Family Extension

When you get married, you say, 'yes' to a lot of things - to love and honor, to life through rich and poor, to his stuff, his hobbies, his dietary restrictions, and his televiewing preferences. You also say, 'yes' to the extension of him - his family.

When I was growing up, my girlfriends and I created lists to qualify our ideal husbands. During sleepovers we would set aside critical brainstorming time to compile the most attuned list of descriptors for our dream men. Among credentials such as 'hot,' 'well-dressed,' 'funny,' 'good dancer,' and 'skier' (not snowboarder), we each listed 'comes from a good family.' It was the one credential we all had in common. We each came from happy, loving families, and wanted our future spouses to possess similar lineages I suppose.

While good people are made from all kinds of families and 'good' can take on just about any meaning to anyone,  when I first met Peter, on the first day of MBA school, as our conversation naturally turned to our families, I caught myself mentally checking off that qualifier, grinning from ear to ear, thinking I'm probably giving everything away, but I don't care cause I like him, because I liked what I heard about his family. That his mother and grandmother helped him find his apartment on campus, how his brother and grandfather had gone to Notre Dame as well, and how he had a cousin who was in my class at school - Bill.

The more I got to know Peter, the more I realized that he didn't just come from a good family, he came from a great one. A family that complements and enhances me and my family. A family that knows laughter, hugs, thoughtful gifts, good food, and how to live life to the fullest, just like mine. A family that is so good, that I let the 'good dancer' credential slide a bit.

This weekend I got to hang out with the extended family. Everyone was in town to mourn the death and celebrate the life of Aunt Winona. Moms and dads, grandparents and great grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins, those once and those twice removed, traveled great distances through a blustery winter storm to be together. And each one that I talked to seemed better, more fun, more of an original than the next.

At the end of the funeral Mass, Peter's cousin Kathleen, delivered some beautiful remarks about Winona - wonderful memories about her life and the impact she had in the community and on her family. She concluded with a very powerful statement (and I'm probably going to butcher it, so I apologize.) She said, "Winona was a lot of things to us. But most of all, she was a woman who let and encouraged each of us to be ourselves - to be originals. Because that was exactly who she always was - herself."

When I heard that, it helped me pinpoint just what 'good family' meant for me. It's a family that celebrates you for you. Who says being yourself is the best you can be. I'm lucky to have been born into a family like that. And I'm even luckier to have gained another one who loves me just as I am. A family filled with one of a kind characters. And among them, the original who complements my original - Peter.

The other night, as Peter was looking through some of his snips and clips from years past, he found several hand-made birthday, graduation, and Christmas cards from Aunt Winona. Creative, colorful, thoughtful cards, that surely made Peter's day when he opened them.

Although, I only got to meet Winona a couple times and only got to ride in her Jaguar once, when I saw those hand painted cards, I felt very close to her. And thought perhaps she was egging me on to carry on her legacy of artwork with my own drawings - the cards, picture books, and posters that I've continued to produce over the years. And I of course accepted.

Lo.

The Month Before 30

Before I pinned 'Overthinking at the intersection of work and play' under the title of my blog, I had aimed to 'Conquer the business day and networking night by the age of 30.'

30?
Really?
I gave myself a little less than four years to win the game of life? (Whatever that means.)
Then what? After, I beat the system (at 30) I would just relax and call it quits?
Thankfully, about two years ago I hit the edit button.

Since I started The Early Riser, my blog has continued to progress in tone and content, and through the practice of writing things out each week, I've learned how to approach life in a more mature and rational way. I've learned that timing is out of my control - that plans get made and broken - and that success isn't about wins and losses, dollars earned and dollars spent, square feet and number of cars in your garage. Success is about your level of happiness and it can only be measured by you.

In less than one month, I will turn 30 - that milestone that stands as an ever present stop watch to my blog, despite its absence from the public facing site. Its not like its my scary age - that came and passed at 28 as I cried over my birthday dinner at Morton's. (Peter can attest.) And even though I'm not thinking about conquering the world anymore, 30's approach continues to make me do status checks: How am I feeling? How's the book coming? Married? How is work going? Am I CEO yet? Am I happy?

