Coming Home

Who goes on vacation for only FOUR DAYS and takes 804 pictures?!

Me, that's who.

That means I took, like, 201 photos a day!

I think I'm out-of-control.

Regardless, I am pleased that my trip to NYC with my boyfriend has been well documented (probably a bit over-documented, but that's the beauty of digital photography, right?).

But until I can find 43 1/2 hours to pour over those pics and get some posted here on my blog, I'll tell this little story...

Along with being pleased with my 'shutter-pressing-happy-finger', I was also pleased to return home and find that I actually had been "missed" by my children.  I was beginning to wonder if anyone had noticed I was gone.  I reminded the little ones, as we left the house for the airport last Wednesday, that I was only a phone call away.  Adam, with tears in his eyes, said, "Really? I can call you any time?" to which I assured him he could call me at any time.  He seemed relieved and I wondered if I would be regretting those words when my cell phone rang, while in New York City, at 3 a.m. only to find a weeping 6-year-old on the other end, "Come home, mom, pleeease come home.  I miss you sooo much!"

Well, it didn't happen.

Not only did I never get a call at 3 a.m. but I also didn't get one at 3 p.m.  Or at noon.  Or at bedtime. The entire time we were gone I got only one call from home.

It was Raegan telling me there was a Girl Scout standing at our front door and did I want to buy any cookies.

That was it.  It was all about Girl Scout cookies.  Not about missing mom or dad or checking to see if we were okay amidst the monumental amounts of snow which had been dumped on us and all of New York City.  Not anything like, "Are you okay?  Are you snowbound?  Are you wet and freezing and trapped deep underground in a snow-stalled Metro train in the rat-infested New York City subway system?  Mom and dad, WE LOVE YOU!  WE MISS YOU!  ARE YOU OKAY?!"  

No.  The one phone call was all about cookies.  

And, although we did indeed miraculously survive the record-breaking NYC snowstorm ("We haven't had snow like this in the City since 1936!" uttered to us by a man with a thick Bronx brogue), we came home and found that we actually had not been forgotten by our children.   The kids had made a 'welcome home' banner and strung it across our bed, complete with darling hand-drawings and a balloon where "Happy Birthday" had been crossed out and "We Love You" and "Welcome Home" had been written in its place.

It was adorable.  And I felt much better.

I'm still trying to figure out what those things are in the "M."  I think they are Chocolate Covered Orange sticks, which are one of my favorite treats of all time.   I only get them on Christmas, and this year I got 3 boxes!  In one day!  And I ate all 3 boxes in 3 days!

A box a day....it works for me.




Thanks guys, we missed you too.

Martha: The Next Generation

Anyone who knows my two oldest daughters, Brooke and Raegan, know that they are emerging gourmet chefs.  Actually, I'm not sure I should use the word emerging.  Basically, they are gourmet chefs.  In my opinion, they have arrived.

These two girls are, for lack of a better word, obsessed with cooking.  Obsessed, I say!  When each has a birthday or it's Christmas or there is any opportunity for them to receive a gift, ALL they ask for are cookbooks.  When not in the kitchen cooking, they spend their free time pouring over cooking blogs and driving around town shopping for rare and exotic ingredients.  Their dream is to go to culinary school in New York City (and once they each come up with the $45,000 per semester tuition PLUS enough for NYC lodging , I'll gladly let them go).

I curse myself for not taking a picture of the cookbooks that Brooke checked out from the library a couple of weeks ago.  It seemed like there were hundreds of them.  Maybe thousands!  There were literally stacks and stacks and STACKS of cookbooks on our family room floor for two weeks. Nightly, she sat with her collection, pouring over each and every glorious page.

These girls fight over who "gets" to cook dinner.  They fight over who "gets" to make the dessert (and trust me, there is never a lack of desserts around this house!).  

(And, just for the record, I don't fight with them.  I am perfectly fine to sit back and have someone else cook our dinner.)

(Yip, this set-up pretty much works for me.)

