Hatch Green Chiles and a New Mexico Road Trip

My Traveling Tales by Michelle

Hatch green chile season begins in August and is over by the end of September.

   About this time last year Linda and I devised a spur of the moment plan take a road trip from Tucson to Santa Fe to visit the Indian Market that is held annually in mid-August. Over the years my sisters and I had talked in broad terms about how much fun it would be to attend the Indian Market, but our conversations did not transcend into actually making a plan. Cancer has a way of expediting a decision making process. We both agreed that there was no time like the present, while Linda was feeling well enough, for us to both mark a mutual item off our bucket lists.
   In July of last year Linda was feeling much better than she had felt earlier in the year after enduring six intense rounds of chemotherapy and ten radiation treatments to combat breast cancer that had metastasized to her lungs and bones. The chemotherapy seemed to bring Linda to the brink of death before she rebounded gradually. After nearly five months of feeling horrible and being mostly confined to a wheelchair, Linda had graduated to a walker and was getting around on her own two feet (much to everyone's elation). She was even smiling again (hallelujah).
   The dates of the market fit quite nicely in between Linda's routinely scheduled bi-weekly doctor's visits. And to everyone's satisfaction there had been no recent changes to her medications and she was tolerating quite well the myriad of pills she took daily. The future looked brighter than it had in a long time.

Yours truly on the left wearing my new Heishi necklace and 
Linda on the right holding a Godfather cocktail.

   To proceed with caution we needed to factor in to the sightseeing equation that Linda could not walk long distances and that she might very well tucker out midday, which would necessitate a nap to recover her energy for evening activities. We also suspected that finding parking every day during the market hours would likely be awful and we needed control over that variable. With these contingencies in mind, it made sense for us to stay in the heart of Santa Fe near the action of the market, even though the cost of lodging would increase exponentially. Linda was surprised and pleased to find one available room at the historic La Fonda Hotel, which is conveniently located on the plaza near all the events we planned to attend.
   As with all great road trips, one thing leads to another. It didn't take long for us to figure out how to extend a quick weekend getaway in to what looked more like a mini vacation, or as we like to say, "Sistercation". If we were going to go all the way to Santa Fe, we agreed that we might as well tack on a couple of additional days and travel further north to Taos. If we were going to go to Taos, then Linda wanted to visit Chimayó to make a pilgrimage to the sanctuary. Linda worked the internet like a champ to put together a complete itinerary for sightseeing and dining. She scoured websites, read restaurant reviews and secured reservations for lodging and meals.

Linda and I enjoyed the performance of this fancy dancer champion.
I employed a couple of photo apps to create a painterly effect.

  The week before our trip, Linda's oncologist ordered a MRI of Linda's brain because Linda's tumor score had been increasing but comparative CT scans of the mid section of her body didn't reveal any significant changes. The day before we were to leave for Santa Fe, the oncologist called to give Linda bad news. Much to our dismay, the brain MRI revealed that there was indeed a tumor. If there is good news at such a time, it was that the tumor was small and treatable with radiation. Chemotherapy wasn't an option because it has trouble crossing the blood-brain barrier.
   The oncologist asked Linda if she had experienced any recent headaches or dizziness. Linda confirmed that she was asymptomatic. As a precautionary measure the oncologist prescribed a steroid that we needed to pick-up at the pharmacy in the morning on our way out of town. Linda was directed to take the medication, if needed, to counteract headaches or vertigo, should those symptoms suddenly occur. Linda and I mulled over whether we should cancel the trip. We mutually decided to override our concerns and to move forward with our plans. With the oncologist's blessing we were cleared to travel with the caveat that we needed to stop every 60 to 90 minutes so that Linda could stretch her legs and walk around a bit to get her blood moving.

Our favorite event that we attended was the Indian Market Haute Couture Fashion Show.

  The discovery of the brain tumor was a critical turning point for Linda. We knew that once we returned from the road trip that Linda would be meeting with a radiation oncologist to discuss treatment options. The unknown loomed large as Linda and I headed east the next day on I-10. We agreed that we would do our best not to let the news dampen our excitement for the trip or our enjoyment of our time together in New Mexico. We would be as carefree as possible and would not focus on the gravity of her situation.
   We understood from Linda's diagnosis at UCSF in Feburary that her stage IV breast cancer was treatable but not curable. We also understood that metastasis to the brain is fatal. Doctors will attempt to pacify a patient with statements that invariably start with, "Every patient is different and we do not know how each individual will react to a treatment." The doctor decides upon a course of action and if the treatment doesn't work then the next step is to try something different to see if it works. A treatment plan is just an ongoing experiment punctuated with many questions and few answers.
   What we knew for sure is that cancer spreads quickly in the blood-rich environment of the brain. If there was one brain tumor then there were likely multiple brain tumors that were at this point too tiny to see on the scan.
   We decided to move forward like everyone does by putting one foot in front of the other or, in this particular case, by shifting the car into drive while watching the miles speed by through the windshield of Linda's black Honda Civic Coupe (that she nicknamed Little Blackie after the protagonist's horse in the novel True Grit.)

A photo-worthy dilapidated truck with Taos mountain rests in the background.