Today, I checked out like this:
How am I feeling? Healthy - I guess. Although, around 30, I swear it becomes harder and harder to control my mass on Earth - the curves seem to get curvier everyday. Note: Need to resist the urge for seconds - one bowl of Beef Barley should be enough.

How's the book coming? About a week ago, after Peter told me that he wasn't going to live my dream for me, I decided that I needed to commit to it, once and for all. I put pen to paper and started filling out the outline that I've had on hold for the past three years. I'm at 8,500 words. Good start.

Married? CHECK!

How is work going? The usual, 'Good' response, turned 'Excellent' yesterday. And I dare say, the whole conquering thing came true. Around noon at the Reel Club in Oak Brook, over a great chopped salad, my boss told me that I was being promoted. (Huge!) I was going to be working at the next band level, doing marketing and communications for just about the biggest brand in the world. Needless to say, I was and I am ecstatic. And I told her that it came at the perfect time - right before I turned 30.

Am I happy? Absolutely.

At this point, I'm just looking for one more plus. Then ... I'll be all set.

Lo.

Little House, Big Table

When I received my First Communion in second grade, I got more money than my eight year-old self could have imagined. $25 checks rolled in from the relatives with blessings and congratulations on the significant step I had made in the Church.

In total, I probably received about $300 - an amount that afforded me the pick of the litter at S.W. Randall in Squirrel Hill. I imagined building out my Barbie Collection, buying every Crayola pencil, pen and crayon, replacing my scuffed up tap shoes with shiny new ones, and sporting the rabbit fur coat from Newmans's that I always wanted.

The endless possibilities of a kid in 1990 seem completely dwarfed when I look at $300 today. It seems like nothing. It's not enough for the new cocktail dress that I want, not even enough for one of the pair of Manolos I've been ogling. It's not enough for two round trip tickets to Pittsburgh, my wisdom teeth removal, or a month's worth of gas. And when it comes to home repair and decoration, $300 might just get me an end table.   

Our wedding was like my First Communion times 1,000 though. That life step's earning power far outweighed that of my reception of the Eucharist. And just as the gifts seemed to hold the key to making life a little sweeter back then, so to did they in September. But given some uncertainties, after the wedding I grappled with costs, priorities, and future plans before making an investment, and put the money into our savings account, on hold for the perfect purchase decision, just as I ended up doing in second grade.

On Christmas Eve, when we asked eleven people to sit around a makeshift dining room table, we concluded that given our lifestyle - our love of food and entertaining - we were going to make a big investment in a BIG dining room table. Out came the savings and all the Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma gift certificates - and yesterday, into our house came a brand new dining room table and six suede chairs. In a house full of hand-me-downs and the best of our apartments, condos and dioramas past, it is our first new piece of furniture - one that combines a bit of the brewer and a bit of the bee. A piece that makes our home sweet ranch home so much sweeter. 

With as much joy and prosperity that the reception of Sacraments has brought me, I knew the table needed one of its own - a Christening. Perhaps, a weekend's worth of christening. Its first diners - Bob and Melissa. Its first meal - slow roasted glazed ribs, over tuscan baked beans and kale gratin. Its first laughs - those hearty kind that come from Bob's ridiculous stories. Its first spill, ironically enough, a little water from the pitcher.

Love the table.
Looking forward to the company.
Thankful for the unbelievable generosity of friends and family on our wedding day that made this table possible. (And cornbread.)

Lo.

Creme de Menthe

There is a reason why my tongue tingles with excitement from the slightest taste of alcohol. Sure, there's the anticipation of the good times to come, and the sweet savor of the Sancerre that I'm pouring, but there's something more. It's the memories of sips past, especially those first ones I took as a child.

On occasion, we were allowed to live la Vie en France growing up. We were allotted about a shots worth of the wine my parents were drinking in Sherry glasses that we believed were kid-size wine glasses. We tasted wines from Kendall Jackson to Tattinger, and I dare say developed a distinguished palette along with our trials.

And on occasion, when the meal was over and my parents poured themselves a night cap, we became very comfortable ordering our own - Creme de Menthe. While other children knew hot fudge or Hershey's syrup as the perfect ice cream topper, we politely asked for a little Creme de Menthe over our little glass bowls of Breyer's Vanilla Bean. With the amount of food I consumed as a child, I never felt any effects from the wine or wonderful green stuff, but what I experienced on my tongue brought more dimension to the meal.

