Merry Christmas Blah, Blah, Blah

Dear Readers,

Here we are again, the shadow of Christmas looming over us like a big tacky giant, wanting to be friendly but accidentally squashing us in the process.  That's not to say, "Bah hum bug."  I'm not that much of a downer.  I am enough of a downer to wish Christmas a speedy hello and goodbye, and get back to life as normal though.

I wasn't always like this, you know.  My disdain for the season is a result of many years working behind retail or coffee counters, assisting frantic and grouchy customers as they spent their hard earned dollars on undeserving family and friends.  A few years working for the airlines and being yelled at by stressed passengers didn't help either.  Culminate that with the loss of significant loved ones, and you've got the perfect recipe for a spoiled holiday season.  I am remiss though, if I don't talk about the time in my life when it was a joy and delight, heart warming and much craved.

As a child growing up in Rupert, I was fortunate to live near both sets of my grandparents.  Grandpa Jack and Grandma Donna (the Badgers) lived about a mile from us down H Street.  Grandpa Cal and Grandma Hazel (the Braeggers) were just a hop skip and a jump past the sugar beet factory in a tiny town called Paul.  Our family had a very strict Christmas schedule: Christmas Eve in Paul with the Braegger clan, Christmas morning (directly after opening Santa's gifts) was spent at my Aunt Nan's house for brunch, and then over to Grandma and Grandpa Badger's for Christmas dinner.  Every turn was filled with food and family, so much love and joy (not to mention a good dose of fighting with my sisters).

Not to downplay the events of Christmas day, as they hold a very dear and special place in my memory, but my Christmas Eve's spent in Paul were by far my favorite.  You've read posts about the Braegger's before; I've written about our reunions at Banbury Hot Springs a few times before.  My mom is the baby sister of 5 kids: Jed, Nan, Ruth, Wally, and Kristie.  I am 2nd from the bottom in a pile of grandkids (not counting the great-grandkids, that is).  On Christmas Eve, we'd come from near and far to Grandpa's cinder block house, located right on the highway, the giant willow trees in front waving their welcome.  Through the office door and out of the cold, when you'd open the door into the house you'd be greeted by a wall of inviting heat, my grandpa insisting on keeping his coal fireplace at full roar so the little ones wouldn't get cold.  On the yellow kitchen table (which now resides at my mom and dad's house), food would be piled, my aunts and grandma laughing in the kitchen as they prepared the grandest of meals.  The men in the living room, with football or whatever on the television (was anyone even watching?), taking turns chatting and napping.  And the grandkids, running circles around the house, or doing cartwheels into the Christmas tree, or trying on our mom's old prom dresses and high heels, trying to see through the broken lenses of the discarded cat eye glasses.  Most likely you would find us by the old hi-fi, listening to the Chipmunks Christmas Album, singing at the top of our lungs.  When dinner was served, the young ones would shove their faces as quickly as possible (why didn't I savor those meals more?), anticipating the gift opening that would take place directly after pie was served.  Then my sweet grandpa, would start with the youngest grandchild and one by one we would open our gifts.  We never wanted to leave, even with the suspense of Santa coming. Those times were the best times, and even as small children we recognized it.

Look at me, wax nostalgic.  Once I get started it's hard to stop, so please forgive me.  Last year my parents started a new tradition where my sister's and I pack up our families and we drive to Tamarack to spend the weekend together in a beautiful cabin.  We just celebrated our Badger family Christmas last weekend, and it renews some of that same spirit I had as a child.  Warm and comfortable, with piles of food and a lot of laughter, it reminds me of what Christmas should be.  I'm stoked to share this time with Lucas and Shay, to give them a taste of what was and is so important to me.

Putting aside my disdain, I would like to wish you all the happiest of holidays.  I hope they are spent in the company of those you love, be it family or friends, and are full of food and laughter and whatever you need to get through the day. 

Sincerely,
h.

To My Tribe: A Belated Thank You

Dear Readers,

The term "Urban Tribe" was introduced to me by a friend at a baby shower we were having for our dear friend Caitlyn the other day.  We were discussing how we would all be battling for time with Caitlyn and her baby girl, already dreaming up schedules to be on-call for them.  I mentioned how lucky I am to be part of a group of friends and community that supports each other so much; that I rely heavily on for help with raising Lucas, as well as support for myself and Shay.  That's when Jen introduced the term to me, saying that people of our generation (although normally close and in good relations with their blood family) have learned to create and depend on bonds with their friends that have in the past been reserved for family.  How true that is.  I've said it before, and I'll say it many times again: my closest friends are family to me.  Good news, bad news, or any news at all, they are the first on my call list.

