And Here We Have Idaho

Dear Readers,

I had the honor and the privilege of attending my friend Jessica's wedding in Salt Lake City this past weekend. The sunset ceremony overlooking the Salt Lake valley was beautiful, the food and dancing were divine, but spending time with Jessica and the Knickerbocker family and their friends was the most enjoyable part of the weekend for me. I haven't met a whole lot of people from New Jersey in my lifetime, but I now have several New Jersians (yes, I just made that word up) that I can call friends.

These new friends of mine got a lot of pleasure out of making fun of Idaho. You know, the usual potato jokes (or the corn jokes for those who confused us with Iowa), or the wondering of where Idaho is geographically located, and the genuine surprise that we were normal, functioning people who don't have thick country drawls or bib overalls. After the novelty wore off, however, I was able to convince at least one or two of them that Idaho is a wonderful place and "...if you would only give it a chance you would fall in love with it!"!

12 years ago, I moved back to Idaho and was making my plans to move away from it again soon. Obviously, my plans fell through. At the time, I didn't have a good word to say about it. Still bitter and resentful of my experience growing up in a small town with some awfully small minded people, I wasn't able to recognize how unique and fortunate I was to be from Southern Idaho. As I've grown and matured, my love and affection for my home state has become more and more obvious and a part of me. It's no wonder, really; I'm part of the 4th generation on one side and 3rd generation on the other to be born and raised in Idaho. My family has been in this state before it was called one. They were the first to work the land they lived on, they helped to build and make mines profitable, and they were some of the earliest workers in the sugar industry that still contributes greatly to the state's economy.

My Grandpa Jack was born in Stanrod, Idaho, right on the Utah border. My Grandma Donna was born in Burley, Idaho near where the courthouse stands now. My Grandpa Cal was born in Malta, Idaho. And my Grandma Hazel was born in Rigby (also the birthplace of television). Both of my parents were born in Rupert, and my sister's and I were all born within 2 1/2 hours of it. I guess you could say, this state is a part of my family heritage. Our roots run deep here, and although I didn't realize it until just the last couple years, there's something to sticking close to your roots.

Beyond the sage brush and farmland of southern Idaho, when you drive the stretch of freeway between Rupert and Boise (known for it's peculiar stench, wacky roadside attractions like the now defunct "Jet Ski Pond", and long empty space between Mountain Home and anywhere else), you follow the pathway of my heart. Although my family keeps me connected to Southern Idaho, my heart and mind rest in Boise.

Boise and I have been through a lot together. Growing up I'd look forward to my week long trips to my Aunt Ruth's house on Desert Avenue more than anything else. I've viewed every inch of the city from the top of Table Rock, to the highest peak at Wild Waters and back down to the end of Hill Road. I've watched friends come and go and then come back again (it's a hard lesson to learn that life is life no matter where you go, but life in Boise ain't that bad). I got married here. I had my son here. I've watched my nieces and nephews be born and grow up here. I've made a solid second family of friends here. I've witnessed the power of community, the kindness this city has to offer, and have first hand experienced the love the city offers in both tragic and joyous situations.

Beyond Boise's borders, I have to give shout-outs to the rest of the state: Stanley and all that beautiful land they call the Sawtooths, your beauty is as breathtaking as your lakes are cold; Northern Idaho where your enthusiasm, whether it be for white supremacy or scenery, helps to make this great state unforgettable; to the rivers and lakes, the snowy peaks and lava flows, to every ski hill and pile of manure, I salute you and I sing your praises. I hope to represent Idaho well. For it is, in my mind, the greatest state in this nation. Even if it is as red as the day is long.

Sincerely,
h.

Canning Peaches: A DIY Journey of a Lifetime

Dear Readers,

Recently, I became a proud member of Pinterest (please see pinterest.com if you don't know what I'm talking about) and have had the chance to read several wonderful step by step, DIY, beautifully done instructional blogs for the crafty and talented. In an effort to meet and/or exceed the instructional blog expectations, I'm summoning the power of my mormon-family blood and am going to show you how to can peaches, Badger-Girl style.

Having not been to church in a few years, I was having a hard time finding my inner-homemaker, so I recruited the help of my younger awesome (and church going) sister, Kate. And so our journey to home canned peaches began in Kate's mini-van, with our ever faithful helpers, Lucas, Lucy, and Annie.



Kate and I are big fans of Williamson's Orchards in the Sunny Slope area of Marsing. As we were nearing the beautiful Snake River Valley, Lucas informed me that he wasn't feeling so well and then puked all over the floor of the van. Lucy was kind of grossed out, but not enough to turn off her DVD. And Annie could care less, all she wanted was a Diet Coke and a sucker. But after some clean up and a stop at a super creepy gas station, we finally made it to the orchards. I had a brief minute of calm, long enough to take this picture:



We bought our boxes of peaches in record time to keep the children from hurting themselves or others at the family friendly farm stand. On the drive back, Lucas asked Lucy if they could watch "Coraline". Lucy's reply was direct and to the point: "No. I'm never watching "Coraline" again because you puked on it like a jack-ass."

