Fairs and Fry Bread

As the last breaths of summer cool down, fall tumbles in with many cute decorations, Halloween costumes, and one of my personal favorites: Fairs. The atmosphere is always exciting, with crowds cheering contestants in a pie eating contest, screaming on a roller coaster, or cooing at the animals. I look forward to the caramel apples with their sticky sweet shell uncovering the tart crisp with every bite, and the craft exhibits that inspire me to create with my hands.

Growing up, my family often attended the small Emery County fair in Utah, where friends of my grandparents had a stand of fresh Navajo Tacos (or Indian Fry Bread, as it is often called). I fondly remember the burning sensation my tongue would receive as I bit too early into the crisp crust with taco fixings on top, dousing the heat with a bit of sour cream and tomato. I remember the bread becoming dessert later, as my grandma would bring it over freshly fried, speckled with cinnamon and sugar. Those are the days that I look forward to now, when the fresh green leaves begin to dry, and I begin to break out my hoodie. I don't live in Utah anymore, but this weather and fairs always brings back those fantastic Navajo Tacos.

Navajo Tacos

Ingredients:
1 egg whipped + enough lukewarm water to ¾ cup

1 tsp lemon juice

2 T Canola oil

½ tsp salt

2 T sugar

2 C flour

1 tsp active dry yeast

1.) Combine egg and water, sugar and yeast  and let sit for about 5 minutes or until the yeast turns foamy. Combine the rest of the dry ingredients in a big bowl. 

 2.) Add the egg/yeast/sugar mixture to the dry ingredients, along with the rest of the wet ingredients, stirring with a wooden spoon. When it gets too difficult to stir with the spoon, start kneading it with your hands (I keep it in the bowl still, but you can knead it on a lightly floured surface). Sprinkle on more flour if the dough is still very sticky, and knead until incorporated before adding more (only if needed!). 

3.) When the dough is reaches a smooth, yet slightly tacky consistency, form into a ball in the bowl and spray lightly with oil (this keeps the moisture in). Then put a slightly damp dishtowel over the top of the bowl, and place in a warm spot for about an hour or two, or until the dough doubles in size.

4.) When dough has risen, squeeze out small balls and work with your hands until dough is in flat disks. Heat about an inch of oil in a heavy pan (I use an enamel covered dutch oven) until the temperature is between 350 and 375 degrees. 

5.) Cook until golden brown on both sides, and serve hot with taco meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, sour cream, guacamole, or whatever your heart desires on a taco. For dessert bread, melt a little butter and sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on top.

The First Day of School and Scones

As I sit here, listening to the constant thrum of the refrigerator, I realize that it very well may be the last time that I hear it, at least until next June. Not that the family I nanny is getting rid of their refrigerator (which would be a little odd), but that soon that gentle vibration will be covered up by pounding feet, crunching cereal, and the flutter of papers being shoved into backpacks at the last minute. Soon, the early risings will begin with the groans and whines that only September can produce out of two young boys. And although tomorrow will be stressful, the loud silence of this morning is what tugs at me to remember my own first days of school.

I woke up early every day during elementary school, getting up even before my older siblings did for high school. I would slip into my walk-in closet, trying hard not to wake up my younger sister. When I was sure that all was still outside the closet, I would gently lift the wooden box that we kept in there for a stool, and take out my favorite book: Stuart Little by E. B. White. For the precious hour that I had before it was really "time to get up" I would hungrily read- shrinking down to Stuart Little's six inch height, and together we would explore the world from his toy sailboat. I would be lost in a fantasy where life was an adventure, and each problem would be solved with the turn of a page. As the years went by, my outings with Stuart grew less frequent until they ceased altogether. Early mornings had lost their magic and the dark cloud of responsibility grew heavier over my head. I often found myself resenting the blare of the alarm clock that meant the consistency of school with its homework that would never end.

Now that it has ended, and my alarm clock goes off for a very different reason, I find myself remembering those mornings with a fondness only felt when one moves away from their childhood home. The soft cushion of a warm breakfast that was ready every at exactly 7:50 AM. My dad's cheesy Chuck Norris jokes that he loved to share with us during the commercials of ESPN. Family scripture study and prayer, and the plink of the keys on the piano that carried me out the door for another day of school. It seems as though I had to leave it behind, just like Stuart Little, to truly enjoy the splendor of it. Now that it's gone for me, I am left here to remember and work toward making the boys' first day something that they will hopefully remember with fondness in their future.

My family always had the tradition of eating hot scones and honey butter for breakfast on the first day of school. It is a tradition that still looked forward to by my younger siblings, and one that I hope to bring to my small children one day.

Scones

Ingredients:
1 egg whipped + enough lukewarm water to ¾ cup

1 tsp lemon juice

2 T Canola oil

½ tsp salt

2 T sugar

2 C flour

1 tsp active dry yeast

1.) Combine egg and water, sugar and yeast  and let sit for about 5 minutes or until the yeast turns foamy. Combine the rest of the dry ingredients in a big bowl. 