As we inch nearer to Thanksgiving, and we take time to reflect on what we are grateful for, my heart swells and overflows with affection for my tribe.  With that in mind, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you for the support and love you offered with open arms and hearts during the worst of times.  It's taken me a long time to be able to issue this thanks with any sort of tangibility, but I'm happy to now be in a spot where it's both possible and necessary.  You see, when Loren was first sick, I reached out for your help, and you responded greatly.  My vision was to give Lojo a little inkling of the support and love that was behind him, and I was able to create a book for him that with each page reminded him that he was loved.  I was nervous when I gave him the book, not sure if it was the right thing to do after all.  He looked through it once.  And then again.  Then one more time.  He didn't say anything, just sat shaking his head in a yes fashion looking one page at a time.  This is what he saw:

Aaron

Jesse

Jason

Lucas

PL

Greg R.

Heidi

Matt

Chris

Courtney

Jennifer

Jenny

Michelle

Sarah

Addison

Alex

Beth

Mike

Becky and Catie

Rachel

Shay

Chris (again)

Drew, Lacey, Trace, Rhys

Heidi and Bubba

Sam

These two weirdos.

Erynn

Saratops

Marie

Arran

This Cat

Greg G.

Hott Scott

Davey

Brittany

All of Boise

As you can see, this is a pretty big tribe.  You might be surprised to learn that this doesn't even scratch the surface (I'm missing some of the pictures; I'm sorry if I missed anyone who contributed).  If I had a picture of everyone that offered their love and support, this blog would break records for it's length.  Loren was grateful for and touched by your expressions of love.  So was/am I.

Look around you, look at those who are close to you, family or not.  Identify the bonds that are the strongest.  When you think of strength, who's the first that comes to mind?  When you yearn for company, who do you wish it was with?  Find your tribe.  Add them to your grateful list.  Then call them, text them, whatever way you prefer to reach out, just do it.  Let them know how you feel.  It is so important.  It's so easy.

Hey, you!  Yeah you!  You know who you are, my nearest and dearest.  I love you!  SO MUCH.  Thank you, thank you, thank you, for the rest of my life thank you.  You have made all the difference.

Sincerely,
h.

My Kid

Dear Readers,

I don't do this often.  Brag in excess about my kid, that is.  Don't get me wrong, Lucas is without a doubt one of the finest humans beings to grace this planet.  I know that, his dad knows that, and most people that know him probably know that.  However, I also realize that every parent feels the same way, so the "my kid's the greatest" spiel is worn and redundant and not my sort of thing.

Except for today.  I happen to have gained tangible proof that my kid is indeed, the greatest.

Not even an hour ago I was sitting across the table from Mr. Steidel, Lucas' third grade teacher.  We went through the regular statistics, writing samples, etc.  He expressed enthusiasm for Lucas' drawing abilities, spoke about his better than average reading skills, and spoke to the slight frustration of trying to get Lucas to complete a task in a timely manner (I have dubbed him the captain of Team Molasses, so this complaint is a familiar one to me).  After all the official stuff was out of the way, Mr. Steidel told me about a couple things he noticed that he wanted me to share with me.

The first incident happened just yesterday, at their Halloween party.  The kids had made BINGO sheets earlier in the day, and when their party started and they were preparing to play, one of the girls realized that she had lost her sheet.  Lucas, worried that this girl would not be able to participate, without any sort of prompting, invited her to share his sheet even though it meant he would only get to play every other round.  Mr. Steidel said that the most impressing thing about it was that not only was he willing to sacrifice the chance to win the highly sought after prizes, but he went out of his way to make Anna Belle feel better.

The second apparently happens on a regular basis, this time involving a boy named Andrew.  I've heard of Andrew before; apparently he's pretty hyper and annoys the other kids.  Lucas himself has complained about the young lad, not sure how to handle him. I have some first hand experience with being picked on and made fun of by other kids, and am a bit sensitive to the issue. My advice to Lucas was to be patient with him, and to never-ever be mean or cruel to him.  I explained that there will be annoying people around for the rest of his life, so learning how to be okay with them is an important skill; that tolerance is a virtue.  I don't recall Lucas bringing Andrew up since my big ol' lecture, and had forgotten about it.  Mr. Steidel reminded me of him today though, when he mentioned him as a student that struggles greatly both socially and academically.  According to Mr. Steidel, Lucas (again, unsolicited) will quietly get up when they are working on their assignments and go over to Andrew to see if he needs help, and will then patiently go through whatever problem Andrew is having and will help him work through it.