Brooke and Raegan are not your average cooks and they do not cook average food.   They make things called Fesenjan (Chicken and Beets in Pomegranate Walnut Sauce), Harissa Baked Purple Hedgehog Potatoes with a Yogurt Mint Dipping Sauce, and Coconut Red Lentil and Chickpea Soup topped with Toasted Slivered Almonds, Feta Cheese and finished with a light drizzle of Olive Oil.

These are the kind of meals we eat at our house.

However, as delicious as these meals may be for us adults, I can say they usually do not sit very well with the little boys; Matthew (10) and Adam (6).  These boys feel greatly deprived of hamburgers, tacos, and spaghetti.  You know, BOY food!  Of which Brooke and Raegan never make!  

Until last night.  Brooke was feeling rather kind and generous towards her brothers and therefore decided it was "time to cater to the boys."  So, she made Matthew's favorite dish of all time: Lasagne.  

Lasagne with MEAT and OOEY-GOOEY CHEESE* and NOODLES!  

It was nothing short of little boy heaven at our house last night!

We quickly consumed half of the pan, being careful to save the other half for the boys' dinner tonight. Oh boy!  Were they ever looking forward to dinner tonight!

We set the pan, covered with aluminum foil, out on our back patio picnic table.  It was certainly cold enough to keep it there over night, and we do this all the time with leftovers.  When it's this cold outside, it's like "the world is our refrigerator!"

But this time it wasn't meant to be.  You see, apparently we have raccoons in our neighborhood who like to eat all of our neighbor's chickens.  And I guess now that they've eaten all the neighbor's chickens they have now turned to eating LASAGNE!

THIS is what was left of our half-pan of lasagne.
 (And how thoughtful of said raccoon to not eat ALL of it.  What a nice raccoon to
leave us a few, dry, licked-clean noodles.)

THIS is the aluminum foil which was found several feet away, cruelly sliced by the raccoon's paw and carelessly thrown to the side of the sandbox.  Just look at that
perfectly guilty paw print!

I guess the world is no longer our refrigerator.  

And I guess the boys will be eating Farrow with Red Cabbage and Lemon-Scented Quinoa for dinner tonight.

*Addendum: My aforementioned daughter has informed me that the "Ooey-gooey cheese" was actually "Ooey-gooey TOFU mixed with a bit of cheese.  Such sneaky, sneaky girls.

The best of men

The phone call came early this morning.  And when I heard it ring, I knew.

I knew and I didn't want to answer it.

John's dear father had just passed away only minutes earlier. 

The emotions right now are hard to figure out.  

There is happy.  So happy for him.  He is finally free of the painful body which has kept him captive for the last 8 months.   Happy that he is finally with his parents and his brother.   It's been so many years since he has been with his mother.  The thought of their reunion is overwhelming to my mind.  

Then there is sad.  Sad for us as we are left behind, missing him so much that it physically hurts. Missing his wisdom, his smile, his laugh, his excitement over the car he has been restoring for as long as I can remember.  Missing him wearing his leather jacket that says, "Handyman Club of America, Lifetime Member."  Missing our "Flying Dutchman."  Missing everything about him.

Just missing him.

I just can't quite figure out what to feel.  And my heart is so full that I feel it will explode.   I thought if I typed out these feelings, that somehow it might help me to feel better.   I hope.

When Raegan returned from India in August we took her to see Opa in the care center.  She hadn't seen him since he became sick with that really ridiculously rude cancer.  I am so happy I grabbed my camera as I ran out the door.  The photos we have of them together are priceless.

This morning, when I told little Adam that "Opa died" he got a surprised look on his face, then he lay his head on me and after thinking for a minute said, "Well, it's kinda good because he won't ever die again and he's getting to see Jesus."

Is there anything more true and correct and beautiful than that?  Opa IS getting to see Jesus, and because of Him, our Savior Jesus Christ, Opa will never have to die again!

There isn't a more beautiful thought in the world.

M & M

Matthew and Martha. As in Martha Stewart.

Each month, around this time, there is much excitement and anticipation in our home, for this is about the time when the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living arrives in our mailbox.

Yes, excitement at its finest.

But not for me. Oh, don't get me wrong, I do love Martha...she is talented, creative, inspirational, and I have, no doubt, learned to make a mean cookie or two from her, complete with a "60% cacoa dark-chocolate ganache reduction."