 2.) Add the egg/yeast/sugar mixture to the dry ingredients, along with the rest of the wet ingredients, stirring with a wooden spoon. When it gets too difficult to stir with the spoon, start kneading it with your hands (I keep it in the bowl still, but you can knead it on a lightly floured surface). Sprinkle on more flour if the dough is still very sticky, and knead until incorporated before adding more (only if needed!). 4.) When the dough is reaches a smooth, yet slightly tacky consistency, form into a ball in the bowl and spray lightly with oil (this keeps the moisture in). Then put a slightly damp dishtowel over the top of the bowl, and place in a warm spot for about an hour or two, or until the dough doubles in size.
5.) When dough has risen, place on a lightly floured surface, and roll it out until it is about 1/4 inches thick. Using a butter knife, cut out different shapes (I like triangles) and let rise again until it doubles in size.
6.) Fill frying pan or deep fryer about 1 inch full of oil, and heat until between 350 and 375 degrees, and cook dough shapes until golden brown. Serve hot with honey butter or jam.

Self Absorption

In my college class recently, we debated the question of whether or not writing about yourself was self-centered or narcissistic. It caused to me to ponder, especially since I had just started this blog, and no one wants to be labeled a narcissist. I eventually came to this conclusion.

Perhaps it is somehow self-centered or narcissistic to write about ourselves. Maybe the idea that our story will be, or at least should be, of some value to the world is giving ourselves too much credit. But if we choose not to write it for fear of being a narcissist, then the world loses a valuable perspective; one that we see from daily, and wish others to see from as well. 

I submit to you, accordingly, that it is not self-centeredness, but self-worth that propels us to tell our story. By writing a personal narrative, we are acknowledging that we are one perspective among many great and diverse ones, and that we all matter. 

A self-centered attitude dominates attention, while self-worth inspires humility. Therefore, a narcissistic attitude will not allow the author to simply add his/her perspective to others, his/hers would have to be the perspective. 

But what do you think? Do you believe in sharing our own stories and lives, or only allow others to share them for us?

Children

There are children in our apartment complex, I know there are. I see them on the black asphalt on warm sunny days, chalking welcome mats in front of buildings D through F. I see them stumbling outside at 7 am by the masses headed to the bus. But that's just it- I only see them, it's a rare occasion indeed when I hear them.

Then there's Sean and I. We race down the three flights of stairs, giggling like five year olds playing kissing tag. We do plyometrics on Tuesday for our workout, and for those of you who don't know what that is, it involves jumping contests and pretend ski competitions. Beyond that, Sean has recently become fascinated with scaring me. He loves trying out creepy voices and hiding spots, and more often than not, he is rewarded with involuntary squeals from yours truly. Our downstairs neighbors must hate us.

Maybe the children make no noise to make up for the racket coming from two fully grown adults. Or maybe we are just too caught up in singing at the top of our lungs and stomping around to spray each other with water to notice the sounds of their laughter and play. Regardless of the reason, Sean and I are easily the most rambunctious children over 20 on the block.

Judging

They're everywhere. Thousands of people that I have never met, but see every day. The same man in his late twenties with his black jacked up Ford F150, always in front of me on my way home from work. The same cashier that always bags my last minute groceries on Saturday night. The homeless guy that everyone, including me, avoids eye contact with, pretending to be entranced with the same bumper that we have been staring at for the last twenty minutes. And seeing all of them every day, their familiar faces that I feel like I already trust, makes me wonder what brought them to where they are today. I want to ask them, inquire as to how they are so happy at such an early hour, or why they decided to color their hair- again, but I can't. They are the same people who's cars cut me off every morning, and inconvenience me in stores with their full carts in front of my gallon of milk. They are the same panhandlers who speak of empty gas tanks, starving children and hard times. Yet, when the start of the angry thoughts come into my mind, I can't help but think what led them to this place? Are they late again for work because their baby kept them up last night? How many mouths to feed does this lady have? With her worn hands and tired eyes, I make up bits of her life, and allow myself to believe it. Making excuses for the things I feel have wronged me, and the anger melts away. Even if I'm wrong, they still have a reason.

I'm perplexed by the scenarios that I come up for the homeless on the side of my exit, however. I have not yet felt their desperation, hopelessness or sense of contentment in asking others help, my life hanging on their reply. So I make up their stories from their words and signs, but don't believe them quite so readily. I've been taught to be cautious; that most panhandlers are crooks and druggies. Yet, something inside of me still cares, yearns to know their story, to allow them the company of a conversation.

While waiting for a green light a while back, I nearly asked the man with a cardboard sign what his story was. I had just worked up the courage when the light turned green. What led society to this point- the point of judging becoming more acceptable than caring enough about a person to ask? I wonder what reactions I will receive, when my curiosity inspires courage and overpowers my better judgement. Most of all, I wonder how Christ was able to do it so lovingly that others did not feel violated or concerned by his questions, but loved.

Am I the only one that does this? The only odd one who fills in the life stories of those that I may never meet? I'd like to think that I'm not- that one day I'll work up the courage to ask, only to get the relieved face of someone who has been itching to know the same thing.