"You have an exceptional young man for a son," said Mr. Steidel.

I've heard stories from Lucas' previous teachers similar to these.  After each one, I wonder if I could ever be more proud of him.  I learn over and over again that I can.  I am gushing with affection, appreciation, and admiration for the compassion that Lucas exemplifies.  I am proud of his grades, his progress, and his academic prowess.  His golden heart though, that's what makes me weep with gratitude and genuine joy.

I'm the luckiest mom in the world.

Sincerely,
h.

A Baker's Manifesto

Dear Readers,

Earlier today, I was sitting in a sunny spot at the Flying M Coffeehouse with my dear friends Caitlyn and Sarah.  I was describing to them my failed attempt at making pumpkin cinnamon rolls, and after getting frustrated at the thought of this miserable waste of ingredients I ended my rant with, "...but the maple cream cheese frosting was pretty great." To which they both groaned in that it-sounds-so-good sort of way.  "If you get tired of me talking about my baking, please feel free to tell me to shut up at any time," I said.  Caitlyn replied, "If there's one thing I can listen to all day, it's you describing your baking."  My heart swelled with appreciation, because it's one thing I can't seem to shut up about.  So let me tell you a little more about it.

I was 13 or 14 years old when I made my first batch of cookies by myself.  I was doing them for extra credit in my history class (Mr. Hale was unabashed about giving extra points for sucking up).  My mom, an excellent cook and baker in her own right, was never patient with other's in her kitchen (a trait I've inherited), so it was a big deal that I was allowed to tread on such hollowed ground.  I refused help of any sort, insisting that I do every step myself.  I'd watched my mom do it a million times, I was sure that it would be easy to do.  After following the recipe step by step, I pulled a beautiful batch of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.  Actually, they were more than beautiful, they looked amazing.  I eagerly took a bite of one, and was mortified to find that this golden, soft, perfect cookie tasted like a hot mess of chocolate and salt.  I put the next batch in the oven, thinking that it was a fluke that they tasted so bad.  The second batch came out just as lovely as the first, but that horrid taste of death was still found in each bite.  My mom went through the recipe step by step with me to see where I messed up, and to my horror and her delight we found where I went wrong: instead of a 1/2 teaspoon of baking soda, I used a half cup.  I was crestfallen, and earned no extra credit.

It was several years before I took a stab at baking again.  I made the occasional batch of cookies or a birthday cake, using mostly boxed mixes.  Like most domestic things, I shirked my cooking duties for other more important things, like staying out all night, spending my money on concert tickets instead of food, and considering a box of Rice-A-Roni eaten straight from the pan a satisfying and well-rounded meal.  But lurking in the shadows of my subconscience  was an apron clad version of myself, standing along side my mom, aunts, and grandma in one of their yellow kitchens watching pie crusts get rolled out, filled with fruit or custard and a healthy dose of love, and baked to perfection.  I was born into a fine line of bakers, and my genes anxiously awaited me to put my intuitive skills to use.  Thanks to my cousin Tori's sugar cookie recipe, I found my calling.  All it took was a batch of Halloween themed sugar cookies that I took to work with me one day on a whim, and ended up with orders to fill for some regular customers of mine at Starbucks.

That was several years ago now, and since there hasn't been a week that's gone by that I haven't made one sweet treat or another.  A few years ago, while living in the Idaho Building in downtown Boise, I decided to make brunch for a couple of our friends.  After a few mimosas and realizing that I had overestimated the amount of food to make (still a problem of mine), those couple of friends started yelling at other friends who were loitering on 8th Street, and before we knew it our apartment was filled with people.  All of them were kind, gracious, and extremely complimentary of my food.  So to help keep my self esteem high, I started having brunches on a regular basis.  The regular attendees have become accustomed to the Braegger-baker way of things, meaning that I am the only one allowed to cook in my kitchen (I don't mind visitors and conversation, but stay the hell away from my stove), and I will cook and bake and serve until my guests are nearing food comas, and then I'll sit down and partake.  Guests are encouraged to bring bacon (we typically go through 5-6 lbs a brunch) and/or beverages, and for the first time this year I allowed one guest in particular bring his extraordinary macaroni and cheese, the first dish served at a brunch I hosted that I didn't make.  Brunch days are by far my happiest days, when my house is filled with my closest friends and I get to feed and nourish and lavish them with attention.  Oh man, those days are the days I crave.

