soup du jour, a la teri.

This may be the best soup I have ever created, and while my children say I should hoard the recipe as some kind of clandestine concoction, I'm sharing it, and I think you'll love me for it. Keep in mind that all amounts and processes are approximate, as I was all about the flow-of-gastronomical-consciousness on this one.

Sweet Potato Chowder with Bacon and Leeks

3 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1/2 lb. bacon, chopped
1 leek, sliced fairly thinly (1/4"ish)
1/4 c. white cooking wine
4-5 lg. sweet potatoes or yams
2-3 c. water
4 c. milk (whole milk is, like, yummy)
1 pt. heavy whipping cream
flour, mixed in water, to thicken (about 1/4-1/2 c. of flour)
salt & fresh ground pepper to taste
1/4 tsp fresh ground nutmeg
1 bunch green onions, chopped (or sliced, however you look at it)
1/4-1/2 c. tequila
1/2-1 c. romano cheese, grated

Okay, so you saute your bacon and leeks in the vegetable oil in a decently-sized soup pot, and throw in some white cooking wine. Cook over fairly med-highish heat until the yummy caramelly thing starts happening, then remove everything and throw it in a bowl for later.

Cube up your sweet potatoes, add that and the water back into the pot, and cook on high until the sweet potatoes start to be tender; add the milk and whipping cream, and bring it back to a simmer, then add in the flour/water mixture, salt and pepper and nutmeg. When that all starts to thicken up and bubble oh-so-deliciously, toss back in your bacon-n-leeks mixture and the green onions, and then throw in some tequila and let the alcohol cook off. Add the romano cheese, give it all one last good stir, and throw in some more tequila just for good measure. ;) Serve to the hungry masses, who have been drooling at the smells since the bacon first hit the pot.

Serves about 10 as a lunch soup or more for a course, of course.

my side of the mountain: in which i fail to climb a 14er

I promised to post about our illustrious adventure up the slopes of Gray's Peak and Torrey's Peak in northern Colorado last weekend, or at least about the performance of my aforementioned cheap clothing layers.

On the climbing end of things, the story doesn't go so well; the kids mostly freaked out within the first quarter mile, we had some altitude sickness going on, and we turned around, the only people actually heading down the trail at 6 o'clock in the morning. Humiliating? Yeah, but you can always blame it on the kids, right?

Sunday morning, Christopher, Ben, and Isaac redoubled their efforts and started out on the trail once again, and this time made it all the way up Gray's Peak and down again--quite an accomplishment for all of them, but especially Ben and Isaac, Ben having now summited two 14ers in a month's time, and Isaac having successfully summited his first before his seventh birthday.

But I digress about all that. I'm here to talk about layers! We camped at about 11,000 feet in late September and somehow managed to not freeze--in fact, we stayed pretty comfortable most of the time! I attribute this to 1) a kick-butt sleeping bag 2) a little Coleman Black Cat tent heater and 3) our layers-on-the-cheap. Even the guys, who experienced cutting winds and even some snow at the top of Gray's, said that they stayed pretty comfortable on their trek, thanks to their Target layers, their Wal-Mart fleece gloves and headwraps, and their Smartwool socks. Apparantly, at 14,000 feet, those neat little air-activated hand warmers don't do much (no air up there?), so it was definately the clothing that did the trick.

Down at base camp, the remainder of the kids and I broke camp and packed everything up in the face of some pretty gnarly winds, but still managed to keep toasty in our wicking base layers, fleecy mid-layers, and wind-and water-resistant top layers. Of course, the hardest part is always crawling out of the warm sanctuary of the sleeping bag, but the shock was mostly absorbed by having good clothes to put on immediately, so we were happy campers.

Uhh, pardon the pun, but you knew that was coming, didn't you?

--Teri.

layers on the cheap

When I started this blog, I promised to mix it up a little and include posts on all kinds of stuff. Lately, I've been drawn to the deeper waters, posting mostly on movies and my own mental muddiness, and I've realized that the deep waters are usually the coldest, and sometimes not the most friendly.

So I thought I'd write about clothes shopping, instead.

My family came up with the wonderful idea this summer to hike our first 14er (14,000-foot mountain, for those flatlanders among you), and then the summer suddenly just melted away. Now we find ourselves swirling about in the eddies of autumn and wondering if we can still pull it off, now that the weather will be significantly cooler, and I seem to be the only member of the family who actually has any concerns about not freezing to death. Hey, I attended a ladies' camping workshop at REI, and I know what's up! I know that it's a sheer miracle that mankind has managed to survive this long without wicking layers, and that, if you don't have your fleece in the middle, and water-and-wind-proof breathability on the outside, you're as good as dead. I know that you have to have Smartwool socks or your feet will die of hypothermia, and then frostbite, all at 45 degrees!