   The driving time between Tucson and Santa Fe is about 7-1/2 hours. Roughly the half way point is Hatch, New Mexico where the famous, multi-varietal Hatch chiles are grown. Hatch chile season runs from the beginning of August through the end of September. Living in the southwest it is easy for us to source the coveted Hatch green chiles at our local farmers markets and in grocery stores.
   Last year we purchased about 20 pounds of fresh, flame roasted Hatch chiles at the Rialto Park farmer's market. Linda and I brought the fragrant chiles home, removed much of the charred skins with our fingers and then froze the prepared chiles.
   Some of the chiles I left whole and froze individually on sheet pans. My plans included making chile rellenos, which are roasted green chiles stuffed with a mild white cheese, dipped in batter and fried until golden. Also, a large portion of chiles were diced by hand with the aid of a chef's knife and then frozen in one and two cup portions. I planned to make dishes such as Green Chile and Cheese Soufflé and Green Chile Stew.
   What I particularly like about New Mexican food are the green and red chile sauces. Where many Mexican food eateries in the southwest seem to skate by using canned red sauce for enchiladas and smothered burritos, New Mexico is fanatical about preparing sauces from scratch. Linda and I happily ate New Mexico cuisine for every meal of the day and on several occasions we ordered our entrees Christmas-style, which means a dish is served doused with both red and green chile sauces.

The garden at the Fechin House, Linda wearing her new Heishi necklace, and Mexican sunflowers.

   The Indian Market is amazing and worth visiting if you are interested in Native American culture and in particular silversmithing and hand-crafted items, including jewelry, shoes, hats, drums and paintings. The market was so vast, with over a thousand booths, that Linda and I did not have the opportunity to visit every artist. We both purchased necklaces made of turquoise Heishi beads. Heishi beads were first made by the Navajo of the Kewa Pueblo (formerly known as the Santo Domingo Pueblo), located about 25 miles southwest of Santa Fe, which seemed like appropriate and special keepsakes to remember our trip.
   The visitors to the market were clearly turquoise aficionados and stacks of bracelets—easily worth thousands upon thousands of dollars—covered the arms of women and men alike. Linda adored the ostentatious fashion statement and proceeded to boldly wear every bracelet she brought with her for the rest of the trip. She continued to do so after we returned to Tucson, too. More is more, and more is better—clearly better—in Santa Fe. People watching is definitely a part of  the spectacle during the Indian Market.
   Beyond visiting and talking directly with the artists there is much to do and see in Santa Fe during the Indian Market. There are dance exhibitions, a film festival, music performances, art exhibitions, and other activities taking place in the parks, galleries, hotels, museums and civic center. Our favorite event, where we just so happened to snag front row seats by arriving early, was the Indian Market Haute Couture Fashion Show. I took about a thousand photos (I kid you not) of the models who strutted their stuff down the runway wearing gorgeous fashion statements created by Native designers.

El Santuario de Chimayó is a Catholic church and pilgrimage site for seekers of  miraculous healing.

   After experiencing the bustle of the Indian Market, Taos definitely felt calm and relaxing to us during our stay at El Monte Sagrado Living Resort and Spa, even though we packed in a full two days of sightseeing by visiting the the Taos Art Museum at Fechin House, the Rio Grande Gorge, the Millicent Rogers Museum, The Harwood Museum of Art to view the art collection of Mable Dodge Luhan, and last but not least, the ancient Taos Pueblo. Instead of being tired by all the activity, Linda was invigorated.
   On a whim as we drove back to the resort after our first day of sightseeing in Taos, we stopped by a grocery store and purchased Scotch Whisky and Disarrano Amaretto to make impromptu cocktails for happy hour back at our well appointed room before enjoying dinner at the hotel's fine dining restaurant.
   The base recipe for a Godfather cocktail is a 50-50 mix of whisky and amaretto poured over ice. No special equipment is required. The ice machine was down the hall and there were two glass tumblers in the room. The ratios of whisky to amaretto can be adjusted according to taste whether one prefers a stiff drink on the drier or sweeter side. We sat on the deck in comfortable wood chairs, sipped our cocktails and enjoyed watching a storm move in that brought a sweet sprinkling of rain and lowered the temperature to the point that we both had to put on a warm sweater and coat.

A panoramic shot of a multi-storied, multi-tenant adobe building located on the Taos Pueblo. 

    On the return drive home, we were still on the road about an hour outside of Tucson, when we watched the sun make a slow descent towards the horizon. The sky burnt pink and orange and puffy gray clouds heavy with rain dotted the luminous sky. Linda, thinking out loud in a low voice, said that she'd like to attend the Indian Market again the following year... if at all possible. Her voice trailed off and I sensed that she was mulling over the possible ramifications of the brain tumor.
   Pushing angst and what-if scenarios aside, we agreed that we'd make plans to return in twelve months and we hoped that our sister Juliette could join us. Juliette is a talented artist who has a deep appreciation for Native American design and craftsmanship and she also has a penchant for intricate bead-work.
   Linda and I wanted something to look forward to, something that we could hope for, to discuss and make plans for, even though the future seemed more unsure and foreboding than ever before during the course of her illness. After Linda passed away at the end of March, I did not cancel the hotel reservation at La Fonda for this year's Indian Market. I held on to some sliver of hope that perhaps Juliette and I might make the trip together.
   As the event looms nearer, I have come to accept that Linda is indeed gone and that this is not the year for Juliette and I to go on a road trip together to New Mexico. With a sigh passing through my lips, I must acknowledge that this particular situation is what it is. Linda's gone and I'm not going to Santa Fe in two weeks. A few minutes ago, with sadness and resignation, I cancelled the reservation. My husband said to me gently, "There's always next year." But that's not always a true statement, is it? There's only now. You must do things while you are able, before it's too late, like taking mini vacations with your loved ones and buying Hatch chiles while they're still in season.

