carefully controlled harness. {Besides, her posterior profile has been growing as of late.} Easy peasy, right? Or so I thought. The instant that harness clipped into place, Sal's righteous indignation boiled over and the walk turned into a sit.

Observe...me being studiosly ignored. La Kitty's finest cold shoulder. Crabby Cat ears directed at yours truly.

So, I guess a drive around town with the little one is out of the question.

Red anything good lately?

I took myself for a little field trip through downtown Portland last week. The seasons are in transition here; there is a snap in the air. I couldn't resist catching my favorite color in just the right light...happy autumn.

Leaves ~ Portland, OR October 2009, by Katie

Portland Art Museum Chinese exhibit ~ October 2009, by Katie

A Little Story

On a recent grocery acquisition mission, I found myself in an unusual predicament: I was at a loss for words.

I was minding my own doggone business. Waiting to pay my bill and vamoose. Captive to the blip-blip-blip across the conveyer belt. And then the checker had the nerve to give me a simpering grin and ask, "Awww, do you have a little one at home?"

I do not.

I looked up sharply, instantly wondering what had triggered such a query. Maybe I looked plump in a post-partumly way?! My eyes narrowed as I scanned my ensemble for wayward spills. Did I look haggard and sleep-deprived as only a wrangler of young 'uns can? When I realized the man was referring to the contents of my cart, I did a rapid inventory and catalogued some red flags amidst all the fresh produce:

Milk. Multiple gallons of it. {I married a dairy farmer's son, and you can't take the farm out of the boy.}

Okay...could be considered a "little one" beverage.

But it's not. It's for Husby and me. We douse our cereal. We sip at mealtimes. And we like it as an accompaniment to my baking experiments.

High quality entertainment. I'm a hard-working girl, and I value the opportunity to relax and surround myself with the artistic nuances of claymation filmmaking.

Might be something you'd take home to a "little one" with a well-defined sense of cinematic greatness.

But in this case, I simply adore Wallace and Gromit. Clever stuff, that. Sophisticated, multifaceted, charming humor.

Vitamins. I'm far more likely to take in the recommended nutritional supplements if they're cloaked in something that tastes good. Like gummy fish.

Any mom worth her salt would be willing to pass off these healthy-for-you vitamin supplements as an afternoon treat for a "little one".

But they are for me. Yes, as a matter of fact I do need a little coercing to take my vitamins.

So, back to the check-out line and the nosy guy...

I hemmed.

I hawed.

And then I just said the only thing I could say to that very personal question. Little one at home, eh?

"Yep, I sure do."

Little Lushes.

It turns out there is one small catch to all the lovely fresh fruit that presents itself at Portland harvest time. The mounds of juicy peaches, crispy apples, taut-skinned plums, and plump pears lining our countertops...well, they have a price.

Fruit fly infestation.

I am not talking about a few little pests. When the wee beasties have followed me into the bathroom for my early-morning prep work, the lady of the apartment draws a line in the sand. When the husby reaches for an after-work snack and is attacked by a territorial droning swarm, it's no more Mr. Nice Guy.

The gauntlet is thrown.

The challenge is on.

We are coming to fisticuffs with a nefarious foe.

Naturally, such a standoff demands a surefire arsenal.

There are fly strips hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

Yuck.

There is a patented fruit fly liquid trap, complete with smelly bait, resting on the bar above the sink.

Double yuck.

But we seem to have found the clincher. A truly efficacious technique in delivering droves of bugs to death's doorstep.

We are currently testing out the tried-and-true witchcraft touted by a woman we've met in our Northwesterly travels:

"Put out a glass of wine. The little buggers will fly in, get drunk, and drown right then and there."

Naturally, I have responded to such sage advice and pulled out the bottle of spirits usually reserved for marinara, gravy and other such cookery. From the el cheapo $4 Trader Joe's bottle, I've poured a tribute to the death of my kitchen plague. And you know what?

Those stinking bugs are quite particular about what kind of wine they like. The chintzy Chardonnay white wine has claimed multiple victims in a widespread countertop slaughter. The even chintzier Bordeaux? Many little red footprints {do bugs even have 'foot' prints?!} lining the rim, but not a single carcass in the juice.

White wine it is.

Who am I to tell our public what they want?

Editorial note: As documented in previous tales, we are a teetotaling bunch around here. That means I am a total ignoramus when it comes to the hard stuff. So THIS TIME, I held fast to my pride when making the wine purchases at the market. More specifically, when I went to top off our arsenal, I did NOT ask the clerk to identify whether the opaque bottle in my basket contained red or white spirits {I don't know my grapes}, nor did I query as to just how the bouquet might appeal to my beastly little sommelier bugs.

