Let us eat pie


Down to the wire tonight as I spent the entire day prepping for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving 2.0. Zack helped me with the pies and snagged this photo while I was quickly dotting the pecan pie with butter. I realized today that aside from adding Carina’s coconut cream pie to my repertoire a few years ago and finally last year discovering the value of a good brine, I’m generally content with the same recipes I’ve been using for years. If it ain’t broke, why fix it, right? This year I followed my friend Cafe Johnsonia’s advice and made a lovely turkey stock with which to make my stuffing and gravy for tomorrow. My entire house smelled SOOOOO good today while it simmered.

My new daughter-in-law, Emily, wanted to come learn to make pies today, but needed to study. So I promised her we would get together between Christmas and New Year’s and bake some pies. I want to try this Caramel Apple Pie I found in an ad for Organic Valley toward the end of this month’s Real Simple magazine. I think caramel is an addition to apple I can live with. And I think my dad, who was known for his love of pie, would have loved it.

As a side note: the other pie pictured here is my friend Sue Ostler’s Perfect Apple Pie. It is indeed perfect. It’s just been the past few years I have come to love apple pie. I think I was distracted growing up amidst all the berries and cherries. We lost Sue to breast cancer several years ago and I love carrying on her legacy by baking some of her best pies (see also, frozen cherry pie). While I was thinking of Sue it reminded me that Emily’s mother is also named Sue Ostler. I look forward to sharing some of Sue’s recipes with Emily. I think she’ll appreciate from whence they came.

Thanks again for sticking with me through Nablopomo this year. If I could, I’d invite each one of you to my house so we could sit down over a slice of pie and visit in person.

Happy Holidays!

When dreams come true

Well over twenty years ago when I started visiting my inlaws in The Basin, I recall having a strange dream. In it I heard my father-in-law and my mother-in-law discussing a cat. I’m near-deathly allergic to cats and there had been some discussion about putting the cat out when I came to stay (which is funny, really, because I’m not so much allergic to cats as to their dander, and their dander is on everything and remains long after one puts the cat out). In my dream I heard my mother-in-law tell my father-in-law that it when it came down to who got to stay it was simple:


Or the cat.

And my father-in-law replied,

“The cat.”

We all laughed about it then. And for years there was no cat inside the house. And I totally forgot about my silly dream.

Until I was so sick yesterday from the “new” cat. I’m not sure when this one showed up or from where. I just know it had been injured and the vet told my father-in-law to simply say goodbye. And the vet was wrong because the cat and it’s highly potent dander is just fine.

After I came home last night and washed any traces of dander out of my hair and from my skin and put on some clean pajamas and came to love breathing all over again I remembered the dream.

And my father-in-law’s response.

“The cat.”

Disclaimer: The above post, while true, is written complete tongue in cheek. Of course my inlaws are welcome to keep a cat if they want one. I have cats. And sometimes they sneak in. And if you gave some of my kids a choice (me or the cat), they might very well choose the cat as well. It’s all good. I just got a good giggle when I remembered my dream from forever ago. Now, if you want to know how I really feel–all kidding aside–hop on over to Segullah, where I waxed a little serious today.

Over the river and through the fog…I mean woods

This is a tale of the first Thanksgiving in ages when ALL the children came. And their spouses. And their children. And a few of their children’s children. The number varied, but we were right around 50, and when you count the guests that popped in and out, a good 60 or so dropped in.

This is only the driveway. There were cars along the street in front of the house, too. And since part of the family lives across the street, the cars don’t even begin to indicate how many people came.

the line outside

the human line

the line

the line inside

There were two brief moments of panic. One when my MIL said there was only one pumpkin pie, but that she had two frozen pumpkin pies she would bake. One homemade pumpkin pie does not go far amongst 50 plus. I offered to make pumpkin pies, even though I was in the middle of key lime and sour cream lemon. She said no. I began to convince myself that I could wait till I make pies on Saturday for a slice of homemade pumpkin. But then another SIL called and said she was baking pumpkin pies, so order was restored to my universe.

The second moment of panic was when I saw someone break out store-bought rolls. Not homemade and not even bakery (think Sally’s) bought rolls, but store-bought rolls. When I got to the food table and picked up my paper plate, my eyes fell on this feast and I could breathe again.


We gather and dine in the hogan my FIL built onto their house. It serves as a family room. The Rowleys certainly know how to put the “family” in family room.
photo courtesy of Zack Rowley


the right insides

Not pictured: The main table. It’s an eight-sided table my FIL built in the early years. The eight sides correspond with the 8 sides of the hogan. They match, you see? That table was full, too. All in all, it was cozy and a good crowd. We are blessed and for that I am most grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

p.s. Remind me tomorrow to tell you tomorrow about the dream I had about a cat decades ago and how it came true this trip.