Preparing Hatch Chiles

Bahama Mama in Atlantis — Paradise Island

My Traveling Tales by Michelle

"Happiness is a day at the beach." ~ Unknown

"Certain springs are tapped only when we are alone. Women need solitude in order to 
find again the true essence of themselves; that firm strand which will be the indispensable 
center of a whole web of human relationships." ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh

   Recently I traveled solo to Paradise Island in the Bahamas to exhibit at an accounting conference. Tough duty, I know. But someone's got to do it, so it might as well be me. All kidding aside, it has been a difficult year full of trials and tribulations, and if you follow our sisters' blog, you will have noticed the abrupt change in blogging status since January.
   A one week getaway is exactly what I needed even though my time away from home would not technically be a vacation. I had one ticket to paradise and I would surely make the most of my non-working hours. And so it was, just as I had hoped, that after a week of embracing 'island time', and letting the stress flow away from my body, I was ready to get back to my 'real' life. I committed to myself that I would try to hang on to island time for as long as possible after my return.

The Royal Towers features the Bridge Suite, one the world's most expensive guest rooms at $25,000.00 a night. I particularly liked the the sea horses as architectural accents.

   On a Friday morning in Tucson I rose at 3:00 a.m. to start my travel day. Fourteen hours passed before I reached my final destination. It seemed as if everyone on the final leg, the flight from Atlanta to Nassau was headed to the conference. I had a nice chat with the accountant sitting next to me, Pete from Northern California, a quiet, professional elderly gentleman was looking forward to the days ahead partaking of educational courses and networking with peers and exhibitors. The next time I bumped into Pete it was at a vendor sponsored party at the resort's nightclub, Aura. Free booze flowed like a river for three hours. In a room full of accountants, there was much speculation over the sum of the bar tab. The three co-hosts surely gained a lot of American Express points that night.

The DJ shoots fog over the dance floor. As Austin Powers would giddily say, "Yeah, baby, yeah!."

My friend Kaydee hooping at the confrence's after-hours party hosted at the nightclub, Aura.

   The time was approaching ten o'clock, and the party had been raging for two hours. Pete's gray hair was disheveled, his shirt untucked, and he was three sheets to the wind. Amazingly, he was still on his feet, walking nonetheless, and had a silly grin on his face. When he saw me slowly passing him, his unfocused eyes suddenly zeroed in on my face in recognition. Pete stopped walking, which stopped the flow of human traffic behind him. I nodded my head at him, as if to say without words, "Hey there!" Pete grabbed my shoulders to stop my forward motion. He then proceeded to plant a big kiss on my cheek. I was thankful that his lips were dry. He staggered. I grabbed his waist, steadying him. As a potential future customer, I gamely smiled, patted his shoulder once I was sure he was once again somewhat balanced on his feet. Mom-style I advised him to be careful, wiped my cheek for good measure, then continued weaving through the maze of people who were idly popping some moves while gazing down upon the gyrating bodies that were getting their groove on the sunken dance floor. The blaring dance beats bounced off the walls and ricocheted across the night club. The laser lights zigged, then zagged. The strobe lights flashed. I was instantly twenty-two again when the DJ spun a set of 80's music. We whooped, we hollered, we danced, we had fun. I didn't see Pete again.

Weddings are held in the beach-side cabana that overlooks the aquamarine waters of the ocean. 

I learned from a friendly marine biologist that was seated next to me on my return trip home that the Bahamas is home to the second largest barrier reef in the Northern Hemisphere.

   While checking-in I learned begrudgingly that I was assigned a garden view room. That would simply not do. C'mon, I'm on an island. I live in the desert. I want to gaze at the beautiful turquoise ocean as much as possible, even if it is for a limited time everyday. Upon my not-so-subtle prompting, the registration representative noticed that I was staying an entire week. A view of the ocean was definitely in order, we both agreed. The friendly Bahamanian pulled some strings to help a mama out. After a ten minute walk from the registration desk in the Coral Tower lobby to my Beach Tower room, I stood poised to slip my card key into the lock when I heard the air conditioning vent bellowing like a freight train on the other side of the closed door. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep with that racket. As I opened the door, the light from the hallway illuminated the darkened room in a dim glow, I could see that even in the low light that the room was unkempt and obviously needed maid service. The bed had been slept in, the covers were thrown back, the top sheet looked like a crashing wave tumbling over the shore of the wrinkled comforter. A quick glance at the bathroom yielded a view of  used towels piled on the bathroom floor. Because it was 9:30 at night, I thought the perhaps the room might be occupied. Regardless of the state of the room, I went to the window and pulled back the closed curtain and sure enough, there was indeed an angled view of the ocean from the deck.