Last week, in Tortola, I was greeted with the question - 'What would you like to drink?' upon touching down in Beef Island. While my white wine order was filled pronto, Peter's Red Stripe was put on hold until he finished Heske's specialty cocktail du jour. It's name, the Tropical Turtle. It's special ingredient Creme de Menthe.

It was Heske's newest concoction - his piece de resistance after mixing up a lineage of creative cocktails the night before, including a Frog on the Beach, a Gorilla Snot, a Green Gremlin, a Kermit de Menthe, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. The drinks were three parts hard alcohol, one part simple syrup, and a splash of Creme de Menthe, turning each and every one of them into the most alarming, iridescently green color you can imagine. 

While I sipped my Chardonnay, Peter got his Catastrophe de Menthe cocktail out of the way, and joined the ranks of those brave enough to die their insides green. For the rest of the week, the magic green bottle played a starring role in our non-stop party. I'd go so far to say that it reached Celebrity status fifteen times over. It even signed Mike's shirt.

It spent its days daring those with more courage than I to take a shot, losing to the one-dollar betters, and peer pressuring those with absolutely no interest in drinking the substance to top off their gin and tonics.

I slyly kept the green juice off of my lips the entire week. And as Heske poured its last sweet drop into his glass, and saluted the fun, memories, and catastrophe that it brought to our days, I felt kind of bad that I had missed out. That I hadn't given it a chance, especially when some of my first memories of drinking, included it as the best ice cream topper of all. 

So last night, after the Sancerre, after the grilled cheese dipped in my roasted tomato soup ...

About midway through Moneyball, I took an appropriately timed intermission to make myself a bowl of ice cream topped with the catastrophe. And it tasted as good as I remembered. 

Heske, to add to your list of cocktail recipes: a Creme de Menthe milkshake. And I promise a year from now in Tortolla, at the reunion (crossing my fingers), I'll become as Creme de Menthe cool as everyone else.

Lo.

A Mojo-less Monday

Most mornings, during most morning runs, after most of my 12-ounce cups of coffee, and before I check the trending topics on Twitter, I find it. That is, the perfect theme for the article I'm writing - that one thing that can aptly sum up an activity or a friendship or a weekend worth of fun and make it slightly relevant for readers outside of the family and friends circle.

Today was not one of those days. This morning was not one of those mornings. My cup of coffee was not one of those 12-ouncers. Basically, I had a mishmash of big stuff - meaningful stuff from the weekend to commit to paper and I couldn't find one ounce of poetic commonality to tie it all together.

This weekend, we returned to the Ville in style with a Lou Malnati's pizza on Friday night; we mourned the loss and celebrated the life of Great Aunt Winona at an internment service on Saturday morning; we went for runs and we unpacked; we got a first look at Meredith's new hairdo and shared many laughs with her and Adam on Saturday evening; we celebrated Epiphany; we said our final tearful farewell to Baum and cleaned up Christmas; we cheered, paced, and then cursed in front of the Steelers Game; and of course, we cooked.

And it wasn't just any old cooking - it was epic, big deal cooking. The most fun I've had in the kitchen since last week cooking.

Once upon a Tweet, Peter's friend Jess, a Blogger with a capital B and Chef with a capital C, asked me if I would like to test some recipes for her. She said she had a fast approaching deadline for her cookbook and needed some help. My spastic eagerness joined the Twitter Stream and she sent me several recipes. This weekend, Adam and Meredith got to taste and critique the devilled eggs; and last night, Peter and I sat down to dine and provide feedback on the Cornish Hens with Poached Prunes recipe. It was an amazing experience all around.   

That was my weekend, stripped of the witty, old-lady humor analogies. I'll blame the lack of creativity on Monday - the end of the weekend, my vacation, and the holidays. Monday - the return to rush hour, cubicles, the remnants of holiday food left out for mindless grazing, and a cramped back from hunching over to respond to emails all day. And I'll hope that by the time Cinderella comes over for dinner on Sunday, I'll get my mojo back.

Lo.

