My Grown Up Hut

Ours was maybe the fourth or fifth house to be built on Littler Road in Sandy. When my family moved there in 1984, construction consumed the entire block. The lot next to our house was empty for years, and sometimes builders would toss their extra lumber and bricks over there.

I don’t remember when my sister Lisa and I first ventured to the empty lot next door, but at one point we walked over, picked up some wood and began “building” a hut. And then we decided to each build our own hut. Then we invited our cousin Liz over and she built a hut. We mapped out our territory; tapped into our inherent “gatherer” instincts and claimed lumber, rocks, bricks and whatever else we could find to make the space our own.

We created quite the community for ourselves. A common area served as an ampitheatre for town meetings and performances. The stage was made up of a large campaign sign for Steve Newton who ran for mayor or something. We might’ve even kept a piggy bank to pool our pennies to buy candy for a future occasion. We established a “rock store” where we could grab a rock or two during the construction of our huts. We called it the “Snooty Snotty Snyder Rock Store” (even at a young age we appreciated alliteration). The empty lot separated our house from the Snyders. I don’t remember why we didn’t like them. Lisa says it’s because they wouldn’t talk to us.

Our huts were designed for entertaining. We each had a central “fireplace” made of broken bricks. The bricks formed a circle surrounding twigs meant for a fire that we of course never made. And around the fireplace sat large rocks suitable for seating an appropriate number of guests.

We spent hours working on our huts. No hammering of nails took place; we just laid out boards where we wanted walls to be. We did dig and rake a lot. I remember digging in the dirt with a shovel to even out my little plot. It was hard work because that ground was chock-full of rocks. Every time one of us hit a rock we made an announcement to the others: “Wow, I hit a big one!” we’d call each other over to admire our new discovery and then to the rock store it would go.

The terrain was uneven and sagebrush sometimes got in the way of where we wanted a wall to be, but we worked with it. Once the huts were complete there wasn’t much to do besides remodel. We spent a lot of time visiting each others' hut and we held town meetings about ambitious projects that would never come to pass.

We called it “Sageville” and it was our home next door to home.

I don’t remember who it was that told me sagebrush could be brewed into tea. I had no interest in trying it, but the idea that Sageville produced a natural resource that could sustain its citizens pleased me.

Looking back I can see a quality in myself that carried through as I’ve grown older: my neurotic need to make things look pretty and establish order and cleanliness. I kept a garden rake out in my hut (much to my parent’s displeasure) because I liked the marks the rake left on the dirt when it was evened out and freshly turned. And if Dad was ever missing his little whisk broom, it’s because I had it in my hut to sweep dirt and gravel off the wood and rocks. I never kept my bedroom that clean, but my hut…that space was perfect, because even though I had the luxury of my own bedroom, somehow my hut was more…mine.

It’s interesting how kids have a need to delve into their imagination and create a world where they are independent – a world untouched by adult influence.

Years later more houses filled in empty lots, and eventually our huts were replaced by a real house. I might still have some toys or candy buried out there, who knows.

Even though my hut is gone, my desire to create personal spaces and craft something out of nothing remains. I still want some of the same things:

I want to create a beautiful space.
I want to take pride in producing something on my own.
I want to care for and tend to something that needs me.

So I built another hut:

This 4 x 4 square is not just dirt surrounded by lumber. In a few months it will be beautiful with colorful and wholesome fruits, vegetables, and herbs (now that I’m older and truly independent, I demand a return on my time and investment).

See how neat and tidy it is? The guy who came up with the square foot gardening system is even more neurotic than I am when it comes to clean lines and precision.

My plot is part of Wasatch Community Gardens, where I share a space with other gardeners.

We even have a common area where we hold important meetings about drip irrigation and stuff:


And not much different from the Snooty Snotty Snyder Rock Store, we keep a shed of tools that we share to maintain our gardens.


The produce I harvest from my new community will sustain me far better than a cup of tea from Sageville. Of course, if I want sage tea here I’ll have to grow the sage myself.

On Reading My Subconscious

One of the many reasons I love having Annie around...

Me:

Annie? Were you just singing "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead"?

Annie:

No.

Me:

Then why do I have that song in my head?

Annie:

Because ten minutes ago you got a text message and your phone went "Ding Dong"

Going on Twenty...

If you're wondering why this parking validation is laminated, read on.

I've had this validation for almost twenty years. Don't believe me? See image of the back of the card below:

To say that I have had it for almost twenty years is only half true because my dad has had it as well. We take turns having it -- or not having it. It all started the night he got it after parking at the Lion House for my cousin's wedding reception. Which cousin? I'm not sure. Any of you guys read this? Who got married on May 8, 1991? My guess is Michael.

I remember Dad handed it to me to keep track of, and I said, "No, I don't want it. You take it." And he said, "Lar...hold onto this" and I was like, "No, you." Not in a bratty way. It was all very playful. Trust me.

To make the LONG story extremely short...we've been trading it back and forth for the past twenty years. We've stuck it in sock drawers, pockets, etc. Some exchanges have been more extravagant than others. I remember two in particular:

I was in 8th grade. I was in choir class when someone delivered an envelope to Mr. Farley. He said, "Laura, this is for you." It was BYU stationary. I was a little startled, "What does BYU want with me?" I thought. "Did I do something extraordinary? Am I invited to something?" I opened the envelope with a little anxiety until this little validation fell out. Nice one.

Naturally, I had to return it to him somehow. My dad sang in the Tabernacle Choir at the time and my 7th grade English teacher also sang in the MoTab. I had an idea. I went to Mrs. Christensen's classroom and asked her to do me a favor by putting the card in his "box" where the choir members pick up their music before rehearsal. Apparently when she got there, he had already picked up his music, so instead (this is even better), she went to the row where he was sitting, handed it to the guy at the end and said, "Will you pass this down to Tom?" So I bet having this card passed down in the Tabernacle from baritone to baritone (is that what part Dad sings?) was pretty unexpected. I was proud of that one.