The Queen of Atlantis holds court. 

   Back downstairs I went, thankful that I wasn't dragging my overstuffed luggage behind me. God bless bellmen. I politely informed the lone employee who stood behind the concierge desk about the state of the room and the bellowing of the air conditioning vent. The young woman, who seemed to be on a word fast, tipped her braided head to peer at a computer screen and began tap-tap-tapping on a keyboard, clearly with the intention of assigning me a new room. Once again I felt trepidation over being on the receiving end of a garden view room. Hesitant to interrupt, but doing so anyway, I kindly shared my desire for an ocean view with the stoic woman. Without making eye contact, the concierge simply nodded her head and continued to stare at the computer screen without saying a word. I did my best to be patient. I'm sure she's tired of hearing the same tired request over and over again. Oh well, I thought, hope for the best and see how the situation unfolds. I learned later during the week that my experience was not unique. Many attendees that I spoke with at the tradeshow had changed rooms not once, but twice due to varying problems with the air conditioning and plumbing.

The incredible view from my room in the Beach Tower, which I was grateful for everyday.

   For the second time that night, I entered a darkened room in the Beach Tower. The first thing I noticed was that air vent whispered cold air into the room. Silence is golden. I flicked on the lights. The beds were precisely made, the closet was empty and the white towels in the bathroom hung appropriately in place. The washcloths looked like splayed peacock feathers and were placed decoratively inside carefully folded hand towels. Once again I pulled back the closed curtain that covered the sliding glass door. To my delight, through the glass I could see by the moonlight that the view from this room was better than the room before. Before me was a magnificent view of a pool and beyond the pool and unencumbered view of expansive ocean. I opened the glass door and heard the waves rolling over the sand.
   In the end, for a little hassle, and a nice concierge that didn't seem so nice while she was reassigning my room, I wound up with exactly what I desired. The room itself was fine, nothing to write home about, overall the hotel looked a little tired, but at least is was clean and had an amazing view. I called to ask the bellman to deliver my bags and then I had just enough time to grab a slice of pizza topped with jerk chicken and sliced banana peppers before the take out joint closed at eleven o'clock.

I learned it's not so easy capturing photos of the active sea life in the lagoons and aquariums. 

   To illustrate the size of Atlantis, the water park alone is built on 143 acres. Between the three towers—Beach, Coral and Royal—and the condo-hotel, The Cove, there are over 3,000 rooms. In addition to the pools, slides, and both fresh water and salt water lagoons, there is a two mile stretch of beautiful beach, the sand soft and white. The shallow ocean water is luminous clear green before mutating into dark blue in the deeper depths. I could clearly see the interplay of colors from my vantage point of my ocean view room. My friend, Monica, said that staying at Atlantis is like staying on a docked cruise ship. The experience is much the same. Atlantis is all there is on Paradise Island. You can take an excursion into town, but the round-trip shuttle ride just seems like a big pain in the neck.

A view of Paradise Lagoon. The Beach Towers are in the center and the Coral Towers on the right.
My favorite outdoor bar on the property sits under the cover of the seashell covered roof.

A favorite water attraction is tubing along the mile-long lazy river. 

   I enjoyed my time in the Bahamas. Mainly, I think, because I was by myself. Kate, a colleague from New Zealand was my booth buddy for the tradeshow. Kate had her own room and we maintained our own schedules unless we were working, or meeting in the late afternoons or early evenings for cocktails and then dinner. That was ideal. I could rise in the mornings, put a hat on my head and walk the seven minutes to the Coral Tower to order coffee and a croissant at Starbucks. I'd bring breakfast back to my room and sit on the deck, looking out over the pool and ocean like a Queen surveying her kingdom while sipping a venti latté and slipping flaky bites of croissant into my mouth. While I enjoyed my morning respite, the staff below worked at a steady, unencumbered pace while cleaning the pools, arranging deck chairs and feeding the sea life in the surrounding lagoons.

A stairway leading to the Predator tunnel is located below the Lagoon Bar & Grill.  

The Lagoon Bar and Grill is surrounded by a lagoon filled with sharks.
I noticed some sharks at the bar, too. 

   I overheard plenty of couples quarreling in paradise over the course of the week. I thought, more than a handful of times, I'm glad that's not me. I have no one here to stress me out. No one I have to consider but myself and, of course, Kate. I did as I pleased. I ordered a Bahama Mama cocktail the size of my head and drank it down without guilt. I joyfully ate a croissant every day. I ate nachos slathered in pulled pork and doused with melted cheese. In between working hours, I wore sleeveless, flowing tank tops and didn't care if my arms looked fat. I did what I wanted, ate what I wanted, slept when I wanted. I came home to Tucson feeling relaxed. The question that loomed was how long the feeling would last. When I finally worked up the nerve to stand on the scale (I just couldn't help myself), I discovered that I lost nearly two pounds. That couldn't be right, I thought to myself. I weighed myself again, but the scale was consistent. I was consistently surprised. Twice over.