Resolutions

Starting the year on island time, losing track of days, savoring the adventure du jour, I've neglected the resolution - the one that I have yet to make.

Prior to injecting myself with Jerk and other island spices, I had tossed around the idea of adding yoga and tennis to my very limited menu of exercise as a resolution. But last night, after another beautiful day on the boat, a picturesque lunch at Saba Rock, a snorkel session off Virgin Gorda, and my first Mojito of the vacation, I came to the conclusion that a spiced up fitness regimen was too glib. That I had found something a little more meaningful while here that I wanted to resolve to keep. Well, three things.

My Resolutions:
1. To Live Adventurously - To keep traveling and exploring - venturing, boating, running, cooking, and working outside of my comfort zone - embracing Peter's passion for the new and unconventional.

(Maybe not that adventurous.)

To Keep Friends Close - To nurture the friendships that I have, whether down the street or a thousand miles away. To continue to build more friendships. And to continue to invite them over for dinner so our (new) dining room table is full at least once a week. 

Above All, Be Happy  - As I looked down at my nails on the boat ride home from Virgin Gorda yesterday, I realized that I hadn't bitten them at all during this vacation. And I realized it wasn't so much the presence or absence of stress, it was happiness. About the past, present and future. And the certainty that it is within my control to keep it there all year.

Today, we leave Tortola, and as Peter said last night, we will hit the ultimate reverse culture shock when we land in O'Hare at 7:00 PM. Our job, to keep the reverse culture shock in place. That is, to keep the adventure, friendships, and happiness that we experienced here present at work and at home, and to keep a little bit of Tortola on the menu every night.

Lo.

The One That Didn't Get Away

As a brunette, you might think on occasion, I'd be leery of the blond. As a runner, you might think that I'm envious of the Speedo clad women in the pool swimming next to my husband three days a week. And as an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl, you might think I fear the night owlettes. As it is, I have no fear of other women. And I have no doubt that to my husband, I am the only one. That no honey can out-sweeten his honeybee.

On Valentine's Day 2008 - the first gushy holiday that Peter and I celebrated together - I expressed my jealousy toward my rival in a cartoon drawing that later was replicated as the Save the Date for our wedding. The picture mentioned my fiercest, and I believe, only competition - the Blue Marlin.

Yesterday, the twelve hour fishing tour, turned to thirteen then fourteen hours. I watched the sunset over the cove, and still no sign of the boat coming into the dock. I knew with Captain Tim on board, nothing could have happened on the high seas, but I did suspect something else. That Peter was being seduced. Not by the sunrise that they saw. Not by the Wahoos that they caught. Not even by the Mahi Mahi that shimmied and shined through the water and onto their boat. It was far worse. It was my rival. The Marlin. 

Somewhere between Tortola and Anegada, sometime after noon, Peter fought with an 80-pound Marlin and reeled it in. And like the Sirens to Odysseus, the Marlin's beauty, power, and majesty called to Peter. He got close. And then closer. And he saw the iridescence, the magical glow that its stripes exuded, the reason it reigns as queen of the Caribbean Sea.

But Peter let it go. He had already caught his prize. And she was making the jerk slaw for the Wahoo tacos back at the house. I guess I need not fear the Marlin. To Peter, not even the ultimate trophy fish can compete with me.

In all seriousness, I am so proud of Peter for reeling in the big one. And for bringing home enough fish with Tom and Scotty to feed fourteen for a week.

Lo.

A Table for Fourteen

Peter is on a twelve hour (yes, twelve hour) fishing excursion led by Captain / Pirate Tim. The crew is about six hours in and word came back to the house via text that it's been a prolific morning. They've been reeling the big ones in. Wahoo after Wahoo. Ahi after Ahi. And as I look out over the cove, waiting for the salty sailors to return home with their prized catches, I'm thinking fish tacos with a jerk cabbage slaw. But also an Island Fish Stew. Crusty bread. Perhaps both. Definitely some rice and beans. There are fourteen people to feed after all.

One of my favorite parts of any vacation are the meals. They are actually the only activity that seems to keep you on some sort of schedule. After the sun sets and your first margarita yields its last sweet sip, your stomach bellows a slight growl, and you know it's the best time of the day. That time right before dinner where you scrape off the sand that is stuck between your toes, shower, change, shake up another cocktail and begin to salivate over the specialties of the house and the courses to come.

