Falling in Love...with Football

It was almost fall the other night. I could taste it. Literally.

The hand-picked apples were simmering in their sugar and cinnamon syrup- turning just soft enough to be wrangled into a rose-shaped pie. JUST BECAUSE. The turkey breast was crackling in our stove and I smiled because I finally finally figured out how to best utilize this weird contraption called a bottom burner. Our potatoes were cooked to Eccles' home perfection- soft inside and crunchy outside, the closer to french fries the better.

These homegrown beauties soon became...

Don't be fooled, this isn't as difficult as it looks. Just time-consuming!

The pup was weaving her way through my legs, her small fuzzy body tickling my shins. She looks less scruffy after a shave and a bath, a mohawk trailing down her spine to match Mr. E. He's in the living room just behind me doing his best to multi-task: one eye on his boiling ears of corn, the other on the Colts and Broncos game. We've never splurged for cable, and this isn't even on for love of the game. 

It doesn't matter who's playing, what the score is or who just grabbed that touchdown- football is the sound of fall. Listening to Al Michaels and my mind instantly hits calm. When I was at my first quarter of college and away from home for the first time ever, anxiety hit me so bad I wanted to roll up in my bed and cry, trying not to hit my head on all my open textbooks. But my roommates were out and supposedly the TV was available to all so I tuned in to Monday night football and the calm that washed over me was instant. The soundtrack to my perfect days.

I barely even watch the games. It's on in the background, a soothing sound of whistles and 10 second sound bites, of cheering and announcements. "The best this season" and "Offsides, number ninety-four". Baking is easier, more focused when I can half-tune into NBC. Tidying is quicker when I'm sneaking glances at the latest commercials for game day feasts and tail-gating Americans.

We may have woken in the middle of the night to heavy humid temperatures this week and used the air conditioning more than we ever have before, but every few days when we wake up the sky is a grumpy gray and the mountains behind us are shrouded in fog. It's not cool yet, but it's coming. I felt gypped out of our sweater weather last year thanks to an 80 degree Christmas, but I have high hopes for the coming seasons.

The view from behind our building

In the meantime I'll be grabbing the last of the summer produce and freezer-jamming myself silly in an effort to preserve sunshine in a PB and J.

This is the most delicious apricot-cherry jam I've ever had. Or made.

Sound.

I'd have to say I'm fairly good at blocking the sound of my day out, but some days you're just open to the world, you know? The singing of the train tracks in the morning, the hum and rumble of traffic, the squeal and sigh of the train as it skids to a stop, protesting all the way.

The office is quiet, staccato barks and clicking keys, water poured and sipped and gulped. The murmur of new hires 'thankyouthankyouthankyou' and the shifting weight of the building as coworkers swish by, swiftly, quickly, rushing to business or busy-ness.

Walking home is squeaky shoes and the flap-flap of bags too heavy, legs and feet sore, slapping the sidewalk. Train bells and snippets of radio, bass too loud or too low, thrumming through your bones. That's the way the bus feels, too, as it labors over the potholes, whining and shaking, a lumbering beast  working hard to be oblivious to the world around it.

Home is two paws thumping, two paws scratching, big excited gulps of air too fast around a chew toy. Its the jangling of keys and the jangling of the leash and the burst out the door to the nightly walk.

Once we hit Ninth Street the sounds of the city fall away and we're left with lonely cars and squeaky garages, quiet little plots, house and home, carefully tended and watered by hand. We descend again to the city, leaving the mountain stillness where it was- exposing ourselves to the buzzing neon lights and seven o' clock train horns.

I hear it every day but I tend not to listen. What else in the world am I missing?

Mr. E on Service

You might even find that you like it.

Over the past few years I have learned that often times doing something that makes my wife happy ends up making me happier. Last week I talked about making the bed. Well it turns out that by making the bed every day, I have become dependent on a made bed. I can’t get a good night’s sleep if the sheets haven’t been pulled and straightened and the pillows are neat.

Now, this isn't the best example, but I think you get the idea. Since the beginning of our marriage, Mrs. E always talked about getting a dog. I had a dog once… let’s just say we didn’t get along. I was never a dog person. I think it runs in my family because my Mom used to tell us that she was allergic, but really she just didn’t want one. I didn’t want one. I didn’t want the responsibility and I didn’t want the headache.