At what point this card was laminated, I'm not sure. I think he mailed it to me from some foreign country when he was gone on choir business or work business and it was laminated. Good thing. It would have been totally trashed by now.

The last time I gave it to him was last May when I stayed with him and my mom in London. Right before I flew out, I stuck it in his New English Hymnal which he referred to frequently.

I forgot about it until I pulled these cherry tomatoes from my fridge tonight to make a salad. He must have slipped the card in the baggie I had in their fridge the night before (I was instructed to bring a salad for Easter dinner). Yes, if I have 4 tomatoes leftover I will bring them home.

I don't remember seeing it in there when I threw the ziploc baggie in my "to go home" bag. Well played Dad. Well played.

Praise the Digital Age! i.e. I am cuter now than I was 10 years ago.

In preparation for a yet to be published blog post, I was looking through ALL my old photographs Sunday afternoon. I found myself laughing out loud as I saw this sequence of pictures from 1995 when Lisa and I went to live with our parents in London.

I like to call this series: “Could Lisa be more bored?”


In all fairness, I don’t look too thrilled in this one either.

This one isn’t in London; it’s just on a family road trip. My guess is the South Dakota road trip. I can’t tell you where we are exactly, but I can tell you Dad made us stop because there was a plaque for him to read.

I also found this other picture that cracked me up because my roommate Mandi and I had a conversation earlier about how I don’t think I’m photogenic. I don’t think I’m a dumpy girl or anything, but the camera is not always my friend. Every now and then I’ll get lucky, and those are the pictures you see of me on Facebook, in my photo albums, etc.

This picture, however...I don’t know how the camera did it, but it made me look like I weighed 200 pounds. I mean, I have lost weight since college, but boy. I do not remember looking like that. I went to visit Ilene in Idaho last year (she’s the one on the ground) and we looked through old college photos and laughed as we agreed it’s no wonder we didn’t attract many suitors in college.

How I love the digital age so I can edit before anything is printed! I'll admit, I love that I kept this horrible, horrible photo.

Farewell Seychelles

I've noticed articles of clothing that come into your life are often analogous to the people that come into your life. You never can truly predict what/who is going to stick around, what/who you're going to adore and end up sharing just about every day with. They often grow on you, or prove to be more compatible with you than you ever imagined.

You might see a cute pair of wedges at Nordstrom and think, "There's something about those I like. Are they me? I don't know. They really don't have much in common with my wardrobe. They'll stand out. Will I really be able to put them to use? Well, they're on sale. I'm going to give them a try."

And then you do and you wear them more than you ever thought you could. In fact you start buying things to go with those wedges because you love them so much -- those wedges are an essential part of any clothing purchase you make from there on out because that's how much you've grown to love them.

And so it was with my maroon Seychelles. The first wedges I ever owned -- and the first non black, brown or gray shoes I ever owned, really. They were cute, stylish; they made me appear taller than I actually was. I was surprised at how comfortable I was in them. Not just comfortable with how I looked, but with how I felt. I could walk and walk in them and my feet didn't resent me for it. In the beginning I kept it simple. I wore them with black pants, jeans and a white tee shirt, but then...then I got a little crazy (maybe a little lazy) and just put them on regardless of what other color I was wearing...and you know what? Miraculously it worked. It was as if all my clothes bowed to the dominance of the Seychelles and adjusted to make it work. The shoes had that kind of power. I never imagined how much value I would end up getting out of our years together (I'm actually wearing them in my blogger profile photo where I'm in Roman dancer pose).

But, alas...our time has come to an end. I blame myself. I was so anxious to begin our relationship that I didn't take any kind of cautionary measures to protect them from the elements. They were real leather, yet I didn't bother waterproofing them. I remember that first fateful morning when I wore them to work and then ran in the rain to get into my building. I knew I made a mistake.

That actually wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was a little over a year ago when I was in New York and as soon as I stepped outside after a night at the ballet, the downpour soaked my shoes and my feet inside my shoes as I ran a block to the nearest Starbucks for shelter. I think that was the turning point. That was when the soles began to warp. They dried and curled and hardened to a point where they no longer stayed put and they poked my heel when I walked in them. Yes, that was the turning point, but the tipping point was when I stepped in mud. As you can see from the picture, I didn't even try to wash it off. I knew it was time to let them go.

Farewell Seychelles.

Last Saturday afternoon I was at Macy's. I love shoes, but I don't buy them nearly as often as your average girl. In fact, I have more stories about how I almost bought something but ended up not. I would say I buy about 30% of the items I actually want to buy (although there's a jacket at Ann Taylor Loft that I must have. I'm more weak when it comes to jackets than shoes, believe it or not).

Anyway, I stopped in Macy's shoe department. I don't know what I was looking for. I rarely find anything good when I'm looking for something specific. And then these darlings caught my eye:

They're purple. Much like the maroon wedges that seduced me about four years ago, these purple wedges begged for me to give them a chance. Do I wear a lot of purple? No. Me, being the practical purchaser began to mentally inventory my wardrobe. My rule is I have to have at least three outfits that I can wear these shoes with to make them a wise investment. Fortunately, I'm a little boring and wear a lot of black and any color goes with black. I was still feeling insecure so I picture messaged three trustworthy advisers. Only two responded, but because I am my own Chief Executive Outfitter I made the decision to make the purchase.

They're a mid-height wedge. They're comfortable, they're simple, and now they're mine. Please don't judge me for buying something with Jessica Simpson's name on it.

Kids Meals

I just got back from the Red Iguana and I feel a little sick. Not that I don’t like the Red Iguana, it’s just twice as much food as I’m used to eating.

I ordered the bean and cheese burritos smothered in mole negro and I had no idea the burritos were going to be that big. At least I have lunch for tomorrow.

So here’s what I’m thinking. I would like most restaurants to offer half portions at half the price. I know it’s never going to happen, I understand how the restaurant is getting more money out of giving us more food for a bigger price rather than half that amount of food for half the price. But I’m a little person and I don’t eat that much!

