Thanksgiving holiday

I realize I use this space to whine about some of the realities of motherhood.  Today, I'm thinking about how tired I am, how I'm still not sleeping well, how I don't quite fit into my old clothes, and how postpartum hair loss is horrible, if not scary.

I think it throws friends when they ask me how I am doing and I launch into my grievances.  I see the look on their faces. But that is what's going on, dear friends.  Yes, I love my daughter, fiercely. Her smiles make me forget (for a while) some of the difficulties of motherhood.  And life is richer, in ways I didn't understand before.

But I'm not one to sugarcoat things and some days I surprise myself with my ability to get out of bed, get dressed and pretend to be functional, maybe even mildly coherent.  Today was not one of those days. I stayed at home in my pajamas while taking conference calls.

This post was about Thanksgiving in Colorado: There was snow and family. I didn't bring my work computer. I didn't think about human rights or the uphill battle we face. It was great.  And, speaking of M's smiles, here's one that melts my heart.

The hammock.

I really should not torture myself with these images of summer, but I miss this hammock. It sits beside the Colorado mountain house, amongst tall trees and brush.  Last summer, during our wedding, the meadow around the house was covered in vivid purple lupine wildflowers.  We'd walk down into the meadow, stomping our feet as we trudged through the tall brush, and then stare at the Continental Divide ahead.

Married - and in Turkey.

We sadly said goodbye to family and friends in Colorado, said goodbye to the mountain house, which over the summer months has been surrounded by green grass and purple wildflowers, said goodbye to the prolonged wedding celebrations, and boarded a plane to Istanbul.  We arrived on day two of Ramadan.

The clock on my computer says it's 10:00pm EST, but my body knows that it's early morning in Istanbul. Sleep will not come. The morning call to prayers from the Blue Mosque--loud, reverberating in our hotel room--woke me up.  In the distance, I hear a cat meowing, the sounds of a car motor, and seagulls.

I woke up to my mind racing - to thoughts of our small ceremony, where Ethan's father played the bagpipes and, like the Pied Piper, led our guests down to the meadows behind the/(my new) family's mountain home, through sage brush and wildflowers.  Then, I thought of the beautiful words spoken by Jerry, Ethan's friend from grad school and our officiant; the readings by Cherlou, Eric and Nicole; the speeches by Latham and my sisters ... 

Looking back, a few days after, it wasn't a polished affair; rather very casual and free. And yes, I wasn't over the moon about my dress, but it did the job.  All of it felt so very intimate, with family and friends contributing in various ways: the bagpipes, our officiant, the readings, the awesome pies baked by my sister-in-law (we did not do wedding cake), the wildflowers arranged by the women in my family (though admittedly bought from a florist); my makeup done by my sister, Jack; the photography by Rhys and Ingrid; offers from CK to pick up my dress when it wasn't delivered on time; and, through it all, coordination of all the moving pieces by Ethan's mom.  Because of these contributions, the day turned out to be much more meaningful.  

Anyway, I'm sure I'll write more about the whole thing later.

But my main point this early morning: I woke up in Istanbul and suddenly became aware that I was utterly happy.  And if I've learned anything over the years, it's to savor times like this, to really grab hold of them, and maybe even to document them.

The state of things.

I live in the land of dresses. You can't walk a few hundred meters without stumbling onto a sidewalk dress shop, or a shiny mall (my goodness, this city has so many and it boggles my mind how there can be such demand), or a vintage shop in an outdoor market, or an underground subway shop. The quality varies of course, but the colorful dress is ubiquitous in Bangkok.

I have been cooking in again.  Japanese curry tonight, more bircher muesli for breakfast tomorrow. I am dreaming of baked figs, of lentilles du puy, of rustic plum galettes - and I have not made chana masala in ages.  That needs to change.

I am growing more obsessed with Dream Collective, and I think a visit to the store is due this December. 

I am still thinking of my grandmother Martina and my visit to Zamboanga City, which is a culturally rich, but unstable, city in a region of the country where military presence is strong and grenade and/or bomb attacks occasionally make news (as they did during my visit).  I am thinking of my Dad's childhood home, on a parcel of land, green, overgrown with dense trees and overlooking the Sulu Sea.  

I am thinking of work, of sitting in a small room across a table from a woman seeking refuge.

I am thinking of wedding bands and honeymoon plans and small ceremonies held against the backdrop of the Rocky Mountains.    

I need to send in my absentee ballot!

Cooking in Colorado: Po' Boy Sandwiches

 

In January, I spent 6 days with Ethan's family in their vacation house in the Colorado mountains.  It was so cold and when I think about it now, I was absolutely out of my element.  Ethan grew up with skiing, snow-shoeing, and other winter activities.  I did not.  I grew up with the warmth  of Southern California, with its endless highways.  Their house has a "mud room."  I had never heard of a mud room before.  There are more examples, but I won't bore you.

Despite being out of my element, I had such a wonderful time.  What made that week so great was the warmth of his family, including his super sweet, progressive mother (I know now where he gets his patient disposition), who was happy to show me pictures of a baby Ethan and with whom I chatted one night until the early morning hours about life's twists, Cambodia, and love. To me, it will always be a week of hot cocoa drinking, fireplace-sitting, and lazy strolls in the snow - and getting to know his family. 