Mrs. E always tried to convince me by saying things like, “you’ll love a dog, you just don’t know it” or “it’ll help you with your anxiety.” Instead, I used excuses like “the landlord said no pets,” or “I don’t like dogs,” but eventually the idea grew on me. I was acting tougher than I am, because in reality I’m a big softy for animals.

So we went to the pound and adopted Ripley (named after Sigourney Weaver’s character in Alien, believe it or not). I wanted to make Mrs. E happy, but I honestly think I love that little ball of fuzz more than anyone else ever could.

Sometimes life’s greatest joys come from serving others. I’m telling you, make your spouse happy and the feeling will reciprocate.

Mrs. E was right, I haven’t felt lonely once since this little creature came into our lives.

We're Alive. Barely.

Okay, more than barely, but it felt a little touch and go in the last week.

Mr. E has been busy as a bee, commuting from Orange to Burbank (85+ miles/day on our new car!) and dreading every minute. But he loves his job and he loves the people he works with, so he was happy to make the sacrifice. I've never seen him as confident and easy-going as he is now that he's in a real job.

I had three days to pack/clean the three bedroom house and boy let me tell you. My fingers felt like they were permanently twisted around a mop handle, my spine ached from carrying everything out into the garage and I never want to paint again. Ever. Please, someone hold me to this.

Thankfully all those years wasting time playing Tetris have paid off. Who said you wouldn't use video game skills in real life? I had moved all of our boxes and some furniture into the living room (unused once we moved the TV to the air conditioning) but later realized that because the first falls in the middle of the week, we couldn't actually MOVE our stuff until Saturday. Aaaand the landlord was fumigating. So it became a mad rush to move all of our things into the garage (to wait out the tenting) as well as eat ALL OF THE FOOD because we didn't have a fridge in the new place.

Spoiler alert: we made it. We're still throwing away most of our refrigerated food but you can't have everything.

And the apartment! We moved from a three-bedroom house (though we only used two bedrooms) down to a one bedroom apartment. Personally, I'm excited for the change. Mr. E and I love the location, the rooms are spacious and we're right next to downtown Burbank. Ripley? Not so much. She paced the apartment for 16 hours yesterday without stop- no sleeping, no resting. When we couldn't take it anymore we took her to the car in the hopes she would settle.

Here's the apartment (with some lovely photobombing). Can't wait to move in and decorate!

THE BEDROOM

THE HALLWAY

THE MOST AMAZING BATHROOM

FROM THE FRONT DOOR

THE DINING AREA

WE'RE COMING UP ON THE KITCHEN NOW

OH LOOK. THERE IT IS. FRIDGE-LESS.

VIEW OF KITCHEN IF YOU WERE A CREEPER

VIEW FROM THE DINING AREA

OUR ENTERTAINMENT WALL

LOVED This Weekend

I didn't love this weekend. Not at all. Not even a tiny crumb-ful.

First, this happened.

 Behind that giant tree is our new apartment.

 Coming home from our new apartment (not home for much longer) we found the dog in the garage. NOT where she is supposed to be. She nearly gave us a heart attack when we opened the garage and found her tumbling into the daylight.

And then, this happened. 


And now I'm all out of happenings and excitement and all that's left in me is adulthood and boring-ness. Next is kids. Good grief.

LOVED This Week

We burned the dog on Thursday. On accident, of course. Just a little sparkler dust that caught a hair or two- she was so oblivious she didn't even yelp.

I'm constantly surprised by this dog. Most people talk about dogs and fireworks, warning that they're an unhealthy mix. But Ripley, sweet thing, has grown up with fireworks popping in the distance every night at 9:30pm sharp- thanks Disneyland. So when fireworks exploded overhead at Newport Beach, she didn't bat an eye. She may have shivered and shook from all the new people, the other dogs, the whining and the crying, the smells and sounds of a new place at night, but bright explosions over head? No problem.

We let our sentences dangle for her, waiting until she catches on to the unasked question: "Do you want to..." She uses our shins as a springboard, jumping between us, mouth wide in that doggy smile. She loves the car and often lounges over the window one arm down the side and her head resting between the frame and the mirror. We took it one step further on Thursday and bundled her up for a basket-less bike ride. Pedestrians couldn't get enough of her, face sprouting from our neck as she leveraged herself to see where we were going out of her backpack cocoon, without a care in the world.

I took her out before bed last night and marveled at her supreme calm as Angels Stadium lit up, a cacophony of bangs and booms, and she, undisturbed, chased June beetles.