Lately I’ve been a big fan of kids meals. Not because I’m partial to macaroni, chicken fingers, grilled cheese sandwiches and quesadillas, but because it’s a Laura-sized portion at a decent price.

Here are my favorite places to get kids meals:

Subway: I don’t really like subway sandwiches, but you can build your own low fat sandwich (adult ½ sandwich), get apples or yogurt AND chocolate milk all for $3.99. I know! Can you believe it? Plus if I tell them I don’t need a toy they give me a cookie instead. I think it’s interesting how the company goes to all this trouble to make the kids menu healthier by giving them the apple/yogurt option as well as milk. The adult options are chips and soda. I don’t get it. Are only kids supposed to be healthy? Help me out here. I’m all about the kids meal at Subway now. I doubt I’ll order anything else. Plus, they don’t care that I’m an adult. There’s no “12 and under” stipulation.

Costa Vida: I don’t remember if there’s an age max for their kids meal, but for $3.99 you can have a quesadilla, an enchilada or taco with rice and beans and a soft drink. That’s a better price than the adult portion. And I don’t need an adult portion. OH and you get a cinnamon sugar tortilla for dessert. Please, there’s no contest here. Kids meal, all the way.

While we’re on this subject, why SHOULDN’T adults be allowed to order off the kids menu? Why is there an age restriction? I understand senior discounts because they’re not working or whatever (is that why?). I also understand reduced rates for kids at movies and other events. They’re kids, and it’s expensive to entertain a lot of kids in addition to the parents. But that is a different price for the same service. I don’t expect them to let me in for the kid price.

What I don’t understand is why a restaurant wouldn’t let an adult order off the kids menu when the product is a different one, priced proportionately. I don’t think they’re giving the kids a deal because they’re kids. I think they’re charging less because it’s less food. Am I wrong? Does anyone have any kind of data on profit margins for kids meals vs. normal menu items? I want less food and I want to pay less for it, what’s wrong with that? Are they afraid everyone is going to want smaller portions? Hmm…maybe that says something about what some people want doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they prefer that I eat all my food rather than tossing half of it because I don’t want to stuff myself and the food won’t keep well in the fridge?

I’d Friend Him.

An idea occurred to me as I taught Gospel Doctrine last week. We’re studying the Old Testament this year – which is kind of a challenge because I think, in general, we Mormons are more used to New Testament and Book of Mormon stories.

The lesson was about Abraham and Lot and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Earlier in class we were talking about Facebook for some reason I can’t remember (I don’t remember half the things I talk about -- I might have summarized an episode of Leave it to Beaver as well).

I couldn’t help but think how fun it would be to follow Old Testament prophets on Facebook – and how much more I would learn -- granted the people who managed the profiles knew what they were doing. I could follow Moses and Abraham and Noah and their crazy adventures. Get updates on the flight into Egypt and see photos of how the big ark is coming along.

I'd enjoy reading the skeptics' comments (a.k.a. "murmerings") on their prophesies. Noah would invite me to become a fan of “there’s a flood coming so believe and repent of your sins” and Abraham would invite me to join the group “Help rescue Lot”.

Someone could set up a memorial page for poor Lot’s wife and we could all take surveys such as “would you have looked back?” to reveal our true personalities.

I’m sure the day to day updates would be a little dull. We’d hear about countless sheep dying and “more rain…still floating” but really, how less riveting is that then hearing about your forgotten high school friend’s youngest sleeping through the night three days in a row?

Clearly, the timeline would have to be altered to keep the story going. But I think I’m onto something here.

Forget “Living Scriptures”, if you really want the scriptures to come to life, put the people on your homepage every day. Think about how many of your “friends” you know way better than you intended, simply because snippets of their lives are broadcast to you several times a day. I guarantee you would learn a ton about the Old Testament without even thinking you were trying.

Rituals

I have an airplane ritual:

I always request tomato juice – with a lime. And if I have a meal with it and there’s salt and pepper, I salt and pepper my tomato juice. This isn’t a normal drink for me – just an airplane drink. This has been my drink for the past 3 years or so. Before that, it was ginger ale. I looked forward to it like I couldn’t get ginger ale anywhere else. I think I moved to tomato juice when I became more health conscious. Sometimes, when in the mood, I'll revert back to ginger ale. But I don't think I've drunk anything else on a plane besides those two drinks.

Some people think rituals are constricting or a little obsessive-compulsive, but I love them. They give me comfort, balance and a sense of control. Devotion to my rituals somehow clarifies my relationship to myself. It’s not a superstition; it’s just a simple reminder that grounds me in a reassuring way. Participating in my tomato juice ritual makes me happy and optimistic when I travel and connects me to previous travel memories.

One ritual that has only recently become apparent to me is the music I listen to when preparing a talk for church. It’s usually a two-day activity (I put a lot of research, preparation and rewriting into my talks).

I wrote a talk several years ago about the hymn “Lead Kindly, Light.” I wrote that shortly after I purchased the soundtrack to The Painted Veil which I listened to the whole time I wrote.

A couple years ago I wrote a talk on “Mystery”. It was then that I finally realized listening to music while I write is a ritual for me – but it’s more than just listening to music.

As I began to write my Mystery talk, I was listening to my iTunes on shuffle but my focus just wasn’t there. I tried to listen to The Painted Veil music again, but it just brought back memories of my last talk. This is when it occurred to me: I needed new music. Something I’d never heard before – something I could devote this talk to. So I went to the iTunes store and looked up some of my favorite film music composers and decided on Alexandre Desplat’s Lust, Caution (never seen it, but I loved his score to The Painted Veil). Miraculously, I was able to relax, focus and write my talk.

I realized this ritual actually began way back in college when I would write art history papers. I had a tendency to designate certain music to the topic and I listened to that music over and over again as I did research, outlined and wrote until my paper was done.