You CAN fight city hall


Last fall while my mother and my mother-in-law were both undergoing cancer treatments and I was working like crazy at my former company to integrate acquired accounts after the partial buy-out of another company, things fell apart at home. I was relieved that most of my bills were paid online because the last thing I was thinking about was the incoming mail, most of which is junk. So it wasn’t until three days after the deadline to appeal that I took a minute to look at my property taxes and realized that the county had assessed some $25,000 of “improvements” onto the value of my home and that my taxes went up over 33%. While I wish we had been able to afford $25,000 of improvements on our aging home, the tax increase hit us hard and completely ate up the savings we’d just established on our mortgage after a refi just months before. It hit us doubly hard when I realized that the automatic payments I had set up through my bank were not adequate, which I didn’t realize until we were assessed a whole mess of late fees because instead of at least making partial payments towards our mortgage with the inadequate payments, the mortgage company just kept shuffling our mortgage payments into a separate fund for “undetermined funds.” Whatever.

I tried to appeal anyway was was met with a goose chase and no sympathy from the county assessors office. I thought about all the people who are arbitrarily hit with similarly unjustified tax increases but don’t know how to fight back. I thought how the government should have to justify such unjustified tax increases rather than putting the burden of proof on the homeowner. And I contacted my state senator, who, though we no longer see eye to eye politically, has always been respectful and responsive. She gave me an email of a VIP at the county and I emailed him. No response. I emailed him again. No response. I emailed him a third time. No response.

Figuring I just had to hold my peace until I could fight city hall, or, as it were, the county assessor, I coughed up the hundreds of extra dollars and waited until this fall. At which time I contacted a friend of mine who is in the know about these things and had her do some comps for me. And I took my appeal to the county. I noticed upon second look that an adjustment had been made, so the VIP must have at least received and acted upon my emails even though he never bothered to respond. But the adjustment was not entirely adequate and I figured the county had robbed me of a good $400+ last year, so I did not want to give them another extra penny.

The significance of the county’s response, another adjustment lowering my property value to the amount determined by the comps, wasn’t fully realized until I got an escrow account disclosure statement yesterday. I knew property taxes were going up this year anyway, but I still figured my mortgage should go down. Yet I failed to anticipate there would be a surplus this year already once my taxes were paid this month and that my mortgage company would be sending me a reimbursement check.

Oh happy day. The timing couldn’t be better, as December hits us hard and we generally only recover in time to be hit hard again come April 15th.

And this is why you can, and you should, fight city hall. Or at least the county assessor.

working lunch

Some of the old gang gathered for lunch today. My former boss, a former coworker who is now a current coworker in my new job, and another of our former coworkers. The one who made it big. Back in the day we were in at the beginning of something unusual and special. Transitioning a 100-year-old company into the digital age. (Oddly enough, at the same time I–a 17-year SAHM–was transitioning into the digital age.) Aside from my boss, who started at the company right out of high school and is now the brains and the heart of the business as well as a top-level executive too humble to accept a title along with her responsibilities, the rest of us came on as temps.

I was in the second training group, and I almost quit, on principle, during the first week of training. But a voice in my heart, the same voice that told me to apply to the rather vague help-wanted ad in the first place, told me to stop mid sentence. Within just a couple of months of getting hired, our temp jobs turned more permanent and one by one the three of us coworkers became supervisors. The other two, along with most of our crew, were college-age kids. I know they saw me as the old lady, but one of the secrets of growing older is that you are merely the sum of all the ages you used to be. So from my point of view I was just another kid.

All the players in this story are private and would prefer their names be kept out of it, and I’m not inclined to make up pseudonyms, so let’s just say the first one of the group to become a supervisor and I did not see eye to eye. In fact, we bumped heads, locked antlers, what have you. We did not even pretend to like each other. As my supervisor, he critiqued my work one day. The next day, I went back to him and successfully argued every point of the four points he questioned. Our respect for one another grew. Looking back, I believe one of the reasons we were so successful at what we did is because the culture created in our budding department encouraged this kind of give and take. It can be a little awkward at first, but it helps you grow.

I was made supervisor in the next round. I hadn’t been there but four months. Within a couple of weeks of being made supervisor, with a total of four responsibilities on the list of my new job responsibilities, the company moved an entire department’s work to our office. And we grew some more. Our other friend, the one with whom I again work only for a different company, became a supervisor shortly after. We worked hard. Worked hard to build a new department and worked hard to build bridges with other teams within the company who’d once seen themselves as adversaries. To this day, those are some of the people I miss the most at that company, even though I’ve never met any of them face-to-face.

The four of us–our boss and the three of us supervisors–became good friends. Like family. For me at least, that feeling of family extended to a good number of our coworkers. I drove one of the girls to the hospital when her husband was injured in an industrial accident. I drove a few people home when they were sick or without a ride. I drove another kid home when he was just having a really bad no good awful day. But the bond was closest among us four.

Most of the students moved on to bigger and better things once they graduated. I already had my degree, but like what I was doing, loved the people I was doing it with, and liked the way the flexibility my job allowed let me maintain my family as my first priority. Almost every year the one who made it big (I’d love to tell you how big, but then he’d have to kill me–I’m only mostly kidding about that) comes “home” for the holidays and we meet for lunch. We meet at the Olive Garden. Which is funny, really. He travels all over the world and Italy is his second favorite place. So he knows better, but picks it anyway.