The departing view of the Bahamas from my seat at approximately 20,000 feet.

   On the way back home, I shopped the duty free shop at the Nassau airport. I looked at the prices listed for the various rums, whiskeys and scotchs and frankly the prices at my local Costco seemed better. I was about to exit the shop when I spotted a bottle of Nassau Royal Liqueur, which is a key ingredient in a Bahama Mama. I suspected that this particular liqueur would be difficult to source in Tucson, so I bought it and stuffed it with some difficulty into my computer bag. It felt like the weight of the roller bag doubled. Although I felt like a pack-mule, dragging that bag around, I'm glad I brought the bottle home.
   In the days following my return home, just as I could feel island time slipping away from me, I thought what better way to pretend we're in paradise, then to make a signature drink from the Bahamas. I gamely whipped up a gallon of Bahama Mamas for a family dinner over Memorial Day and they were a hit. By the end of the evening, there was nary a teaspoon left in the bottom of the pitcher. The fruity libation perfectly complemented Fallin' Off the Bone Baby Back Ribs and spicy chicken wings. Slurp down a Bahama Mama and you'll surely feel yourself slip into island time, too. No plane ticket required.

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   Nassau Royal Liqueur tastes of vanilla and spice. Without the liqueur the cocktail would taste like a fruity kid's punch. The more complex flavor profile with the addition of vanilla and spice is especially nice. The Liqueur can be purchased on-line.

After a hard day's work, it's happy hour for Kate and me. Kate ordered a Piña Colada. 
My sister, Linda remarked that the Bahama Mama is as big as my head.

   "It turns out that the Bahama Mama is not just one-of-many monikers slapped onto overly sweet Caribbean crap drinks, but it actually is a concoction that, while varying from source to source, is a drink unto itself and will usually contain dark rum, coconut rum, orange juice, pineapple juice and grenadine." ~DJ Hawaiianshirt of Spirited Remix

   Even at Atlantis, where I ordered Bahama Mamas at two locations, the ingredients list varied slightly. This drink is on the sweet side, so you could very well choose to add a portion of Malibu rum, if you like the flavor of coconut. Recipes that added banana liqueur I shied away from because I don't particularly care for the taste of banana liqueur, and it wasn't included in the Bahama Mama's that I ordered at Atlantis.

Bahama Mamas for a Party

Yields 1 Gallon (16 8-oz drinks):

1-1/4 cups (10 fluid ounces) Myers's Dark Rum
1-1/4 cups (10 fluid ounces) Bacardi Dark Label
1 cup (8 fluid ounces) Kahlua Liqueur
1 cup (8 fluid ounces) Nassau Royal Liqueur
4-2/3 cups (38 fluid ounces) unsweetened orange juice
4-2/3 cups (38 fluid ounces) unsweetened pineapple juice
1-2/3 cups (12 fluid ounces) bottle Grenadine Syrup

Procedure:
1. Mix all the ingredients together in a large container (I used a Cambro). Cover and chill. Serve individual portions over ice.

Single Serving Bahama Mama

1-1/2 ounces Meyers's Dark Rum or Bacardi Dark Label
1/2 ounce Kahlua Liqueur
1/2 ounce Nassau Royal Liqueur
2 to 2-1/2 ounces unsweetened orange juice
2 to 2-1/2 ounces unsweetened pineapple juice
1 ounce Grenadine Syrup

Procedure:
1. Put all the ingredients in a shaker. Shake well and pour into a glass filled with ice. Garnish with an orange slice and a maraschino cherry, if you please.

I made sure to visit the various aquariums located across the property on a daily basis. 

Life Lessons Learned From Dad and Jumbo Shrimp Tossed with Herbed Dressing

My Traveling Tales by Michelle

The butterflies and bees adore the amazing biodynamic gardens of Quivira Vineyards and Winery.

   While growing up, my father stressed to my sisters and I how important it is to know how to do things. Work. Be productive. Get stuff done (the right way). Our dad was not a sit around, watch TV, have a few beers, go to sleep, wake up and do it all over again type of guy. Dad has been, and I imagine always will be, project focused. We lovingly tease him that whatever can be over-engineered, will be over-engineered.
   With good-natured ribbing aside, the fact of the matter is that Dad builds things to last and is meticulous in his craft, whether it's preparing a garden, planting an orchard, repairing a 100 year-old apple peeling machines, crafting a dining room table from parquet wood salvaged from a railway car, pouring concrete for retaining walls, patios and walls, writing code for microprocessors, or turning hunks of hardwood on a metal lathe to patiently shape the pieces into candle holders, pedestals to hold semi-precious stone spheres, vases, keepsake boxes and even perfume bottles.

A photo that I captured of my Dad dates to the mid 80's.

A photo from the early 90's. From Left to Right: Michelle, Juliette, Mom, Dad and Linda.
At the time, Juliette was pregnant with her eldest daughter, Avalon.