When we finally made it back to Boise, we decided the peaches needed to ripen before we canned them. Also, we smelled like vomit and farm stand and felt like a mini-van full of jack-asses. So fast forward two days, and we've finally reached canning day!

So here's how you do it:

Step One: Buy one hell of a lot of peaches. We bought two boxes. That's roughly equivalent to 18,000 peaches.



Step Two: Hire a crazy one year old to help take peaches out of the box and hide throughout the house. That way, you won't get bored with the rest of the steps. Remind said baby that the fire place is the perfect place to hide peaches.



Step Three: Buy and sanitize a whole bunch of jars. If you don't want to buy them, clear out your fridge of all the unused condiments (ie mayonnaise, old moldy jam, and the half a bottle of kalamata olives you had to pretend to like at a dinner party you had) and wash out those bottles as good as you can. We just bought the jars.



Step Four: Blanch the peaches by putting them in a pot of boiling water for 30 seconds, and then putting them in an ice bath. Try to burn yourself while doing this to keep your senses sharp and on high alert. Swear as needed.



Step Five: Spend the next several hours of your life skinning and slicing peaches and putting them in their jars. Try your hardest to get peach juice all over your counters and floors so that you have a satisfying coating of fruit adhesive to clean up when you're done.



Step Six: Make a sugar syrup on the stove. Pour over peaches in the jars and then put the lids on tight. Do not take a picture of this step because nobody wants to see this vital part of the process.

Step Seven: Buy a lot of canning equipment. Luckily, Kate already did this step so I didn't have to pay for it.

Step Eight: Put the jars filled with peaches and syrup in the jar holder thing. Don't let the jars touch each other (they need to be a Bible's width apart like at a church dance). Immerse in big pot of boiling water. At this point, you want to make sure your kitchen is at a nice humid 109 degrees.



Step Nine: Let the jars boil for a really long time. Try to make as many jars of peaches as possible in a day, but only boil six jars at a time to really draw out the process. Also, it's best for a screaming baby to enter the kitchen when it's time to remove the jars, and try to entice them into touching one of the bottles that just came out of the boiling pot of water. That way every jar you pull out is a reminder of the way you disfigured a child for life.



Step Ten: Wait. And wait. And wait some more. Eventually the lid should make a little *pop* noise, signaling your success as a canner. All of ours popped and with each sweet little noise an angel smiled.



Step Eleven: Find a place in your two bedroom apartment to store 24 jars of peaches. And you're done! Now that you've put all that work, sweat, puke, and swearing into a couple dozen jars of fruit, try to avoid ever opening one bottle for fear of realizing all the work you put into it is only worth about 3 minutes of eating enjoyment.

Woila! DIY blog, h.-style! Not only did the peaches take forever, but this blog did to. I'm never teaching you, my sweet and devoted readers, to make anything ever again.

Sincerely,
h.

The Blame has Been Placed

Dear Readers,

I was just reading some of my earliest blogs out loud to Shay. We were chuckling and having a gay ol' time when Shay pointed out that my writing has become rather serious. "You used to be so funny!" said Shay. I can't help but agree, I was pretty damn funny (please visit my blogs from 2010 if you don't know what I'm talking about). I feel that the death of my best friend has caused me to lose some of my sense of humor, and so I would like to make it official: I blame you, Loren.

Earlier this evening I was at dinner at the Red Feather with my sweet and close friend Jenny. Inevitably, the conversation moved to Loren. Loren this and Loren that and do you remember when Loren said blah blah blah. Loren, Loren, Lojo. I would be the biggest liar and fraud in the world if I said I don't think of him multiple times a day. I would be an even bigger liar (we're talking career politician sized liar) if i said I didn't shed a tear a least once a day because I miss him to my absolute core. Because I do. And if he could hear me, he would hear me say: "Please, please, come home. I miss you. I love you. My life, my family, is not the same without you."

So maybe I did lose some of my funny. But more than that, I lost one of my closest friends. A book I read recently said that Americans don't let themselves mourn correctly. That it's easier and more socially acceptable to sweep things under the rug, to shuffle the sad days into the deck of life, and pretend like they didn't happen. Get back to work! Go back to school! Keep yourself busy enough that you won't feel feelings anymore! But when you put it under a microscope you can't help but see, the sadness and helplessness you feel when you mourn cannot be solved by a hard days work or a day of busy distractions. As Tom Robbins said, "It is what it is. You are what you it. There are no mistakes."

With that sentiment in mind, I'm still funny. I can make people laugh. I can make people happy. I still make delightful treats and overly lavish my friends and family with an abundance of nurturing and concern. But I can miss my friend at the same time. Because the fact of the matter is, Loren was a part, a huge part, of my day to day life. And things just haven't been the same with him gone and it's better for me to acknowledge that then it is for me to pretend that his death was just another part of life. But one day, perhaps tomorrow or maybe a year from now, I'll be just as funny as I was when I started this blog a year and a half ago.

Sincerely,
h.