It all started when I wrote a term paper on William Merritt Chase. I wrote this when I was a sophomore. My dad let me borrow the computer in his office to write my paper. I looked through the CDs on his shelf and chose Finzi’s Eclogue for Piano and Strings (go ahead, listen to it while you read the rest of this post). There’s more music on that CD but I had that 10 minute piece on repeat. It was pastoral and springy and I wrote my paper in April so it was fitting.

The next year I wrote a paper on Geertgen tot Sint Jans “Nativity” and for that paper I listened to the Little Women soundtrack over and over. Part of that story is Christmassy and I wrote that paper in November and December so it was fitting.

I actually love this ritual. I love it because having done this, I’ve assigned specific memories to specific music. I have a mental musical journal of my writing method and how I can escape ruts and blocks and come out with a product I am satisfied with and proud of. It gives me stability and continuity and helps me work more effectively. It gives me focus and control and shape to my process.

I love that simply believing this ritual will help, makes it help – which makes the ritual take on a power of its own. I find that when I have another writing project coming up, I actually look forward to it because I begin to plan for it – I plan for the music I will choose and that magically makes the task a lovable one.

I should develop more rituals – maybe they will make more tasks and projects lovable.

Things I Can't Seem to Remember

I pride myself on my long term memory. If I hear bits of information that I think will be useful for me in the future, I remember them. I always remember that I owe people money (uh…if I owe you money, now is a good time to remind me). I remember what people said, I remember how they reacted to what I said, I remember what their mood was and I remember my meetings and appointments.

However, there are certain things I can’t seem to remember. Whether it’s because I just can’t convince myself they’re true or I simply let them slip my mind, I don’t know. But as it took me 20 minutes to get from 1300 East to 400 West today, I made a list in my head.

• Going down 300 S. takes twice as long as any other street.
• Chinese food makes me sick.
• The code to my parents’ garage door.
• Scooter’s not there anymore.
• How to feed the paper if I want to print on the other side.
• Not one of the pens in my drawer here actually works.
• My scissors are lost.
• I can’t draw like I used to.
• Blogger doesn't work so well in Firefox.
• I don’t own a ladle.
• The password to my Rocky Mountain Power online account.
• I don’t have a yoga mat at home. Just the one in my office.
• Maria closes down the restrooms in my building for 2 hours each morning.
• Mucinex makes me crazy.
• NyQuil makes me groggy.
• Kool-Aid is good.
• One Tree Hill is still on the air.
• I have a good job.
• The light bulb in the basement is burnt out.
• I can’t keep potted trees alive.
• Extreme Home Makeover makes me cry.
• There’s ice cream in the freezer.
• Where I keep my passport.
• I don’t like the pastries at Gourmandise
• I love the food at Gourmandise.

Spinach Never Tasted So Good

I'm officially addicted to the green smoothie. I know it sounds disgusting, but it is GOOD. My friend Carri introduced me to this. I think she started drinking it as a solution to not being a breakfast person. I am definitely a breakfast person. Even if I'm not hungry, I eat breakfast because that's just what I do.

Now I am not a fan of drinking your meals, but this smoothie isn't necessarily my entire meal. I like the idea of the green smoothie because I need more vegetables in my diet.

As far as vegetables go, I really like spinach, but a full spinach salad looks a little overwhelming. It's amazing how much spinach you can eat in one glass when you blend it into a drink and slurp it up with a straw.

I know what you're thinking...you don't like vegetable drinks. But if you use a green vegetable with a mild taste like spinach, you don't even know what you're drinking as long as you add the right ingredients.

When I asked Carri what was involved with the green smoothie, I loved her answer: "So you take a green like spinach or chard and then you throw in some lemon, include the rind if you want and then basically you add fruit until it tastes good."

Fortunately Santa gave me a blender for Christmas. Next to my clock radio it has been the most useful gift this year. I've thrown in several different ingredients to make this taste good. And I'm telling you it tastes GOOD. And it's magically energizing which is good for me in the morning (just call me Popeye). I don't drink this every day -- maybe 4 times a week. I usually make enough for two servings so I can drink one and then refrigerate the rest for the next morning (you're not supposed to let it keep for more than 24 hours).

I haven't ventured beyond spinach yet, but I think I'll try that once my bag is gone. So for two smoothies, the basic ingredients are your greens, half a lemon (I cut off the ends, slice it in half and cut off maybe half the rind. I don't mind the seeds). Here are my favorite additional ingredients:

for liquid (I use one or the other):

Almond milk

Carrot Juice -- so far my favorite

Coconut milk (haven't tried it yet, but I'm excited to).

banana
apples
pineapple
frozen mango
raspberries

My secret ingredient: cinnamon

Seriously, the cinnamon is awesome, but I like cinnamon (it aids in digestion, it is an anti-inflammatory and it has been known to improve brain function -- I read a lot). I almost always use a banana because it gives it a good texture. I tried using just mango once and it wasn't very sweet. Pineapple is the best for sweetness. It makes me feel good to know I've taken care of half my fresh fruits and vegetables before 8 AM.

Next time you're at my house, ask me to make you one. You'll love it.

Five Things

Before I started the "Foods of Durham Past" series I talked about how that came from a conversation I had with my parents over dinner in Durham, England this past spring. We had another conversation that night where my dad talked about his list of things he called "5 Things you needed to know if you were going to date Tom" (his name is Tom).

That got me to thinking of my own list of 5 things I think people should probably know about me. This isn't THE 5 things, it's just 5. So here it is...more or less.

1. I like good, quality food. I'm not saying that you'll never see me eat McDonalds, or that I demand eating at expensive restaurants, I'm just saying I like to eat well, I like to eat healthy, and I know it costs more sometimes, but at this point in my life, it's worth it. I remember going to Rubio's with a bunch of friends and one of them looked at the prices, looked at the amount of food on people's plates at the surrounding tables and he took off. He came back not long after with a bag full of Taco Bell and basically said, "Check this out losers! Look what I got for four bucks!" OK, it was Clint. I love him to death, but he is the perfect example of what I am not when it comes to attitude toward food. The calorie to price ratio isn't what I'm interested in. I'm interested in pleasing my taste buds and having a good dining experience. I will pay more for a smaller portion of anything if it means it's going to taste better.