But it's Matthew who most eagerly awaits the arrival of Ms. Stewart's monthly periodical. Yes, Matthew. My SON. Who is a BOY. And 10-YEARS-OLD!

This is an example of what takes place when he sees the newly-arrived magazine laying on the kitchen counter, which, consequently, took place last night...

Matthew: "*Gasp* It came, it came! Yessssss!!"

He then quickly whisks it away to some unknown corner of the house, where he can sit uninterrupted, carefully pouring over each and every page.

At first I was a little concerned over his adoration for such a, you know, "female-ish" magazine. Why couldn't my son be into Boy's Life or Ranger Rick or even Highlights? Those are great boy magazines!

"He'll grow out of it," I told myself, "Don't worry. He'll be fine, it's okay, he'll be fine, he'll be...."

But then, one day, I discovered the real reason for his affection for the mag. Much to my relief, I found that Matthew doesn't really care about learning how to hand mend a worn out knit sweater, nor does he care about the best type of galvanized bucket in which to place his freshly cut home-grown hydrangeas, and he most definitely couldn't care less about Martha's monthly calendar where he can learn what day she is polishing her silver, winterizing her entryway, and having her Bedford fireplace cleaned before the first fire of the season.

But this IS what he cares about. THIS is what he is frantically searching for when he hides away with the book:


The monthly advertisement for Fresh Step Cat Litter, where, each month, a different cat is featured; one who desperately needs to use the, um, potty. One who is always holding its crotch paws just anterior to its pubic symphysis and inferior pubic ramus.*

That's what my 10-year-old boy is looking for. And when he finally finds it, you hear a whoop and a holler coming from the depths of the basement.

And then he eagerly awaits the arrival of next month's issue of Martha Stewart Living.



*Raegan, being in the thick of her university anatomy class, was mortified of my use of the word "crotch" and, therefore, insisted I use the correct terminology.

Elder J.R.H. Oh, and me.

I think this makes up for my unfortunate missed photo-op with Donny.



Yup.

Me and Elder Holland.

In a photo booth.

Together.

Just me and him.  Oh, and the other General Authority who snapped the photo (although I don't remember his name.....you must understand I was experiencing a tad morsel of shell-shock because (HELLO!) I was standing right next to one of my ALL-TIME FAVORITE APOSTLES!).

I know, I look a little giddy in this photo.....it could be that the guy taking the photo (see above) had just told me and Elder Holland that we couldn't hold hands.

HA!

* A HUGE thank you to my amazingly-fabulous-photographer-friend Leah for asking me to be her "2nd photographer" for this wedding/reception.   It was So. Much. Flippin'. Fun.

Doin' laundry

Clunk....

Clunk....

Clunk....

is the sound my clothes dryer makes when something is in there that isn't supposed to be in there.

Thus was the sound I heard today.

Let's see, what could it be this time?

Oh!  I see something, poking out from under the clothes!  But I can't quite make out what it is.....

Oh, thaaat's what it is!   It's John's Brand. New. Cell phone!   Washed AND dried!

Whew, that's a relief.  I'm so glad it wasn't something, ya know, important.

It's officially over.

Summer, that is.

And this was my first clue...

And this...


And this...

My yard.  Three days ago.

Summer.

Gone. Finished. Kaput.

Terminated and executed by the cruel, cold snow.


For some reason, right now, I feel like writing an "Ode to Summer" (kind of like that John W. Schaum piano piece Sister Maggie Gammel made me play in Sacrament Meeting when I was twelve, "Ode to Joy." And even though playing that piece in Sacrament Meeting didn't bring me much joy, this particular past summer season did, so therefore I think an ode is perfectly fitting).