My sister Juliette posted the following tribute on our Dad's Facebook wall for Father's Day last year:

"Happy Father's Day, Dad! I was thinking about some of the invaluable lessons I learned from you this morning:

1. How to shoot a gun. It was presented as a tool, and something to respect.
2. Don't fight fair—fight to win. Never take any shit from anyone, and be prepared to back that up with your fists if need be.
3. Follow the instructions!!! Read the instructions through completely, and then do.
4. The importance of language. 
5. Logic. (This had to be learned, as I did not come by it naturally).
6. If something is worth doing, it is worth doing well. Don't half-ass anything.
7. How to garden. Plant seeds, compost, weed, and harvest.
8. That gender was not an issue. Girls could do everything boys could do.
9. How to work. Hard. Good things don't always come easy.
10. Strategy in the form of many games of chess. 

Thanks Dad! I was stubborn as a mule, not the most intellectually inclined of your brood, and many of these lessons took me decades to learn. Some of them I'm still working on...."

Dad's response: "That's a great list, and I wish I could take credit for all of that wisdom but I'm sure you got #2 from your Mom—just kidding."

He's probably right about that—Mom has never been big at fighting fair, you fight to win. We sisters were always assured growing up that if we ever had to use our fists to settle a disagreement, our parents had our back. There were plenty of playground tussles growing up and not one sister ever got grounded for standing up for herself when the situation called for it.

In 2011, Linda posted this sentiment on our dad's Facebook wall for Father's Day:

  "There are so many good things that you taught me... a love of tools and the importance of having the right tool for the job, of doing the job right the first time, the value of being self-sufficient, not to be afraid to be intelligent and not accept consensus reality. My love of plants and gardening started with you, and you taught me that a hard day's work can feel good, and to get by in this world with integrity you need to have a spine of steel. Thanks, Dad, and I wish you a very happy Father's Day."

Juliette added to the post:
   "I remember many, many trips to junk yards and the hardware store (the one with the big cat that was always asleep on the counter). Stopping for an ice cream cone on the way home. Thanks for letting me have access to your well-appointed workshop at such an early age—I still have all my fingers! Your focus on vocabulary and logic have also been things that have proved to be priceless. Love you, Dad, have a great day!"

Dad Replied:
   "Juliette, you were a natural with tools from an early age. The memory that stands out in my mind the most was checking on what you were doing one day to discover you were pounding on something with a big hammer and using the cast iron top of my table saw an an anvil... LOL. You nearly caused me to have cardiac arrest with that maneuver. Funny you should remember the cat at the hardware store. Now that you mention it, I remember too."

Our Grandma Elsie loved to grow Hollyhocks in her yard.
Juliette is carrying on the tradition.

I added to the Facebook conversation with my own memories:

   "One of the things I really appreciated was logic building exercises through playing games like checkers and chess. At a very young age, Dad, you helped me to understand strategy, to plan the movement of game pieces, to recognize what the other player might be planning. Being able to anticipate actions and visualize what something will look like in my head before moving forward with a plan is something that has served me very well in both my personal and professional life and is something I'm trying to pass on to my own daughter. Thanks for all the one-on-one attention, Dad. P.S. I still get great pleasure from the antique buffet and armoir that we repaired and refinished together. Knowing how to do things and working with my hands is very satisfying."

Dad replied:
   "Thanks, Michelle! Chess is a wonderful game for developing the traits you mentioned and you picked it up quickly. Teaching chess to someone that doesn't know the game is a rewarding experience if they have some talent, which you certainly did, especially at such a young age."

   Our dad has fond memories of his mother's gardens as well as the fruit orchards that were near his childhood home in Yucaipa, California. As far back as I can remember, Dad has planted and tended gardens. He also prefers planting fruit trees over non-producing varieties. My favorite trees that Dad planted were Black Mission Figs, which practically overtook the backyard in Phoenix, much to my delight. My husband and I have continued the tradition and have populated our backyard with citrus trees, a peach tree and a pomegranate. I've tried to grow Black Mission Figs, which should do well in Tucson, but apparently not in our particular zone, much to my chagrin.
   Dad grew up during World War II when gardening was not a hobby. "Victory" gardens were a necessity to properly nourish families during a time of food scarcity and rationing. By 1943, items such as canned foods, meat, sugar and coffee became scarce. Neighbors grew a variety of vegetables and traded produce with each other. People knew how to preserve the bounties of the garden and orchard through curing, fermenting and canning. While my own gardening activities have been limited to growing herbs, my parents' gardening and farming pursuits taught me — thank goodness — that food comes from tending the land, and not from grocery stores, which is a popular notion shared by urban kids.
   As much as I love a garden, I have never been an avid gardener like my sister, Linda. Wherever Linda resides, each backyard becomes a magical oasis filled with potted plants, trees, flowers, vegetables and herbs—whatever strikes her fancy from season to season. Linda wrote a moving blog post, A Gift of Fava Beans and Garden Reverie, where she reminisced about a garden that she poured her heart and soul into, which I found particularly moving and inspiring. 
   I never tire of walking through a garden. Such an activity always brings me back to my youth and growing up, for a short time, on my family's small farm on the Central Coast of California. In Sonoma County, where Linda lives, many of the vineyards feature large garden areas that are accessible by the public. During my visits to Northern California, Linda and I always make time to visit a lovely winery that has an incredible garden. Two of our favorites are Lynmar Estate in Sebastopol and Quivira Vineyards and Winery in Healdsburg (where I captured all the garden photos for this post).