2. I love the theatre. This means plays, musicals, movies, whatever. But lets talk about plays and musicals. I'm interested in how others feel about this. I've sat in lousy seats at the theatre because it was too expensive otherwise...still worth it to go, but if you think about it, it's totally worth the extra money to have a good seat. You remember the experience more because you're closer to the action. The live performances are great, but the memories and images your brain captures are a big part of what make these experiences meaningful. Sometimes spending an extra $20 for a better seat isn't so much an extravagance as it sounds. More often than not you'll end up spending $20 on something stupid anyway (like a few meals at Wendy's). With movies, I don't care where we sit. I love movies. I try to see a lot of them. I never think going to a movie is a lame date. If you love movies, awesome. We'll get along. If you hate them...I don't know what we had to talk about in the first place (kidding). As far as plays and musicals go, if you're not into that kind of thing, I guess that's fine. Just understand I will go without you.

3. I need to travel. I love planning trips, I love thinking about trips, I usually have at least one trip in the works at all times. If you don't like to travel -- I will go without you.

4. The first three kind of make me sound high maintenance, but in fact I'm a homebody. It's my default. I am content just staying at home and cooking, cleaning things up, organizing things or just sitting on the couch watching TV. This doesn't mean I don't like to go out and do things. I love to go out and do things, but I typically need some nudging. This is why I don't live by myself. I like to surround myself with active people who do things and make me go with them. These people are good for me because they get me to do things I really want to do, but I'm naturally disinclined to do.

5. I love telling stories, but I haven't mastered the art of telling short versions. Most of my stories include details about who said what exactly and a lot of background. And, I'll admit some of my stories are boring and completely irrelevant. That usually doesn't stop me. You are welcome to though.

Here are some more that I didn't feel like explaining in detail:

I hate big parties packed with people I don't know.
I don't dance.
I love television and talk about it a lot.
I laugh a lot.
Sometimes I cry, but it's ok.
I have a hard time with flaky people.
I spend a lot of time with my family and I enjoy it -- Lis, this one is dedicated to Josh ;)
I like my alone time.
I'm kind of full of contradictions.
I'm ridiculously loyal. Even if you're mean to me. I kind of hate this.
A few people have told me I can be stubborn, which is funny because I always thought I was a pushover and let people take advantage of me and my willingness to concede. Maybe I've gotten more stubborn as a defense mechanism to avoid being manipulated and walked all over.

I'm also nice.

Background Pianist

Of all the lessons I didn’t take regularly growing up, piano was the most useful. Everything I know about the piano I learned from my mom, my dad and my grandpa – a little because I think I went to his house a few times to take lessons. Most of the people I talk to acknowledge it is one of the best skills they acquired and thank their mother for making them stick with it -- even though they protested.

Fortunately, I didn’t need anyone to make me stick with it because I really enjoyed it. Even when I took violin lessons, I would get frustrated, put the violin away and practice the piano instead.

However, because I didn’t really take formal lessons, most of my piano skills are instinctual. I never learned music theory, what all the symbols mean, or proper fingering. And sometimes counting sets me back, but that’s OK. I know how to read music and if I practiced enough I could probably play most things.

Everyone who plays the piano and is a member of the LDS church knows if people find out you play, your calling is pretty much made sure for the rest of your life. You are the Primary or Relief Society pianist, the ward chorister or the ward choir accompanist. I really resented this in college because I wanted to know what it was like to be a teacher or serve on a committee or something, but I was always accompanying the congregation, the class or the choir. Always. My bishop even told me "If you play the piano, that's going to be your calling. That's just how it is. I remember looking at him, and at that moment, I decided next semester I wasn't going to put piano down under “skills” on my next membership application just to see what would happen. I was called to be a Relief Society teacher. That was a good semester.

Still, I loved to play the piano, it’s just that hymns were getting old (in fact that was the semester when I chose the most obscure hymns for the congregation to sing in our meetings. It was probably one of the more selfish things I've ever done. I didn't want to play "Count Your Blessings" ever again so I made everyone suffer through songs they've never heard just so I could play something different). When I moved to Portland after college, I discovered a piano in a big bank building across the street from where I temped. I don’t remember the details of how they decided to let me play their piano, but I rounded up some sheet music one day and played background for about an hour.

I’ll never be a concert pianist, but what I’m great at is background piano. And it’s not stressful at all because you’re not expecting people to listen. I’ve missed having a piano to play ever since I left the baby grand at my parents’ house, so I’m usually looking for other reasons to play the piano.

I volunteered at the LDS conference center to be a “watcher” for their annual International Book of Mormon exhibit. Basically I sat there and read for 3 hours and made sure people didn’t go down stairs or halls they weren’t supposed to. One day, the older missionary in charge of me said someone would be coming at noon to play the piano, but no one did. I REALLY wanted to go play the piano instead of just sitting there and watching people, but I wasn’t authorized. So I ended up inquiring with the person in charge of music, participated in an audition, he said I had “a nice touch” and now I am an official background pianist for the church buildings downtown (a people watcher no more). I have two basic locations: The Joseph Smith Memorial Building and the LDS Conference Center.

The JSMB is a more coveted location because it is more comfortable and homey, and there’s more traffic, and therefore, more people are there to listen – because, even though it’s nice to not have an actual captive audience, it’s nice to have a few people that care so you feel like you’re not there for nothing. It feels really good when people pass through, stop for a minute and then decide to sit down just to listen. That doesn’t really happen at the Conference Center because there isn’t really anywhere for them to sit down.

The piano sits in the lobby and I played there one night when there was a wedding reception in an adjacent room. A lot of the people from the wedding party came out and sat in the lobby to hear me play which was really nice. I’ve enjoyed some of the comments I get from people:

A father with his 9 year-old son, “That song is from Pride and Prejudice isn’t it?” Actually it was from Sense and Sensibility. Still, he knew his wife would be proud of him. I was.