But I did have to restrain myself from asking.

Many Happy Returns

Tomorrow is my Mammy-Ann's birthday! Three cheers for this classy lady who is braving the challenge of returning to school for her bachelor's degree. She inspires me to work harder and do better.

Nothing rhymes with "orange"

Some people are so ridiculously creative, I kind of want to steal their gray matter for my own.

I like the fruits' little teeth.

Sadly, this is a sold-out t-shirt design. Found here.

Foot fetish

When I was in nurs!ng school, there was a singular experience known as the Community Health Rotation. This clinical time was marked with a colorful spectrum of people and encounters.

Some nights I carried a pager and the keys to a safe house for domestic violence victims.

Then there was the night where I rode shotgun with my hometown's finest for an evening of police calls.

On a few occasions I drove around town with a preceptor, trying to track down a schizophrenic patient for a medication refill.

Other evenings found me at a warehouse in a dicey part of town, sitting in on a gathering that was one part confessional, one part support group, two parts psychotic episode. {Husby even came with me to one of those...I dare you to tell me you've been on a stranger date than a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.}

I discovered that, to one degree or another, we each harbor our own special blend of imbalances, freakish impulses, and inappropriate behaviors, all tied up with the thread of our coping mechanisms. {Or lack thereof.} Sometimes the only thing separating me from the patently wackadoo circle of patients was the fact that I had a firm grip on my brain/mouth barrier. In short, the slim margin between us was simply the fact that I didn't say aloud every oddball thing that flitted through my consciousness. At least for that evening.

Well, folks, in the light of these experiences, I have to admit that I've slipped a little. There is a sickness that chews its way deep into the fiber of my being. Sometimes it sleeps, dormant. But it never goes away entirely.

Hi, my name is Imelda.

It's been two days since my last shoe purchase.

First I was just going to look.

One look can't hurt, right?

And then that look wasn't enough.

I've been thinking about them nonstop since I saw them. Waiting for just the right time to act. Hitting the refresh button over and over, waiting for the magic word to appear..."sale".

And then before you know it, I'm rationalizing all kinds of craziness. Like how they'll keep my feet dry in the rain because winter in Portland is all about rain, and how I can even use them in the garden. I try to talk around the fact that I don't even have a garden because I now live in an apartment...someday I will walk in the mud again!! My husband calls me a shoe hussy, and I'm afraid he may be right.

I think how good it will feel to caress the shiny surface.

I can almost imagine that new shoe smell.

Yeah. I cracked like an egg. Fell off the bandwagon.

And I'm not too broken up over it; after all, the winters here ARE pretty rainy.

Letter to the editor

Bart hiking above Multnomah Falls, OR ~ August 2009, by Katie

Dear Husby ~

This nocturnal schedule of late is for the birds. I hereby submit a suggestion: you should call in tired and stay home with ME. I'll take you on a picnic, spend all day at your Mac store {not the other true MAC store that I so love}, bake you nice things...how 'bout it, pal? Tell those bosses at school that you won't be in on account of it's just too darn nice to be indoors. And that you're tired. And that the little wifey misses you.

With love,

Me

Northwest Wanderings: Fresh Princess

Last year, when we discovered that we would be moving to Oregon, everyone had a comment or two to commemorate the occasion.

Some people warned about the rain.

Lots of cloudy days there...get a sunlamp. Or go tanning.

My inward response was less than enthusiastic.

Thanks. I'll just go ask for a prophylactic antidepressant right now.

Others spoke of the climate.

Your skin will looove the air there; the climate is so nice and damp.

My pragmatic {okay, fatalist} thought:

Excellent. Cue the return of vicious, soul-ravaging acne.

Still others talked about all the great recreational opportunities.

Ooooh, there are all kinds of water sports to be done there. Surfing! Sailing! Kayaking!

Cheery as ever, I mentally bemoaned the relocation.

I will NEVER get to ski again.

A friend and former Portland-ite made the noteworthy, yet esoteric observation:

The food there is so...FRESH.

After a local restaurant experience on our exploratory apartment hunt, I fought back simultaneous dread and disdain.

These people are going to kill me with their free-range tofu and uncaged artisanal soybeans.

Well, we made the move.

I'm settling in.

Doing my darnedest to keep the inner grouch tamed down.

And we have made a few discoveries that have softened the transition.