   I was recently at a dinner party where one of the guests lamented that kids aren't learning to work with their hands anymore. Many (if not most) high schools have eliminated classes such as woodworking, auto shop and home economics. I practically grew up without TV. To entertain myself, I read books. I baked and learned how to cook by reading cookbooks. Photography has always been a serious hobby. Back in the day, I even learned how to develop black and white film. Now just about anyone can take a great photo without knowing a thing about ISO, aperture and shutter speed.
   I take heart though for the younger set. There is so much knowledge to be gained from searching the internet. Even casual use of social media sites expose users to the benefits of urban gardening, artistic pursuits, engineering feats, business insights, architectural brilliance, and educational opportunities. My hope is that through all the noise we filter through daily, that we can all manage to stay curious about the world around us, and that we challenge ourselves to try new things, whether its rebuilding an engine, fermenting vegetables, refinishing a piece of furniture, planting herbs or learning to draw. Whatever artistic endeavor sparks your interest is worthy of your attention. Your life will be so much richer through the simple act of following your curiosity (and getting your hands dirty on a regular basis).

Jumbo Shrimp Tossed with Herbed Dressing

Denver Chalk Art Festival, A $5 Poem and Crêpes

My Traveling Tales by Michelle

"When you're alone and life is making you lonely

You can always go downtown

When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry

Seems to help, I know, downtown"

—Lyric by Tom Hatch and Sung by Petula Clark

   I grew up in the tiny Danish-style town of Solvang situated in the Central Coast of California. The bucolic countryside surrounding the town is predominately owned by ranchers and farmers. The wine industry has grown considerably since I moved away and the Santa Ynez Valley has become a preeminent destination for wine aficionados, especially after the film Sideways became an unexpected box office success in 2004.
   During my childhood, all I wanted to do was escape the valley and move somewhere else. "Else" as in a city, a place where not everyone knows your name and the citizens are not involved in your day to day life. I desperately wanted anonymity and to experience a sense of adventure, both which seemed to me, were not readily available in that beautiful but claustrophobic little town.

   Now you may be prone to jump ahead and think that this is when I will henceforth recall how I naïvely marched into the big world and experienced first hand the plights of living in a cold unforgiving city, learning through hard won wisdom to appreciate the simple comforts of small town life. Not so much. I may like to visit a small town to feel my country roots, but I'm definitely a city girl. The cities I have chosen to live in seem to be those with suburban sprawl and I'm always in a house located away from downtown. Therefore, owning a car is not optional. I have always wondered what it would be like to live in an urban environment where the coffee shop and the corner store are within walking distance and public transportation is my new normal.
   I love going walkabout in cities such as San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Memphis, Boise and Vancouver BC, to name a few. Something is always happening downtown and there always seems to be an abundance of photo opportunities. I'm also content to sit in an outdoor cafe and watch the people go by, bustling about their business.

   My mother and father moved to Denver for a six month stint when my sisters, Linda and Juliette were very young. My mother loves to reminisce about the schizophrenic weather she endured living in Denver for that brief time. It was not unusual to experience four seasons in one day and snow in June. It's true— the weather is wacky in the mile high city. I got a taste of the ever changing weather conditions during my two visits to Denver this year. Over the course of one week in early June, we experienced sun, rain, hail, and a tornado warning. The ever changing weather patterns were hard to predict. It could be sunny in the morning — absolutely beautiful weather — followed by a torrential downpour in the afternoon. If you visit Denver, my advice is to carry an umbrella with you... at all times! The one day we didn't have our umbrellas with us was the afternoon we got caught in a heavy rain. My daughter, Maddie was positively soaked from head to toe.
    With regards to my professional life, it turns out that Denver is a popular city for conferences this year (thank goodness because Las Vegas has worn thin on me). Back in April, I learned that in June I would be attending XeroCon, an accounting conference. Since my daughter would be a recent high school graduate, she would be free as a bird to travel with me. Maddie and I were excited to stay with our former neighbors and close friends who moved to Colorado a couple of years ago. I had the pleasure of visiting Stephanie, Michael and their two girls earlier in the year when I was in town for a mining conference. In February, Stephanie and I had a blast exploring Castle Rock and walking among the spectacular red rocks of The Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs.
   This visit, we had planned to attend the First Friday Street Fair in the city of Golden, weather permitting. It didn't. The mercurial weather turned nasty and dashed our plans. We amiably switched to "Plan B" and opted for dining at the charming The Old Stone Church, followed by enjoying a movie at the local cineplex. The next day, Stephanie read that there was a Chalk Art Festival in downtown Denver. I was excited to attend, recalling Linda's blog post covering Italian Street Painting Marin that takes place bi-annually in San Rafael, California. Maddie was determined to see downtown Denver for the first time so we all planned to attend the chalk art festival rain or shine.

For a small donation we supported a local poet and, in return,
we received a personalized poem as a travel keepsake.