I also unfortunately know how much this thinking costs, and it hurts. I've been drooling over the *perfect* jacket at REI for a couple of weeks now that would set me back 200 smackaroos, and ruminating over the cost of layering up in true mountaineering style. It would probably be well over $1000, just for me. There are seven of us. And this is one mountain (maybe two) we're talking about. And 5 of us are growing, fast. Well, make that 7 of us, if you count my belly and its little inhabitant (which you really do have to take into account, especially when all these spiffy layers have to zip up over an expanding waistline).

So my natural inclination is to try and chinch, but not too much, because that's always disastrous--you do, after all, get what you pay for. I searched WallyWorld, Ross, REI's clearance rack, all the usual haunts, and came up pretty much empty-handed. But then I turned to Target, and was delighted to find a great variety of stuff: not only a wicking, long-sleeved base layer, but one that even has compression! Base layer pants that keep the moisture away from the skin; a mid-layer fleece jacket to add more insulation and moisture control; a water- and wind-resistant top layer jacket to round it all out. Now, I don't get the prestige of wearing around the REI or North Face or (gasp!) Arcteryx label, and I might not get quite the performance out of this gear that I would had I spent gads and gads of cash, but I can tell you that, for about $150, I got pretty much the entire shebang, plus some other camping gear and quite a bit of layering for a couple of the kids...not bad!

I'll let you know how this all works out after we get back from the weekend excursion up the long slope above timberline.
--Teri.

the boy in the striped pajamas

Some films are like riding in a roller coaster: you pay your money, settle in, and you get some excitement and ya-yas.

Some films are like riding in your car: you know where you're going, you can predict a happy ending, you don't have to think too hard, everyone's happy.

Some films are like having triple bypass surgery in the back of a moving ambulance: you have no idea how it's going to turn out, it's scary, it's hard, it's bloody, and it's necessary.

We watched The Boy in the Striped Pajamas a few nights ago, naively thinking that a Holocaust story involving children might have a just-in-time happy ending. We forgot temporarily that the Holocaust itself didn't get to have one of those nice tidy endings, and for a few moments after the end credits began to roll, I felt sort of ripped off, like Hollywood had cheated us out of a good time with this realism nonsense.

How myopic I sometimes am.

--Teri.

underthinkers anonymous

I think I finally got my fill of idiotic responses last night while trying to contribute a tidbit of perspective to someone's sentimental but not very well thought-out battle anthem for standardized healthcare in America. The original phrase went something like 'No one should die because they cannot afford healthcare, and no one should go broke because they get sick.' In other words, 'The government should pay for our healthcare, and the government should pay for our healthcare.' Which sounds nice. Really nice, especially for people who have health problems and are uninsured and are having a tough time paying for it. I get that. And I'll even qualify that by saying that my family constitutes a few of those 'millions of uninsured Americans' who can't afford 'decent' healthcare, and yeah, it's frustrating and insecure.

But really, at its core, that statement is oversimplified. People hear the siren song of free something-or-other and somehow forget that there is always a price to be paid. And the bigger the sugar cube we think we're getting, the bigger the pricetag. So I commented on this, that we need to remember that, for all the media hype about how wonderful universal healthcare is, I hear stories from our neighbors in the north that you have to be prepared to wait up to 2 years for things like major surgeries. Two years! That's a price to be paid. And I'm not even talking about the taxes, just the logistics.

So some other person wrote in with the stereotypical, "Wow, I guess these people want people to die and go broke! I thought the debate was a lot simpler than that!" Now, normally, I would calmly try to further elucidate my point, which I believe is valid to the discussion, but last night I just snapped instead, and whipped back, "Yep, I'm all into death and poverty, can't you tell? Good grief." Which is not a very diplomatic approach to a debate, to be sure, but really, how sad is it that people get so attached to what they underthink will be the cure-all for a bad situation that they cannot intelligently discuss factors they hadn't considered?

Now, I realize that some of you reading this may be proponents of Obama's healthcare plan, and for those of you that are, I can understand your reasons, and I respect that--a lot. I'm not presuming to hold a corner on the facts in this very heated debate, and I understand that there's a lot to consider. Maybe universal healthcare is a great idea, and maybe it's a terrible one. Maybe it's just so-so. Maybe it'll work, and maybe it won't, and maybe it will just sorta work. Our system as it stands is certainly broken and in need of major overhaul, so don't assume that what Obama says of conservatives is true, that we just want to keep things the way they are.

But please, please, oh, pretty please, whatever your leaning, don't underthink the issue and become the voices of a million clanging cymbals not saying anything at all. There will always be heated debate about every political, moral, and social issue there is, but that never, never, never makes one side stupid because they disagree or have something dissenting to factor into the conversation. Have we lost the ability for civil discourse entirely?

--Teri.

goya's ghosts

It's not too often that I watch a film, and the first descriptor that comes to mind afterwards is "completely unnecessary", and the second is, " ridiculously superfluous", and the third is, "no, just ridiculous".