Oh, Summer 2010,
You were so good to us.
You gave a serious helping of joy to a child obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine,
And you let John soar in a little (and nautiously bumpy) airplane high above our home.
(And for once, he found joy in the provided air-sickness bags.)
You let it pour rain on us during our one day at Lagoon, knowing that a day for us at Lagoon (or Disneyland, or Legoland) just would not be complete without us getting completely drenched.
But, as kind as you were, you gave us 3 hours of dryness before the heavens let loose.
For this, we thank you.
And speaking of wet, thanks to you, we stood under the falls at Niagara. UNDER the falls. What a thrill!
And this time we were more than happy to be drenched.
Wet with Niagara Falls water?
Yes, we were more than okay with that.
You let us pretend we were Nephites (and Almas and Harvest Dancers and Harlots) on a stage on the side of the beautiful Hill Cumorah.
And while there, we got to hang out with our adorable niece (while she continues to serve her mission).
That was truly the bomb.
Palmyra.
The highlight of our summer.
Joy, for sure.
Of course, the highlight for Raegan was a little different.
Working as a Medical Coordinator in the Leprosy colonies in India, I think, would be her top choice.
Yes. Definitely.
Then there was the annual 24th of July celebration at the cabin in the glorious mountains of Utah.
Complete with our yearly hike.
Gorgeous.
Wouldn't be summer without that.
Oh, and Oma's potato salad.
You brought us the birthday swim party where 7 children just had So. Much. Fun. finding out who could scream the loudest (all at once) inside our echo-y pool room.
While mom sat and listened.
Which, you would think, would make her so happy to see the joy that brought those little ones.
Just really, really happy.
But it really didn't bring her as much joy as you would think. 
Thank you for the sound of the ice cream truck music that sends the kids scrambling for mom's wallet. ("You paid HOW much for that .10¢ popcicle?!")
Then there was Matthew and cousin Thomas deciding that baseball was their "new thing."
Thank you, Summer 2010, for allowing Matthew to actually hit the ball.
Once.
It made him feel like he was King of the World.
(I borrowed that line from my all-time favorite movie, btw.)
Oh, summer!
Joy at its finest!
The fishing trip to Alaska which rewarded us with 200 pounds (and a 6-year-supply) of King Salmon.
(And of course the new freezer we had to buy in which to keep the 200 pounds/6-year-supply of salmon.)
Then there were our visits to Opa (John's dad) at the care center while realizing that life is too short.
Too fragile.
Too unpredictable.
But then you gave us rainbows which remind us of a Power much higher than us. One who is in charge, Who has a plan.
One who loves us.
The true definition of pure joy.
And finally, stunning summer sunsets; the ones you can only find in Utah.
(And maybe India).

*Under Niagara Falls

(*No photoshop here! This is exactly how the sky looked. Srsly.)

Thank you, joyous summer of 2010, for three memorable months.

And welcome winter.  I'll try to love you, too.

But no promises.

a gift of love

As I was climbing into bed last night, I found this thoughtful little gift on my nightstand....



Homemade Lavendar Bath Salt, lovingly made by my adorable and sweet 15-year-old daughter Haylie. Attached was a note of admiration and love, on which she had beautifully written....

Dear Mother,

I thought I could give these bath salts to you, and maybe you will use them (although you never take baths!). I love you so much.

(Awwwww, I know what you are thinking..."Maryanne has raised the sweetest and most perfect child On. This. Earth!")

(Or maybe you are thinking..."Maryanne never takes baths?? Eww!")

(But wait! Hold your thoughts! It goes on!)

Thou art like a cherry blossom, newly blooming and fluttering in the Spring breeze, hither to a white-stained gazebo.

Love, Haylie


I have no idea what you are thinking now, because I have no idea what to think myself.

Other than...."What was this child smoking last night?!" (At Young Women's nonetheless!)

donny: my story

Several years ago, when we were living in Nebraska, I read in the Lincoln newspaper that Donny Osmond would be performing a special run of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in Salt Lake City. (Honestly, I have no idea why anyone thought people in Lincoln, Nebraska even cared that Donny Osmond was performing 3 states away.)
Anyhoo, I turned to John and said, "I'm going to Utah for this, you can come if you want but I am going." Being the supportive guy he is, he begrudgingly agreed to accompany me.

So, we flew out to Utah to see Donny. As Joseph. In a loincloth.

He was awesome and amazing and glorious and all that good stuff.

(FYI, the rumor is true. I couldn't sleep that night after the show. I had just seen:
Donny Osmond.
Live.
In. A. Loincloth.
People, do you understand me here?!)