I wish she could share some of that unruffability with me. Just a scoche.

LOVED This Weekend

This weekend was all about re-charging. We spent the majority of Friday stuck in traffic navigating our way down to a dance recital for our neices. I never expect traffic in San Diego County, especially now that we've been to LA and back a few times, so when we get hit with a 20mph crawl along the 5 I am beyond annoyed. But the girls were adorable and danced beautifully (no stage fright this year!). We love supporting them and their interests.

Upon coming home Mr. E and I worked to put the house in order. I personally feel that whenever the world has become too much or too stressful, the first order of business is always to clean house. If I can right the wrongs of my toothpaste-stained mirror and clean the cobwebs from the corners of the house, by doing so I create firmer ground to stand on and face the rest of my life. 

I feel much better facing dinner inquiries if my sink is empty and my counters are wiped- otherwise I'm constantly reminded of all the things I'm behind in, pile after pile shouting my name. Laundry from last weekend! Mop the footprints from the floor! Vacuum the carpet full of dog hair! 

Once done I feel justified in taking a nap- or two- and watching movies or playing video games with Mr. E because we don't want to think about anything else. Finishing a level or two on Mario Galaxy sure doesn't hurt, either.

We broke our self-imposed hibernation to meet up with Mr. E's friend growing up at a Korean BBQ place in Tustin. All you can eat and highly recommended for two grown men.

Please let there be fantastic sunsets in Burbank through all of the smog of LA!

In Between #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

She sleeps right there, sometimes over, sometimes under, always snuggled right in between. Mr. E had a hard enough time with my flailing arms and legs in those stolen naps together, but now we're constantly poked and prodded with little puppy feet. We turn over in the morning to scold but she opens one lazy eye and her belly is uplifted just waiting for scratches. 

She'll always be our first.

In our constant state of waiting, the job search, the apartment hunting, it's the simple things that are the hardest. Remember to eat. Get up on time. Shave your legs today. There's always something that I'm missing lately because I'm not quite here nor there. I'm in a state of in between, population: me.

In the humid gloom of our add-on master bedroom I shuffle towards the bathroom, shedding sheets and clothes in my quest for the shower. If I make eye contact with her she'll prick her ears and cock her head to the side and swish her tail, eager to please. Mr. E is still a lump on a log at this point, too early for him and already late for me. This is where she thrives the best. She's snuggly and tiny and small, bits and pieces all wrapped around a tail that slowly inflates as she struggles to let out the biggest sigh of contentment.

As soon as I'm clean and human again she waits, eagerly anticipating the moment I open the second drawer from the top. It's at this point she knows- I'll reach in and she's already jumped the pillow hurdle, spinning between my feet as I hop and skip to shove my legs into pants. She'll sprint to the door and pause, waiting until I'm close enough for her to reach up and hook her tiny paws around my knee, stretching for attention. We play this game for most of the morning- I'm making cereal, checking my email, packing my briefcase and still she's stretching on her tip toes.

It isn't until the snap of the laptop that she sprints between the sliver of open door (ringing those dangling bells) and paces beside Mr. E. She's impatient, waiting for permission to jump on the bed and the moment she has it she's all waggy tails and tongue and floppy ears until...she's not. As quick as she can squeeze herself between Mr. E's backside and a pillow it's as if she wasn't awake at all. A kiss for them both and I'm out the door, only pausing long enough to make eye contact and she slowly winks her eyes closed and settles in for her second long nap. This was just the play time in between.

LOVED This Weekend

"Your eyes are like the color of the ocean," she yelled at him, weathering another breaking wave by bouncing on her toes.

He squinted and smiled, the kind that spread slow like syrup across his features. Salt was in his mohawk and in the corners of his lips. She grinned back. The constant roar of the waves did not make for whispered confessions of love. They had all the time in the world for that later.

She watched him swim and ride and tumble in the foam and cherished that moment, just as she did when he teased her for neglecting to rub aloe on her sunburn or sang Prince Charming's response to her Snow White imitation.

At the end of summer's first beach day- courtesy of growing into responsible adults- they tumbled into the car wet and weary. Windows rolled down to alleviate the heat, book in hand, she rested her free hand on his thigh the way they always did in car rides. No bucket seats, said Cake.