The lady sitting at the registration desk in the room behind me, “Thank you so much for coming to play, it really adds to the atmosphere.” Aww. That’s always good to hear. It’s a volunteer job and often a thankless one.

An old man who works in the building came up and handed me a Hershey’s treasure candy. “Here, I thought you should have something.” Ah, he knows.

My first time playing at the Conference Center one of the elderly missionaries stopped me on my way to the piano and said, “You know what sounds really good? Phantom of the Opera.” Shoot. I didn’t have any Broadway with me. However, I did bring Les Mis the next time I played.

It’s funny because most people like to listen to music they’re familiar with – especially people who aren’t familiar with a lot of music. They feel really smart if you play something they've heard and they'll stick around and nod in approval. Last week I was playing the Gymnopédies by Erik Satie (dear Mom and Dad, I have your Satie piano book) and I noticed people begin to walk more slowly around the building and kind of sway to the back and forth rhythm. It was fun feeling like I had a little bit of control over these people, especially the kids. It was almost like they were my puppets.

One little boy, about 3 years old, just walked up to me and started to stare. Always flattering.

After that I played Gnossiennes No.1 and when I was finished a gentleman walked up to me and asked me what that piece was. “I have a recording of this on a CD at home, but I never knew what it was called,” he continued “It’s just lovely. It’s almost like, I don’t know, like it has a bunch of wrong notes in it, but somehow it works.” I understood what he meant, but I decided not to tell him that I hadn't practiced that piece very much so 20% of the notes I played were probably wrong.

I was also asked to play music outside the ticket office for people who were attending “Savior of the World”. I got there a little late and the crowds of people were kind of loud, but as soon as I opened up the hymnbook and started playing “Now the Day is Over” the crowd hushed and formed a line. Kind of like they were walking in to primary and the primary president had her forefinger up to her mouth telling them to “Shhh…” and be reverent. I felt really powerful until the noise gradually escalated to its previous level.

In conclusion, I would like to say that for me, at least, next to reading and writing, piano is one of my most useful skills, and I’m glad that I enjoy it. Even though I was resistant to tell people that I have the skill for fear that I would be pigeon holed for the rest of my life, I have no problem being the piano person.

Just last week no one was playing prelude in relief society so I just went up to the piano and started to play. The chorister asked me to stay there and play the hymns for class while I was at it. And I was happy to.

Thirty Two

The year 1977 gave this world a great number of things. Here are some of the things I was thinking about that turned 32 this year...


Apple II Computer:

















The Clash:



















Star Wars:
















Boo Berry Cereal:








Annie Hall..."I'm into leather."




























Orlando Bloom:





















Me:
















the MRI Scanner:



















Space Mountain!

Dear Santa

I'm a little sad that I don't remember believing in Santa. It was never a topic of discussion in grade school. I don't remember classmates arguing whether Santa was real or not. Maybe it happened, I just don't remember it. I remember asking Santa for presents when I was little. I remember Mom told us to put a list of three things we wanted in our stocking and he would bring them to us. But I don't remember that feeling of believing in Santa and then not believing.

I guess I'm glad I didn't have a traumatic "What?! Santa isn't real?" moment. In fact, even when I knew my parents were the ones that bought my presents I still chose to believe in Santa and I still called "it" Santa. I guess I just like to believe in things.

Recently I took little movies of my nieces. I told them I'd send these video messages to Santa. So Santa, I hope you have land of lauralot on your Google Reader.

Chloe:


Piper:



Sadie:



I took video of Sadie first. It wasn't until I talked to Piper who speaks more clearly that Sadie also wants a toy puppy and not a "striped" puppy. Makes more sense.

Lately I've heard a lot of podcasts with people talking about Christmas disappointments and when they didn't get what they asked for. I don't remember ever not getting what I asked for. I must have been a pretty practical kid. Or I was a very nice girl.

Banana Fanna fo Faura

This is going to be a challenge, because this message is best communicated through speech. Unless you and I have already had this conversation in person, you're not going to know how to pronounce the various spellings of my name the way I mean you to when you read it below.

To assist you, I'm going to provide a pronunciation guide to this post. Whenever you read these words, you should pronounce them accordingly in your head:

The vowel in Laura rhymes with fauna as in flora and fauna.
Lora rhymes with Dora as in the Explorer.
Lara rhymes with Sarah -- take your pick of reference.

I was introduced to another Laura this past weekend. Every time I meet a Laura, we have the same conversation:

Laura: "How do you spell it?"
Me: "L A U R A"
Laura: and do you pronounce it "Laura" or "Lora"
Me: I say "Laura"
Laura: Me too! People seem to have a hard time with it.

She told me about her struggles in getting people to pronounce it right. She asks people to say “Laura” and they always look at her with a focused face and say “Lora”.

Here’s another conversation I have often when I first meet someone:

New person: Hi, what's your name?
Me: Laura
New person: and how do you pronounce it...

This is where I stare at them for a few seconds to see if they can figure out that they just heard me say my name two seconds earlier.

You'll never hear me correct people when they call me Lora. If they ask, I'll tell them how I prefer it. But there are people who've been calling me Lora for years and I don't mind.

OK, so if you've been calling me Lora and you do something to tick me off, I might say, "It's Laura" when you say my name just because it might be all I have to express my displeasure with you at that moment.

I'll tell you what though, if you call me Laura, whether it's because you once asked me how I pronounce it or you've picked up on how I pronounce it when I refer to myself, I might hold you in a little higher regard because that tells me you pay attention.
But if you've been calling me Laura (the correct pronunciation) for years and "Lora" finds its way out of your mouth in reference to me, I'll flash you a confused glance.

I decided I was going to write about this a long time ago when I was in Cancun at a little grill on our resort. I ordered a burger and the cashier asked,

“What is your name?”
“Laura.”
“Nora?”
“No, LAH-ra”

I sat down and several minutes later I heard,

“Sarah? Your burger’s ready.”

Had I not been the only person there waiting for her food, I would have had no idea he was referring to me.