    Saturday morning, Michael found parking in a small lot near the event. We proceeded to go walkabout before heading towards the chalk art festival. We stopped by the Tattered Cover Book Store to browse the titles in the large cavernous space that overfloweth with character. As part of my ongoing commitment to support independent book sellers, I purchased a copy of Tom Robbins' new book, Tibetan Peach Pie. Afterwards, we proceeded on to Union Station and admired the beautifully remodeled interior.
   When I tour a downtown area, I always make sure to have some dollar bills handy in a pocket. I enjoy supporting local artists, those talented souls who sing while playing an instrument, or the writers of prose who are willing to compose and recite — with feeling, I might add — a spur of the moment poem. Magicians and mimes are also favorite performers of mine. Not long after our visit to Denver, Maddie and I traveled together to New Orleans and our time there would not have been the same without interacting with the local performance artists, musicians and painters.
   As for the talented chalk artists... well, as you can see from the photos above, the drawings were amazing. We wandered around and watched artists create for the sake of creating. The crazy Denver weather would surely wash the drawings away within a short period of time, even if the artists were using a special formulation that could withstand the elements longer than normal chalk. Sure enough, as we wrapped our day and headed to the car, light sprinkles of rain descended from the sky. I kept my fingers crossed that the artists would be able to finish their designs and that the crowds could linger until dark to admire the art and to hopefully appreciate all the fine things that cities have to offer.

A perfect Sunday breakfast that we enjoyed at Michael and Stephanie's.

Crêpes — Sweet or Savory

   Stephanie's husband, Michael is an exceptional cook. Michael's father was a Chef and he opened restaurants around the globe. Michael is quite comfortable in the kitchen while preparing any meal of the day. When we went walkabout in downtown Denver, Michael led our merry band of sightseers to a crêpe cafe for an afternoon snack. What the kitchen produced looked more like a thin pancake than a proper crêpe.
   I'm the type of person when I am unsatisfied with a meal at a restaurant, I have to make the offending item at home to move on from the lackluster experience. Michael, it seems, is similarly minded. After we returned home from a full day of traipsing around downtown Denver, Michael didn't flop on the couch, but instead began working in the kitchen. Curious, I asked him what he was making. Turns out, he was whipping up crêpe batter that once finished, would rest in the refrigerator overnight and be ready to use in the morning. It's always great to have something to look forward to, especially an elegant family breakfast.
   On Sunday morning while Stephanie made lattes for us and then prepped berries, peaches and whipped cream, Michael busily turned out beautiful crêpes that looked and tasted nothing like the thin pancakes from the previous day. Michael also fried bacon and then basted eggs in the bacon fat. So delicious!
   After devouring breakfast, I knew I'd want to make the crêpes in my own kitchen. I asked, with a little trepidation, if the crêpes were a family secret and if Michael would be open to sharing the recipe with me. Michael crossed the kitchen and returned with a cookbook that he handed to me to read. I was stoked! The recipe, it turns out, is from Crêpes: Sweet and Savory Recipes for the Home Cook by Lou Seibert Pappas. As a lovely surprise, Maddie purchased the cookbook for me as a gift after we returned home from Denver. Michael prefers Cointreau or Grand Marnier in his mix, which tasted wonderful with the fresh fruit filling.
   For a gluten-free option, the author suggests replacing the all-purpose flour with cornstarch and add 1/8 tsp baking soda. For savory crêpes omit the sugar and vanilla extract. Swap vodka for the liqueur.

Ingredients:
2 large eggs
1 cup milk
1/3 cup water
1 cup all-purpose flour, preferably bleached
2 Tbsps sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 Tbsp rum, Cointreau, amaretto, brandy, Frangelico, Framboise or other liqueur (optional)
2 Tbsps butter, melted

Additional butter for cooking the crêpes.

Filling:
mixed berries
in season fruits
whipped cream

Procedure:
1. In a blender or food processor, blend until smooth: the eggs, milk, water, flour, sugar, vanilla, liqueur, and melted butter. With a rubber spatula, sweep the sides and stir down the mixture and blend again. Cover and refrigerate for a minimum of 2 hours or ups to 24 hours.
2. Gently stir the batter if it has separated. Heat a seasoned 6, 7, 9 or 10-inch nonstick crêpe pan over medium-high heat until hot. Wipe the pan lightly with butter, lift the pan from the heat and pour in 2 to 3 tablespoons of batter for a 6- or 7-inch crêpe or about 4 Tbsps (1/4 cup) for a 9- or 10-inch crêpe. Immediately tilt and rotate the pan to coat the surface with the batter. Cook until almost dry on top and lightly browned on the edges, about 1 minute. Loosen the edges with a spatula and flip the crêpe over using your fingers or the spatula, then cook the other side for about 15 seconds, or until lightly browned. Turn the crêpe out onto a clean tea towel to cool. Repeat with the remaining batter, wiping the pan with butter as needed and stacking the crêpes as they are cooked.
3. For serving immediately, cover the crêpes with aluminum foil and keep them warm in a preheated 200°F oven. For serving later, wrap them in plastic wrap in quantities intended for each use and slip them into a self-sealing plastic bag. Refrigerate the crêpes for up to 3 days, or freeze for up to 2 months.  Yield: 16-18 smaller crêpes or 10-12 larger crêpes.