Here, in Tortola though, the restaurants, a boat ride away, are better during the day, when you don't care if you and your dollars get wet on the swim in. So the appetizers, soups, plates, and desserts of the day are made in our own house - our own creations, made in a kitchen that fits fourteen cooks, and served at a table that seats fourteen famished friends. Oysters on the half shell. Homemade tortilla chips and guacamole. Smoked duck empanadas. Tabbouleh. Carnivorous Quiche. The Fresh Catch of the Day. Our portfolio continues to expand.

A couple nights ago, with the New Year's celebrations checked off the list, I was presented with the opportunity to play the role of house chef - a role that I embraced with vigor, especially with a support crew that seemed equally as anxious. 

The first night's performance was underwhelming, a warm up run per se to see if it was possible to serve a table of fourteen when I was so used to cooking for two. There was no grocery store run, so with what was in the house, I made homemade roasted tomato sauce over fettuccine topped with Parmesano Reggiano, green beans, and a chopped salad. Simple and appreciated.

Last night, I put some thought into it though. Along with the crowd, I had the challenge of accommodating gluten intolerance, vegetarianism, and my carnivorous husband. So I decided to make a variety of quiche - vegetarian, carnivorous, smoked salmon, and crustless. We got back from a day at Cooper's Island at 6:30 PM and with the help of the most amazing assembly of line cooks I have ever had led by sous chef, Peter, dinner was on the table at 8:30 PM. And stomachs were fully stuffed by 9:30 PM. A little more elaborate. A little more loved.

Almost seven hours in, and I'm assuming that the haul is growing and that fish will be on the menu tomorrow evening as well. Tonight will be the piece de resistance. I can already taste it. By the growl of my stomach, I can tell it's just about lunch time, but removing myself from the view could be hard right now. 

Lo. 

Tortola Quiche Night Recipes:
Crust:
2 cups flour
Pinch of sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 tablespoons butter, chilled and cut into small pieces
3 tablespoons Crisco
7-10 tablespoons ice water (I didn't have to use as much because I was working in a very humid climate and the dough formed much quicker than I had expected.)

Filling Base
12 eggs
2 cups cream
1 cup milk
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Whisk together and set aside.

For Vegetarian
1 Cup chopped mushrooms, sauteed for about five minutes in olive oil, juice drained
1 Cup spinach, steamed, pressed of all water, and chopped
Goat cheese

For Caniverous
8 slices of bacon, pan fried, drained of fat, and chopped
6 ounces of Chorizo, chopped
6 ounces cheddar cheese shredded
6 ounces Gruyere cheese shredded

For Smoked salmon
1 teaspoon chopped dill
1 cup spinach, steamed, pressed of all water, and chopped
One package of smoked salmon, chopped
6 ounces Gruyere cheese, shredded

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Sift together flour, sugar and salt. Add butter and Crisco and with a pastry blender or two knives, cut until the dough looks like small crumbs. Add water tablespoon by tablespoon and mix with your hands until it just comes together to form a ball. Ideally, you would then refrigerate the dough for at least two hours, but I had a hungry crowd, so I went straight into rolling it out and inserting it into the greased pans. I didn't have quiche or pie pans, so I used rectangular roasting pans, which did the trick. (This recipe made dough for 3 quiches, but I like my dough thinner.)

Line the inside of the crust with aluminum foil and weigh it down with pie weights or dried beans. I used forks actually because we didn't have the other two options. Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes or until just golden.

Remove from oven and let cool about ten minutes. Line with filling of choice, then egg mixture, then cheese. Bake at 400 degrees for 25 - 30 minutes or until golden brown on top and set.

Remove from oven and let it stand for about five minutes. Serve. Last night I served it with a fruit salad tossed with mint and lemon juice, tabbouleh, and Ciabatta.

The Tortola Schedule

On New Year's Eve, after Peter and I and the rest of our neon clad crew including one neon pirate and two little neon Indians, took the spring break-like dance floor at Foxie's on Yost Van Dyke from good to unbelievable with the help of a coconut, and just about ten minutes before the revelers were going to count down till midnight, it started pouring. Pouring. The Pain Killers hadn't penetrated deep enough to lose the crowds sense or getting soaked, so the beach party headed indoors, squeezing under the few covered spaces of the infamous bar, but continuing to pulse and writhe to the island rhythms. 