I was at Rubio’s recently and I ordered my meal to go. They asked for my name. When I picked up my food, they gave me my receipt:

For awhile, my sister tried to campaign to get me to change the spelling of my name to “LARA” so people would pronounce it right. I don’t think she will, but if she does deny it, I can show you a manila folder with pictures of me down in my parents’ basement with her handwriting that spells: “Lara.” I never really jumped on that band wagon. I’ve always been fine with the spelling of my name.

The fact that my name was difficult for people to pronounce was made even more clear whenl I tried to get a robot to say it. Apparently robots have a hard time pronouncing my name the way I do. Awhile ago I was sending a Monk-E-Mail to my niece. I tried to get the monkey to say my name right with the following spellings (in this order of trial):

Laura
Lara
Lahra
Lohra

And the winner is...Laara. At least I figured it out.

Yesterday I was surfing around for online name pronunciation guides. I felt vindicated when I looked up “Laura” and found this:

http://www.pronouncenames.com/search?name=Laura

I wish I thought of that phonetic spelling when I was trying to get the monkey to say my name. But click on the “listen” link.

Right? The voice even sounds like me doesn’t it? I swear it isn’t.

I immediately looked up “Lara”. There was no audio file but it did say “rhymes with Sarah” – THANK YOU!

Then I looked up “Lauren” – another name similar to “Laura” that people seem to pronounce differently. This time there were two pronunciations available:

http://www.pronouncenames.com/search?name=Lauren

In conclusion, I would like to say that there is no general right or wrong – there’s simply the way the person who possesses the name prefers it.

I know there are Lauras out there who prefer to be called Lora. That’s OK too.

I'm thankful for the Bonnie Rogers Rule

Every year, the Utah Historical Society director sponsors a paper plane contest the day before Thanksgiving at the Rio Grande Depot (where I work).

He makes a big deal out of it, spends a ton of money on the prizes (and repeatedly tells us how much he spends on them) and sends out an email with detailed rules and guidelines about paper weight, size, extraneous objects on the plane, etc. The ironic thing is, each year, everyone breaks the rules. And we all expect it. It's actually a contest to see who can cheat the best.

The prize? a box of Cummings chocolates.

The categories? duration, distance and artistic quality (that is a new category since the "arts folks" moved in -- that's us).

Bonnie Rogers, who no longer works here, was infamous for dropping a piece of toilet paper or confetti and always winning in duration, and then she won artistic quality because it was like a piece of performance art. So because of Bonnie Rogers, she has a rule named after her that prevents anyone from winning in more than one category.

Above is a picture of the men (I think they're all architects who work for State History) discussing their designs. The man with the big tube won for distance because he basically blew a small plane out of the tube and it flew clear across the gallery onto the north mezzanine. He's holding his box of chocolates. I think his name is Tim.

Here is a contender. Cute, but not a winner:

Here's Jim being boring and not participating:

My plane didn't stay up very long or go very far.

If we were a rule abiding bunch it would have been disqualified because it exceeded all size and weight limitations. Fletcher (coworker) actually built it for me. He doesn't participate either (lame). But look!



Because all the people that had the best "artistic" planes won in the other two categories, I got the third prize by default. If you like chocolates and you know where I live, you know where to find them. I refuse to eat them all.

This lady won for worst performance. You can't really see much.




Here's my performance. Again, you can't see much. Mostly just my form and how I throw like a girl.

Me and "my" beemer*

I feel like people are watching me.

You see, I'm housesitting for my sister and her husband this weekend. With the house comes the responsibility of two cats and a fish. But it also comes with a brand new BMW she asked me to drive for the weekend so I could pick them up in it -- I guess because it's already equipped with Jack's car seat and such. I tried to propose an alternate transport plan to my sister explaining how I didn't want her car to be my primary mode of transportation for the weekend. She looked at me like I was crazy.

Let me explain: I drive a '98 Chevy Prizm. It's worth maybe $1500 right now. I have little concern about what happens to my car at this point. I just want it to get me from here to there and to keep me warm on the way. The only automatic thing about my car is the transmission. I have to roll down the windows manually, unlock the doors manually...turn a key manually. The BMW does all that for me. There's no key to this car -- It knows when I want to come in. The trunk closes all by itself too. It's like magic. I bet if I was sick of being stopped at a traffic light, all I'd have to do is rub the emblem on the steering wheel and my green light wish would come true.

After my sister gave me a brief tutorial on how to make the thing go, I left the airport. The hypertensive thought of "Be careful, this isn't your car" soon wore off as I sunk into the heated seats and let Coldplay guide me through a surprisingly comfortable transition. It wasn't long before I came to terms with the reality that this car... is... awesome.

What should I do now? I thought. I kind of wanted to pick up friends and see if they needed to run errands or anything. My thoughts quickly shifted to the idea of -- no joke -- antiquing. Yep, I went from zero to yuppie in 0.8 seconds.

I hit this consignment store on 8th South that I always drove by but never stopped to go inside. I parked the car on the street, really nervous to leave it there by itself. I looked back after I reached the end of the street to make sure it was still OK. When I was done shopping I walked back to the car, floated my hand above the handle and the car granted me entrance. I climbed in and thought, "I love you BMW."

My antiquing adventure continued in Sugarhouse. When I locked the car by gently pressing the door handle I turned around only to receive glances from passers by. I wasn't sure what the glances meant, but I knew it had something to do with the car I just got out of. It made me feel uncomfortable and I crossed the street pretending I was unaffected.

The store I walked into was pretty high end. An upholstered stool was like $600. I spotted a small mirror similar to one I saw at IKEA a couple days ago. IKEA's price? $20. This one? $180. I walked around wondering if this is where rich people think they need to shop. The owner walked up to me and asked, "Can I help you?" I told her I was just browsing and then she looked me up and down. No joke. She sized me up. Excuse me for walking into your store! You think my Old Navy wardrobe, half-styled hair and absent makeup isn't good enough to shop here? You wanna see my BMW parked out back?