Pieces Of Forever

We all remember something, be it our first time blowing a hot pink bubble with our gum, or the last thing on the grocery list that the store was out of. Our head is full of remembering, although we can hardly recall half of what we contain there. I have this fear of taking in too much-be it learning in school, or the names of the hundreds of people that I've met- so much remembering that my brain will finally meet the maximum point and I'll have to pick and choose the memories that I want to replace. I know that it's silly, but it's a genuine concern of mine. My memories have become symbols of my life: my blessings, harsh pangs of disobedience, ticklish laughter, warm tears- everything that made me who I am today and will become. The pictures and moments that I've carefully preserved have proven to be very nearly useless to everyone but me, but the way I use those symbols of my lessons will hopefully create something worth remembering to others. 

Regardless, here is one of my memories that still remains vivid in my mind, and even though I was small when it happened, I can still feel the temperature of the day that it occurred on. 

Tiny splinters stabbed into the soft pads of my feet as I tripped down the unfinished patio steps. My favorite blue Mickey Mouse shirt hit my bare thighs in rhythm as I ran. Not daring to look behind me, I rushed across the cool grass onto the rocky, dry, dirt that surrounded the newly formed garden. Wincing as my pudgy toes found  sharp pieces of gravel, I searched for my plastic spade. Finding a clearing in the small rocks, I began to remove small bits of dusty earth. This was nothing like the big, heavy strokes that my dad had so effortlessly removed hours earlier, plunging the shovel into the ground and bringing it back up with small hills of dirt clods and rocks.

I scowled as the thunk of plastic hitting an underground boulder reached my ears. This shallow, sink of a hole would have to do. Daring a glance at the kitchen window, I met my mom's questioning gaze with my own mischievous one. Without giving her time to draw conclusions, I dragged the snake of a hose over to my hole, and leapt to the faucet, yelping as I landed on rocks. I hung on the rusty handle until it gave way, then dove into my hole to wait for soft goo to envelope me. I looked up at the patio, triumphantly acknowledging my mom's stern gaze. I knew that I was in for more than a timeout this time, but I had a small excuse. 

My mom has been on the phone and I was bored from lack of attention. It was the first warm day of Spring, and my brother and I had been helping my dad plant the garden. My face lit up at the memory of the green garden hose sending a river down to the new seeds, leaving behind a squishy, cool trail. I knew that permission for me to play in the mud would never be granted, so I mumbled the question under my breath, hoping my mom wouldn't hear. I had ignored the shakes of her head, and waited impatiently for her to agree with her caller, so that I could pretend that it was meant for me. I eventually grew tired of waiting, and snuck out the door to finally get my wish. 

Remembering my triumph, I looked down to view my completed rebellion, and felt my toes curl around dry dirt and bits of gravel as barely a drizzle made its chilly way down. At this rate, I’d never get my mud. I sat there pouting, until I heard the door slam, and saw my dad stomping toward me. After quickly reevaluating my priorities (pouting or freedom from immediate punishment), I leapt up and fled.

I Believe in Getting Lost

National Public Radio(NPR) aired a program entitled "This I Believe" until 2009. The goal was to read essays from listeners all over the U.S. about their beliefs. Listening to the readers share the experiences that shaped who they became, lead me to write my own as well.

I believe in getting lost. I am not talking about missing-your-exit-on-the-way-to-work kind of lost, but intentionally lost. The kind of lost that makes your heart thrill with fear, yet all the while running exhilaratingly farther away from the familiar. The kind of lost that a good book supplies with it’s sticky story that clings to you with it’s syrupy tendrils and pulls you under until you are so deep in the story, that you have to be thrust out by some great need or distraction. The kind of lost that makes you stare out into space, visiting some memory or replaying a dream, lost in between reality.

I remember a time that I got truly and utterly lost, and remained in the world of lost and found for months. I was in third grade, and had just read My Side of the Mountain. When I opened that book and began to read, my way of thinking was transformed. I wanted to study every aspect of it, understand every detail. Since the book is about running away and surviving in the mountains, I convinced my younger sister to sit down our parents with me, and persuade them to let us run away. It didn't work.

But that did not deter me, and I allowed myself to get even more lost in my dream of living off the land. There was a field across the street that my sister and I played in, and it gradually became our “mountain”. We gathered berries, built rope swings, and pilfered fruit from the nearby orchards. We learned how to keep the food cool and fresh, and spent hours planning our house that we would build.

We had found our own way to run away, and it forever changed the way I see camping or gardening. We had discovered a world of our own, and it had taught us, molded us and, eventually, plopped us out when we were ready to see reality. Even though we aren't still lost in our “mountain,” or foraging for food on private property, I still drift back in my mind to that place, and remember with fondness one of the greatest adventures that I have ever been on.

Getting lost seems to many to be a waste of time, but I say that getting lost in any idea or circumstance has the potential to become a journey. It may not seem like it at first, but if you allow yourself to become disoriented, you will travel to ideas and perspectives that will propel you to a path that is much different than the one you thought you wanted.