As I headed in, perhaps at a speed much quicker than the rest of my group, I lost them. It was me in a sea of sweat, spilling drinks, and last minute claims on kissing partners. 'Okay, this can't be that hard - everyone is wearing bright neon colors.' I checked my watch - five minutes till midnight. I heated up my search, I pushed my way through the channel of people, onto the dance floor, got coaxed to wiggle a little, the coconut was still there, but no neon. I headed to the perimeter again, the shower had passed as quickly as it came, so I ventured onto the beach. No neon tank-xedos. No neon wigs. Ten. Nine. Eight. (Crap!) Seven. Six. (Tears welling.) Five. Four. Three. Two. One. HAPPY NEW YEAR! I looked around and saw glassy eyed girls galore go to town on their new found New Year's kisses. But I couldn't find mine. Where was Peter? About five minutes later, I heard someone yell, 'Want a drink?' from a tailgating table that a boat crew must have left behind. It was the bigger of the Indians. And behind him, further down on the beach, I found the rest of the neon kids. And Peter. Even though I was ten minutes late, and irrationally crabby, I still got a kiss to start 2012 right.

(That's a neon tank-xedo by the way, lovingly designed for the group by Nash.)

I am a girl of routine. Of schedule. Of premeditated plans. Partial blame goes to heredity, but the remainder is unique to me. I am on a vacation without a schedule though, without the elements that enable my daily routine. There is no Starbucks down the road, there is no easy five mile loop to run, bedtime is much later than 9 PM, getting places doesn't happen by car, but by boat, and cocktail hour starts as soon as you get on board. Needless to say, I have been far removed from the kind of plans that I'm used to for the past three days.

Yesterday though, perhaps when I heard Tom say that we had reached mile 8.2 and an elevation of 1,300 feet on the most epic 16-mile run that I have ever done, I started to realize that some of the amazing things happen outside of their scheduled allotment of time. 

For instance, on New Year's Day, I had one goal - make it to mass. I found a church, but couldn't find its mass times. I found a driver, but could he drive on the left side of the road? After waking up at 10:00 AM, and after Peter gained the courage to go Left, Left, Left! I figured high noon was our best shot. We got there and the congregation was just leaving. Peter and I offered up a couple prayers, one for traveler's dispensation, and as we were praying, a local woman said she would get Father Walter for us. Father came out, welcomed us to Saint Mary, Star of the Sea, and said he would give us communion. Right there, Peter and I had our own private mass and a blessing on our marriage. As we left, Peter said, that's what happens when people aren't in such a rush.

Then, yesterday, after pounding up and down the driveway as my solution to running during the beginning of the trip, Tom said I should run the island with Mike and him. We'd leave at 5:45 AM. It would be hot. Hydrate. I accepted the challenge, thinking that we would run up and down the undulating hills that characterize the roads here. Peter drove the runners to the far West Side of the island, and Tom told us the problem - the main road, given its narrow twists and turns and crazy drivers, would be a death trap. So we'll go the back way. The back way included the steepest hills that I have ever seen, let alone run up. We scaled 1,400 feet on the run and took in some of the most breathtaking views. Once on the ridge of Tortola, we ran up and down its more gentle slopes, through a couple down pours, past goats and menacing dogs, by locals incredulous of our audacity, then down again, and Garmined in at 16.5 miles. I had planned for a two-hour, thirteen mile, relatively level run. I got something way different - way more amazing - way sweeter to finish in a sprint to Peter who was waiting for us at the end of the trail with water and the camera. 

By the time I was snorkeling through schools of tropical fish yesterday afternoon without even feeling cramped or sore from the morning's run, I knew that the Tortola schedule was just what I needed to start the year.

Last night, as Peter and I watched the sun go down over the ocean, I got a really special, sober kiss on a bench that left little between us and a cascading cliff leading to the sonorous ocean lit with pink and purple hues from the setting sun. On January 2nd, I knew that 2012 was going to be an amazing year and that we were ringing it in, in the best way possible. 

Lo.