The car and I have gotten along the past 24 hours. I even reached for the premium gas pump at the Chevron (mostly because I feared the fuel tank would spit the regular unleaded back out at me). I'm at my home right now, and the beemer is parked out front along the curb. I heard some talking outside earlier. I ignored it for several seconds but then I looked out the window and saw three guys examining the car and even looking inside the windows. I opened my front door with focused aggression and they scattered like shrapnel.

That's right. Beat it hooligans! And stay away from my property. I'm going to have to keep close to my window until I return the car safely to it's secured garage. Look who's being watched now!

*I should be clear, now that I am a temporary BMW driver, I did my research and learned the term "beemer" refers to a motorcycle. A BMW car is called a "bimmer" -- but before the urban dictionary I had never heard that term. I could have used "bimmer" throughout this post, but please...I don't want to sound like a snob.

Foods of Durham Past: Yorkshire Pudding

Nothing makes me feel more safe and comfortable than the smell of Sunday dinner cooking. If you remember one of my first posts, I talked about the formula Mom used to determine what she made for dinner each day of the week.

One of the Sundayist of Sunday dinners at our house was roast and Yorkshire pudding. (What is it about a traditional "Sunday Dinner" that requires a huge cut of meat?) I don't know if my mom's mom made this or where my mom got the idea of making them. I don't even remember when I first tasted them. If you were to present this dish to me as an adult I would say, "What in the world...? Do I butter this? Put jam on it?"

I was trying to explain to a friend the other day what Yorkshire pudding is. The best I could come up with was a popover. But he didn't know what a popover was either. He asked if it was like a cream puff -- I said that was pretty close. I suppose it could be a denser cream puff drenched in meat juice. Or "sauce" was the word Carter used when he tried convince his girls to eat it (he didn't try very hard because if they didn't eat it, all the more for him). It's actually baked with roast drippings in it too, so I wouldn't try pumping cream into these if you were looking for a cream puff recipe.

I don't make them very often because it's kind of pointless to make Yorkshire pudding if you're not making roast and I don't really like to make roast. And they always stick to the stupid cupcake tin no matter how much I grease it. But I love them. I can eat a lot of them. I had about 8 leftover from dinner last weekend so I ate them all week.

Foods of Durham Past: Swedish Pancakes

What we have here is a very poor picture of a very yummy food.

Explanation: I took this with my phone at a friend’s crepe party last month because I knew I wouldn't get around to making them myself, but it is an important food of Durham past. Only we called them Swedish pancakes because that’s what Dad called them.

It’s not like I’ve never made them before, but they never live up to Dad’s. Why? Because I don’t have the big cast iron skillet – I have a cheapo non-stick pan that does the job, but they aren’t nearly as good as Dad's (I need my Sur la Table employee discount back so I can get me a skillet).

This really was Dad’s signature dish and it was a big deal every time he decided to make them – usually on Saturday mornings. He had to have the kitchen spotless, the apron would come on and there could be no distractions. Mom can prepare a meal in a cluttered kitchen, talk on the phone, watch television and teach a piano student, while Dad can have zero visual and audible distractions because he’s trying to flip a pancake for crying out loud. I could say it’s a Mom/Dad thing, but I really think it’s a male/female thing. Women are just better at multitasking.

Crepe parties are pretty popular and guests are typically asked to bring a “topping”. You get bananas, berries, Nutella, whipped cream, syrup, etc. But crepes at the Durham house were traditionally served with melted butter, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar and squirted with fresh lemon juice and then rolled up.

My mouth is watering.

So at this crepe party I decided to bring butter, cinnamon powdered sugar and lemons. People didn’t try it at first, but after they got their familiar crepe with sliced fruit and whipped cream out of the way they gave my toppings a go, and they were surprised at how good it was.

This is how things typically went at the Durham home: Dad required that we tell him up front how many we could eat (I got better at gauging this as I got older. I’m not sure what my record is – maybe 5 or 6). The first pancake would either break into pieces or it would be mediocre. Dad would eat it or someone would settle for it. In fact, selfish little kids usually want their food first, but we knew the second pancake was always better than the first, so we all fought for the second pancake slot. Carter liked his “light” and I liked mine “medium” – meaning, a little darker. When we were really little Dad would put the butter, sugar and lemon on for us, and then ask if we wanted them cut in “big ones”, “little ones” or “triangles.”

We’d take turns eating them one at a time. So after everyone got one, you were back in the loop for seconds, thirds, and so on. Sometimes right before your turn, after Dad flipped your pancake, his face would light up with convincing anticipation as he declared the next pancake was most likely the best Swedish pancake he has ever made.

Would I eat them again? You better believe it.
Would I make them again? So I cheated and didn't make these myself. But it's been over a week and I needed a post. But yes, I will.
Would I feed them to friends? If they're nice.

Foods of Durham Past: Pigs in a Blanket

I can't believe this was my dinner.

I had a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch so I had to make a salad to complement my fat wrapped in butter in order to get some sort of vegetable in my diet today.

I'm not saying these aren't tasty. They are. Meat? Good. Cheese? Good. Rolls? Good. Just a lot of fat and cholesterol. But a perfectly acceptable lunch for kids.

This post is for my cousin Liz, who requested it a long time ago. Mom did make these a lot when we were little. I was lazy though, and just threw the cheese in the "blanket" and rolled them up, whereas Mom would slice each individual hot dog and wedge a piece of cheddar in there.

Because I'm me, I had to fancy them up a bit and use lil smokies and crescent rolls instead of regular hot dogs and Rhodes rolls like Mom used to use. Lisa gave me that idea a couple years ago when I called her not knowing exactly how to approach this hors d'oeuvre when I threw my Pictures and Pitchers of Water party. Of course, the pigs in a blanket went really fast. As did the Jell-O Jigglers. Mmmm...I should make those again too.

Eat again? Yes.
Make again? I have to because I have tons of lil smokies left.
Feed to friends? Will you eat them? Please?