Fast forward 12 years to July 2010. The place is the Hill Cumorah in Palmyra, New York and our family is there because we are in the pageant. As were were getting ready for the show one night, I kept over-hearing people saying "Donny Osmond this, and Donny Osmond that." I finally asked someone why everyone was talking about Donny. The answer was, "Oh! You don't know?! He's here. Tonight. In the audience."

*Instant meltdown*

Donny Osmond was here, in my presence. He was going to watch me (ME!) dance the "Wicked Jerusalem Harlot Dance" on a stage.

Oh sweet tender mercy.

Every night after our performance we would have a devotional that started at 11:05 p.m. (I know, :05? It's true.) I got thinking about the situation and I just had this gut feeling that Donny would come talk to us at our devotional. Of course he would....why would he NOT? He was in this pageant once. He used to be one of us. So I ran to the Study Shelter (a covered pavilion on the side of the Hill Cumorah where our devotionals were held) and I threw my backpack on the seats front and center.

Boy, am I smart.

Donny came to the devotional. And his wife and his youngest son. And he stood right in front of me (ME!). He talked to us for about 15 minutes. He was charming and handsome (although a leeetle bit into himself, but oh well!). He made eye contact with me (ME!) several times! I think I took 108 pictures* of him. I wonder how he felt having my big ol' camera right in his face clicking away while he spoke.

(Actually, I think he liked it.)

He finished speaking and the closing prayer was said. The very micro-second that the word "amen" was uttered, the entire cast and crew of over 600 people swarmed Donny, like a pack of ravenous wolves going in for the kill. I thought, "I don't care, I'll wait here all night if I have to, just to get my picture with him."

There I stood, watching him, thinking of all the glorious things that Donny and I were going to talk about; we would talk about how great he was on Dancing with the Stars (even though I never actually watched him on DWTS, I could tell him that I heard he was really good!). He would in turn tell me how great I danced on that Hill Cumorah stage and how my shimmies, undulations, and come-hithers were nothing less than the best shimmies, undulations, and come-hithers he had ever seen.

Oh yes, it would be a glorious conversation.

Me and Donny.

My thoughts were suddenly broken by the sound of my husband's voice, "Come on, let's go! Now's the perfect time to get out of the parking lot while everyone else is in here!"
Suddenly, my dreams of meeting Donny Osmond dropped like a half-ton chunk of lead and shattered violently on the concrete floor.

I replied, "But...but...I just want my picture with him."

John looked at me for a few seconds then said, "Well....you can have your picture taken with me."

How was I supposed to argue with that?

So we left. Right then and there. And I am okay with that. I am okay that I passed on the a chance-in-a-lifetime to meet THE Donny Osmond. My one and only chance. Ever. I left.
I left while everyone else in the pageant stayed and mingled with Donny, took pictures with him, laughed with him, and probably partied all night and had the time of their lives with him! I really am okay that I didn't get to do all that. Because, you know, we were able to drive right out of that parking lot without having to wait behind one. single. car.
And that's got to be worth....something.

I. AM. OKAY.

I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm..........




There was a kid on the front row who had no idea who Donny was. Had never heard of him. Here Donny is telling the young man to leave the room.


With his son and wife, Debbie, singing "The Song of Cumorah."


The hungry wolves.

* The statement that I took 108 photos of Donny Osmond is a slight exaggeration, used for dramatic purposes only. I didn't actually take 108 photos, it was less.

Or more.

dad's old glasses

Ever since I had a garage sale 2 weeks ago, I have been on a quest to purge and de-junk every. single. inch. of. my. house. Cleaning and organizing is a weird thing for me. It's like a drug. A good drug. I get this weird euphoria whenever I organize something. I imagine the feeling being something like druggies get when they smoke meth. Or whatever it is they do with meth.

(Meth probably isn't smoked, is it?)

(Oh wait! I just googled it...meth is indeed smoked!)

Anyhoo.

Last week, when I was purging my closet, I found John's old glasses. I think he wore these when we were dating/first married. Well, unbeknownst to me, the kids apparently got a hold of the glasses AND my camera, a discovery I made today when I got my camera out to take some pics. This is what I found on the card. . .










And Adam surely couldn't be left out of the fun. . .