Almost every time he says that of all the places he’s worked, he loves our team the best. It was the best of times. Today we finally articulated for the first time just how special it was. It never made headlines. The company didn’t go public. We didn’t get paid the big bucks. But it was special and amazing and wonderful nonetheless. I credit my boss mostly, for not micromanaging and for giving us the space and the autonomy to discover and develop our respective talents. It made us better individuals and it made us a better team.

give us this day our daily bread

As some of you may know, I’ve been baking pies since I was a teenager. Give me some decent flour (I’ve had some difficult flour to work with a time or two) and I can almost make pie crust in my sleep. I actually have made pie crust in the dark before (I’d link you to the post wherein I explain how we taught the Activity Day girls how to make pies during a power outage, but remember when my blog died? It never got fully restored). In any case, yes, pies are good and all that, but I truly stink at bread making. I have a couple of recipes that turn out ok, but I’ve always wanted to arrive at ohmygoshthisisdeliciousmayIhavetherecipe.

Enter Zack, who told me a few weeks back he wanted to learn how to make artisan bread. I wanted to learn how to make artisan bread too, so I was up for it. So we splurged on some King Arthur flour and tackled this recipe. We learned a few things the hard way. Zack did most of the work, but I advised when necessary and had his back when his hands were elbow deep in sticky bread dough. And look at the results! He make several baguettes and one stuffed baguette and it was all delicious. Crisp on the outside, perfectly soft on the inside. I’m pretty impresses.

stuff baguette


Mindbending tacos

tacos without rulesI’m kind of fond of places that use rules loosely

A couple of weekends ago I was out of town with Lindsay when I got a random text from Zack:

Zack: Have you been to 180 Tacos?

Me: No.

Zack: One of the best places I’ve ever eaten.

The conversation continued when I got back in town the next day, because Zack was still raving about that meal. He went there with one of his former mission companions, Dave. In the past the three of us have enjoyed talking about good places to eat around town when I had a great time introducing them to a couple of new places that popped up while they were serving in England. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Dave–maybe almost a year even. Zack told me today that the funniest part was when Dave pulled up to meet him at 180 tacos the first thing Dave said,

Why didn’t you bring your mom?

I love that.

So today when I was picking Zack up to come hang out with us for the day (he does that, isn’t that fun?), I mentioned I was hungry and he asked if I wanted to go to 180 Tacos. I did. We got there early, which was great, because Zack said it’s usually really busy. It was good because I had time to take a look at the menu and figure out where to start. The menu is organized by a handful of different “genres” of tacos, if you will. I decided to go for one of each. (They’re street tacos, so plan on trying at least 3.) You have your choice of corn or flour tortillas. Then you choose which of about three different tacos per genre. I chose the steak asada, the chile orange shrimp, and the mojo roasted pork. As I placed my order I was already thinking about which ones I want to try next (the answer is you always get at least one chile orange shrimp and I really, really want to try the salted cod fritters). Oh, and when they ask you what you want on your taco, the answer is always, “Everything.”

The service was friendly and quick. Everything about this place is simply all about the food, and I can live with that. Because the tacos I tried were delicious in every way. The ingredients are fresh. The flavors and simple. The variety and mix of flavors is original and, well, mindbending. And you should go eat at 180tacos.

tacosTop to bottom: steak asada, chile orange shrimp, roasted pork mojo

Thanks Zack!

It’s about that time

spiral jetty

You know. Time for my annual giveaway for the dear and faithful readers who bear with me through Nablopoblahblahblah. I just tried a new scent tonight. Gingerbread. That one won’t be ready for four weeks, but I think I’m in love. In the past couple of weeks I’ve also made Applejack Peel, Pumpkin, Green Tea Lemongrass (with a pomegranate kick), Peppermint, and Winter Grapefruit.

In any case, you know the drill. Leave me a comment for the chance to win two bars of my homemade soap. You have till Midnight on Monday, November 25th.


On becoming a dementor

A friend of mine is dealing with the beginnings of dementia in one of her parents. My experience with dementia is limited to brief periods of dementia in both of my grandparents. My grandfather’s was fairly constant but it was only shortly before he passed away. Disturbing nonetheless. My grandmother’s seemed to come and go depending on how well her health was. It was still unsettling when she was confused or somewhere else, but at least she always knew who I was. I don’t know much about the medical condition, just that the thought of it puts fear in my heart. I’ve had friends who’ve taken their parents in only to have to deal with their parents, who are not at all themselves, treat my friends’ children horribly. The heartbreak in this aside from the hurting kids, is knowing that hurting children is the last thing the aging grandparents would want to do.

My heart has been heavy with sorry and worry for my friend and her mother, for I love her mother, too. And I’ve been mindful of the challenges and complexity inherent in caring for aging parents. Because every time you see it you know it’s what’s around the corner for you–becoming old and ill and crazy and having your kids perplexed over how best to care for you, most likely when you’re still holding desperately on to the delusion that you’re perfectly fine. My memory has never been particularly sound, so I’ve always been afraid of becoming demented (because when I do, if I’m aware at all of what’s happening to me, that’s what I’m going to call it).

So I was rather startled the other day when a sister working in the temple gently grabbed my arm and said to me, “Don’t ever get dementia.”