I am beginning to discover just what people mean when they talk about Portland and the Pacific Northwest culture. This place has a gestalt all its own. A distinct, unique flavor. Somehow, I can't quite give it words, but the vibe is there, pulsating outside my door.

In Table For Two tradition, our efforts to immerse our senses in this culture are usually ruled by the sense of taste. {We all have to eat...it might as well be fun.} A recent taste of the Portland Farmer's Market gave us a little cross-section of our new stomping grounds. Good people watching, live street performer soundtrack, funky atmosphere, and above all...FOOD.

I may have found a way to salve the sting of change.

Case in point: blackberries.

There may have been a perfunctory a periodic run-in with the precious gems, but I might as well have never tasted blackberries until I savored the ambrosia of the local berry farms.

Part of the novelty in this field trip is seeing the sheer abundance that summer has coaxed from tiny seeds.

The other part is getting to meet the farmers and growers of all these wares.

{Beets don't get enough positive press. We love them at our house. Besides, anything that makes one urinate pink can't be all bad.}

I thought I had attended a farmer's market before, but the sheer scope of this operation makes me wonder about the authenticity of the previous experiences.

I love this baker-girl's shirt. {Little known fact: I used to work in a bread bakery. Yup...a full-fledged dough girl.}

There was unparalleled people-watching. I stood in line behind this girl and thought she was just beautiful. Quintessential Portland style.

With the exception of some serious rhubarb concoctions, I had never eaten Swiss chard before, but I cheerfully took home a huge variegated bundle for dinner. As evidenced by my affinity for beets, anything that grows neon-pink gets bonus points in my book. {And it tasted mighty fine.}

There is something really neat about meeting the person who grew my dinner. It makes me have a deeper respect for my food; for the effort that went into cultivating, nourishing, and transporting it. Besides, tiger-striped tomatoes are a noteworthy encounter on their own.

A local nursery was hawking their wares. I've got my heart set on a little Meyer lemon tree.

Another fun thing about farmers'-market produce: it's not all the same uniform piles of produce one encounters at the grocery store. Things here may have a ding or two, or they may show up just a little more unprocessed that we are accustomed to seeing. Though they're not fit for human consumption, it was still fun to see for the first time just how Brussels sprouts look on the stalk before they get foisted off on an unfortunate soul's plate.

One of my favorite parts was the deep, saturated color of every booth and display case.

I'll be perfectly honest.

The rain is probably going to get to me.

It will be a great excuse to buy some pink wellington boots.

I've started to break out like a teen at midterms.

If it comes right down to it, I'll reach for another round of Accutane.

The snow, when it comes, won't be like the fluff at home.

I'll swallow my snow snobbery and ski like a lunatic at Mt. Hood.

And somehow, I will find a way to understand the essence of eating in this place...which is that the food IS fresh.

Whatever that means.

Notoriously laborious

The Husby and I have a Labor Day tradition. Historically, we somehow wrangle a ridiculous home project on said "day off".

There was our first Labor Day in our house, when we put in a bit of backbreaking hardscaping.

Then there was Labor Day weekend the following year, when we had the good sense to run away to a bed and breakfast for a couple of nights, only to come back the next afternoon and put in a retaining wall.

This year, apartment dwelling notwithstanding, I stuck with tradition and found me a domicile-improvement project.

Thanks to two trips to Husby's not-so-favorite store {because really, no project worth its salt is complete without at least two such excursions}, I stocked up on supplies and remedied the putrid color of our apartment. Now, instead of "Baby-Poo-Meets-Butternut-Squash", the hallway and kitchen are clad in a soothing coat of Glidden's "Icy Waterfall". Much mo' bettah.

All this while my poor boy is making the transition to nocturnal employee for the remainder of the month, because I'm just that kind of wife. {Poor guy.} I hope your day was labor-free!

Wish I were elsewhere this afternoon...

Today I came across a few images from Vienna. I think we should all go escape for awhile.

Does anybody want a travel companion?

Neoclassical facade, Vienna ~ July 2009, by Katie

Windowboxes in Vienna ~ July 2009, by Katie

VW Beetle in Vienna ~ July 2009, by Katie

Hapsburg Palace archway, Vienna ~ July, 2009, by Katie

Couple in Vienna ~ July 2009, by Katie

Building facade, Vienna ~ July 2009

Wild strawberries, Vienna market ~ July 2009, by Bart

Wild blueberries, Vienna market July 2009, by Bart

Horsedrawn carriage, Vienna ~ July 2009, by Katie

Yes, indeedy.

I think we should park ourselves outside the Demel sweet shop and eat ices and bonbons for a while. What say you?