Netflix billed Goya's Ghosts as "the epic true story..." of Francisco Goya, the Spanish Inquisition, and the French Revolution. So we watched it, thinking we'd get a nice glimpse of a Spanish artist whose work was previously unknown to me, as well as a couple of intriguing events in Spain's history that I could use a little more information on. I really need to research movies before I watch them from now on.

The movie centers around Francisco Goya, the famous Spanish painter, and his connection to Ines, a young woman whose portrait he has painted and who is in deep trouble with the Spanish Inquisition for failing to nosh on a piece of pork at a dinner party. She is branded a Judaizer and a heretic, tortured, and thrown in prison for 15 years. Goya's role is to forget all about her for all that time and then try to help her at the end, the old 'too-little-too-late' thing. By this time, the French Revolution has reached Spain, a power struggle ensues, Ines is let out of prison and seeks the help of Goya to find the daughter she bore while in prison, etc. etc. The end of the film finds Ines pretty much insane, her ex-priest rapist dead, and Goya following lamely along as she walks with the death-cart along the streets of Madrid with somebody else's baby in her arms. Close curtain.

Okay, so what do you do at the end of an obtuse film like that? Why, you go to Wikipedia, that's what you do! You think, "This can't be the end of it--that's not even right!" You think, "Is this for real? What a weird story!" And so you begin to dig. And you find out that this movie is in fact bastardized historical fiction and bears no resemblence to any real events at all! You find out there was no Ines, no trouble with the Inquisition, no cross-mingling with the Revolution.

What you find out is that some sad little movie executive sat in the middle of his idea vacuum one day, when suddenly someone walked in with a preposterous idea for another Hollywood fricassee of history, and he just went for it. They must have figured that if they threw Natalie Portman in with all the no-name actors with schizophrenic Spanish accents, they'd have a sure thing on their hands.

I'll always maintain that the real victim of Y2K wasn't the tech industry at all--it was the movie industry. Evidently, on December 31, 1999, at 11:59 pm, Hollywood ran out of good movie ideas.
--Teri.

the tenuous threads of faith

Ever so often (actually, much more often than I'm really comfortable with), I start a long and convoluted circle of thought about my faith. It starts out as a simple question what I actually believe. Then it gets a little deeper and into the less easily-answered questions about why I believe those things and what the rest of the world believes. Before I know it, I'm in up to my ear lobes in the mirey ponderances about the nature of faith itself in relation to my experience. And it gets very confusing, yet always draws me back ultimately to the very first question, and maybe this is why I start over and over again. It goes something like this:

"Okay, so why do I believe Christianity is all that, anyway?" (This leads to some preliminary and sometimes vague rumination on historicity, bibliographical evidence, the nature of man, et cetera. Okay, deeper we go now...)

"So what about Islam? Judaism? Hinduism? Taoism? Agnosticism? Aren't there some great Muslim apologists with air-tight cases for their faith?" (This gets more difficult to answer in my own headspace, but I can still track with some basic facts of history to provide some insight on the origins and underpinnings of these other religions. On to the murkies...)

"In my own experience, what has flavored my view of religion and of the nature of God?" (This is where I get hopelessly muddled in how my culture, my emotional wounds, my exposure to media, my geographical locale, my relationships, my education, my philosophical leanings, even the food I eat has influenced how I view faith and my relationship to God. At this point, I generally throw my intellectual hands up in dispair and figure that it's all impossible to parse out.)

And then I'm back at square one the next time, determined to someday complete (or break) that circle and get to the inside of what drives and informs this sometimes misunderstood faith of mine.

Was religion meant to be this hard-thought upon?

--Teri.

let the craving begin

Sushi...for breakfast. (Hold the wasabi. No, wait. Gimme that wasabi! Ugh--I HATE wasabi! Where's the wasabi??)

McDouble in the afternoon (just one).

Cheese pizza for dinner.

Brownies.

Tartar sauce at bedtime.

Why does Starbucks close so dang early?

This was day one of the cravings. Pray for my husband.

--Teri.

thoughts from afar

I dropped a bombshell on Facebook this afternoon, confessing that I've finally come to terms with the fact that I've been involved in a very intimate long distance relationship for a very, very long time.

We'll see if I get any turned heads.

Who is it? What is his name? Does Christopher know?? Well, yeah, Christopher knows. And I'm pretty sure he's happy for me. I talk about this relationship all the time with him, in fact, even when things feel a little rocky and I'm not sure that both sides of the relationship are working out.

It's not too hard to guess that my distal infatuation is with, in fact, the God of the universe. It just struck me finally this morning that my relationship with Him is so like a long-distance romantic relationship, always longing for more, never spending enough quality time together, worrying that something is wrong, interpreting and misinterpreting silences, always giddy over the next encounter.

Maybe this makes it a little easier to wrap my mind around the intangibility of my faith and the awkwardness of not having a sense of solid presence of God in my life all the time.
--Teri.

the two trees

Just thinking on this poem by William Butler Yeats today...

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart;
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody;
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the winged sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the winged sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

--Teri.