During that week, all of us took turns cooking.  I volunteered to make creme brulee french toast one morning, but I botched it up.  And, well, with a name like "creme brulee french toast," expectations are set high, and no amount of Grand Marnier liqueur or orange zest can fix it.

One evening, after a day of running around in the cold, Ethan made shrimp po' boy sandwiches. Yum.  But what really stood out for me was the remoulade sauce he made as dressing for the sandwiches.  It was an adaptation of the recipe below.  And it was delicious.

 

Creole Remoulade

Adapted from this recipe by Emeril Lagasse.

Makes 2 cups.

Ingredients

• 3/4 cup vegetable oil
• 1/2 cup chopped green onions (green and white parts)
• 1/2 cup chopped yellow onions
• 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
• 1/4 cup chopped celery
• 3 tablespoons Creole or other whole-grain mustard
• 3 tablespoons ketchup
• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
• 2 tablespoons chopped garlic
• 2 tablespoons prepared horseradish
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon cayenne
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Instructions

Combine all the ingredients in a blender or a food processor fitted with a steel blade and process until fairly smooth, about 30 seconds.

Transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate for at least 1 hour before using. (The sauce will keep for up to one week in the refrigerator.)

What I Ate, Pt. 1

Stumptown Coffee Roasters, Portland

I'm back in Phnom Penh, still jetlagged and spinning from nearly four weeks of time with my family and friends - and Ethan's family, too.  Last night, menacing thunderstorms kept me up in the wee hours of the morning and my thoughts raced immediately to my time back home.  Admittedly, I cannot really pin down "home": I was born and raised for several years abroad; I grew up in Los Angeles and my family is there; I lived in the gem that is Portland for 6 years; I now reside in Phnom Penh, Cambodia; and Ethan and I are contemplating our next move.  I have never considered myself a "nomad," as I really like to plant myself somewhere for an extended period of time, but gazing at the previous sentence makes me pause.  

At any rate, my thoughts centered on the idea of "home" and "community." Having spent some time reconnecting with friends on this trip, I am reminded of the calibre of my friends.  They are an incredible bunch of people.

And then, my mind wandered to gatherings with these people, often against the setting of food and consumption.  On this trip, I followed friends and family around to their favorite restaurants. Here are a few favorites:

La Moscata Bakery (Los Angeles, California):  I've never actually stepped foot in this bakery.  I only know that my dad, a retired City of Los Angeles worker, frequented this bakery for what he claims are some of the best tamales in town.  Apparently, it's a City workers' haunt.  The morning I left for Denver, Colorado, I awoke to find several dozen tamales n our family kitchen. My parents made the 6:00AM morning drive to stand in line at this Los Angeles bakery.  They wanted to send Ethan and his family a few vegetarian and sweet tamales. 

Snooze, an A.M. Eatery (Fort Collins, Colorado):  I ordered the eggs benedict, topped with tomato ragu, kale, white beans, squash and cream cheese hollandaise.  I, however, also sampled the buttermilk pancakes topped with pumpkin cream, candied pumpkin seeds and chili-infused syrup and the red velvet pancakes with the espresso-infused maple syrup.  

Del INTI (Portland, Oregon):  I really, really enjoy a non-fusion, simple lomo saltado, the kind you find at hole-in-the-wall Peruvian eateries, tucked away in bland stripmalls in Southern California.  This restaurant was certainly not in a stripmall and the food was a little fusion, but it was one of the best Peruvian meals I've had in Portland.

Tabernash Tavern (Tabernash, Colorado): This is a small restaurant in the mountains of Colorado, near Winter Park.  All I remember is that the buffalo stroganoff was yum.

Fraser, Colorado

via sjb4 (flickr)

I hate packing, but pack I must.

Early tomorrow morning, I fly to Denver, Colorado, where I will meet Ethan.  I think we're going to meander a bit for the afternoon and visit what he claims is a used bookshop that rivals Powell's Books of Portland (yeah right) before ascending up to Fraser, Colorado.

It will be a quiet first week of 2012.  We'll be staying with his family at their mountain house.  This picture, taken near Fraser, seems so otherworldly.

Happy New Year!  What a year 2011 has been.

Portland Jones #1

via Byrds and Bees

Becki, let's grab cappuccinos at Crema, my favorite light-filled renovated warehouse coffee shop in Portland, and then saunter across the street to Una to look at Mociun & Krantz necklaces!

There's a wave of giddiness that comes and goes, that washes over me when I realize that I will be in Portland very soon.  It's been too long since I've seen dear friends, or had a cup of Stumptown coffee (another one we should go to, Becki).  There's been so much life that has passed in this year for myself and loved ones, and there were many times when I wished I could share in those moments more intimately with those who live thousands of kilometers and a vast ocean away. 

Wedged between me and Portland, however, are several long days and nights of writing, writing, writing and then revising, revising, revising - and technically, a shopping layover in Seoul, some time in Los Angeles, and mountain cabin time in Colorado.  

Concentrate.