It was perfect, these moments they created. Getting home and letting the dog out, unpacking the sand and shore from their towels, settling back into home. On a holiday for parenthood they called fathers and avoided each others' eyes and held their breath, waiting waiting waiting. It wasn't this year and it hadn't been last, despite what they lectured and warned. But it was coming, slow and sure and inevitable and this time it was just a little bit anticipated. The tiniest of bits. The kind that scattered when you turned on the light or hid in corners at loud noises.

She watched him with wide eyes and an open heart as he made dinner, slicing and setting timers and sneaking olives. The weight of reality was setting in as calls and inquiries came over the line from friends and family; when when when. A question they couldn't answer, a feeling they couldn't point to. Soon, they murmured, soon soon soon.

Two years was easy. Five years was cake. But if everyone said it was coming then they had to batten down the hatches, didn't they? They needed to hunker down and store up love like sustenance because it was all they had to go on. If it wasn't now, was it next year? If it hadn't happened, would it at all?

She kidnapped the dog to the bedroom, sneaking pen and paper. Maybe not this year and maybe not next, but between the two of them some concessions could be made. Just this once. 

The dog shook once and tottered over wooden floors to the kitchen, all waggy tails and a lolling tongue. He couldn't resist and bent down to the note on the collar, hidden amongst the wiry hair. Happy Father's Day in scribbly writing. His throat caught and he met her eyes, a smile that spread like syrup. 

 Cornerstone Confessions

Roll Out!

We've been on a little bit of a "What is Wheat to Me" kick lately. Which has been great as far as reminding us to take a closer look at the foods we're ingesting. I've never really been one for diets or food restrictions and I'm down to try almost anything (check chicken feet off that list!). I know this was a huge hassle when I was growing up since I preferred chicken fingers and Mac and Cheese...but I've grown up now! Really! I make my own enchiladas and pesto and spinach lasagna!

So trying to assess what has and doesn't have wheat has been a pain. There is SO MUCH that we consume that includes wheat or wheat products. Not just obvious things like bread and cakes and flour-full things, but canned products and pastas and cereals and sauces. Basically, if it's processed, it has wheat of SOME sort in it. And regardless of whether or not we have a medical condition against wheat, that's a pretty scary thing! 

I'm not sure how far we'll go with this wheat journey, but educating ourselves and working to eat more raw/simple foods is a big step for us. We're young. We just graduated so we don't have a lot of money to be spending on fruit/veggie diets. I'm the only one who cooks consistently since Mr. E relies heavily on his grill...eating unprocessed foods is a challenge! But there are definitely small steps that we've taken.

First of all has been home-made breads. Maybe not the biggest step considering we're still using that pesky flour, but they're made from scratch with wholesome ingredients and they taste much better. I definitely plan on substituting my flour at some point with something a little less gluten-y, but for now I enjoy (or don't enjoy as the case may be) making loaves and crusts and tortillas. Most of all tortillas. 

If I had known how easy tortillas are to make, I would have made these bad boys years ago. I actually really dislike store-bought flour tortillas, but Mr. E likes flour better than corn, so we were at a bit of a conundrum buying-wise. Thankfully, homemade tortillas only have 5 ingredients, take 30 minutes tops and leave me with a huge stack of left overs!

Flour Tortillas

3 cups flour 

2tsp baking powder

1tsp salt

4-6 Tbsp shortening or lard...or butter.

1 1/4 cups warm water

Mix dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Cut in butter until it kind of clumps when you squeeze it together. If clumpy, add more shortening. If it's a hard ball, add more flour.

Add water all at once and mix quickly. Knead a little bit to make sure it's all together. You're looking for a soft dough that isn't sticky. Cover 5- 10 minutes. 

Pinch of 1-inch pieces, kneading small round balls. Flatten these into disks with your hand, then roll out (Autobots?) on a floured surface. Make them as thin or thick as you want. I prefer mine thinner, but I'm having trouble laying them down nicely in the pan, so I opt for a little thicker- more like naan.

I cook the tortilla dough on my cast-iron skillet. This has worked so well that I haven't used any other pans or griddles, so I can't say from experience how well that works. I would imagine as long as you have even heat (good pans/good burners) you would be okay. Watch for the air pockets- it only takes about 30 seconds on each side. 

Also, don't drop any flour. Because then you get a dog who's learned to beg.

We primarily use these for tacos (fish or beef) but I've been known to whip up a batch for enchiladas, too. Stuff those suckers with beans and cheese, add olives and chicken and salsa? Mr. E are in Americanized Mexican heaven...