I have been fortunate enough to turn my passion into a micro-business, taking orders from friends and strangers alike.  I've sent cookies all over the country, I've been honored to make wedding cakes, and treats for everything from baby showers to corporate gifts.  It's funny how it works, because my life doesn't always lend itself to having the time or energy to take orders.  During those times, I won't receive any calls.  The moment that I think I'm ready to start up again, without solicitation, my phone will start ringing and the orders roll in.  I'm always so humbled that people want to pay me to do something that I love so much.  Even more fulfilling than taking orders is to surprise my loved ones with treats.  I have this terrible habit of showing up on doorsteps or in workplaces with a little packages filled with treats and love.  They always think I'm doing something nice for them, but the whole truth is that it's doing something for myself.  The days I struggle the most, those are the days I plan my surprise deliveries; I can't explain how or why, but knowing that I'm going to create something for someone I care about to enjoy, well that can get me through just about anything.

I am so grateful to the ladies in my life that have inspired and instructed me to find such joy in my kitchen.  I am so grateful for those who find pleasure in my talent, and hire me to bake on their behalf.  More than anything, I am grateful for my friends and family who are so patient with me while I shove confection after confection down their throats and never complaining about it.  What would I do without your ever expanding stomachs?  Rest assured that each calorie is matched with heartfelt love and affection.  It may not stop diabetes or heart failure, but it's nourishing none-the-less, I promise.

Sincerely,
h.

Thoughts From 15,000 Feet

Dear Readers,

I returned to Boise late last night after spending a week in New York and New Jersey.  I enjoyed a lot of great experiences, and even more important, a lot of great people.  I have a bag full of stories and memories to share, but that will have to wait for another day.  For now, here is a snapshot from my travels last night that I wrote on the plane ride from Minneapolis to Boise.

As I was getting off of the plane in Cincinnati, I watched as an older black woman climbed into an airport courtesy wheelchair.

"How are you, Mrs. White?" Asked the girl who would be helping her.

"Blessed."  Answered Mrs. White.

So certain in her conviction, so quick to answer.  It wasn't religious, pretentious, or annoying.  Rather, it may have been the closest thing to a wholly honest answer to that often inane question that I've ever heard.

It is possible that I took this entire trip to hear that one, valiant word: blessed.

Sincerely,
h.

A Hot, Glittery Mess

Dear Readers,

Not long after I wrote my last post, where I made a commitment to not be depressed and self-deprecating, and to be kind and offer pie to everyone,  life threw me a curve ball and challenged that commitment.  A dear friend of mine, Deana, decided it was her time to leave this party we call life and let us continue on the dancing in her absence.  And I, once again, found myself in a place of contemplation spurred by the sting of heartache and the longing for an answer to that great question: why?

Deana and I worked at Anthropologie together, along with a gaggle of fantastic girls.  Working with all ladies has it's ups and downs, but I made and strengthened some great relationships there. Deana was one of those, and we always had a great time together.  We laughed, all of the time.  She's one of the few and the proud that could match me in my crassness, and my wit would cower in the shadow of hers.  Loren went into the hospital on my last of work at Anthropologie, and knowing that I was greatly distressed, Deana organized a gathering of the great Antho ladies and took me out for a night on the town to help me take my mind off it; funny how it's a night I'll never forget.  We weren't best friends, the ladies in her life that she was closest to are a phenomenal bunch that never cease to impress me.  However, she was a great friend to me, and I think I was to her.  Either way, I'm glad I had her in my life, I'm glad we had a few occasions to dance all night, I'm glad we made dirty jokes, and I'm certainly glad some of her glitter spark rubbed off on me.  As we learned from Robert Frost (or Pony Boy in "The Outsiders"), "Nothing gold can stay."  But it's impossible to get rid of glitter.

So, let me tell you about that week that Deana died.  I had a birthday, a funeral, a wedding, and a tattoo appointment, one right after the other.  Highest of highs and lowest of lows.  My closest of friends, that joyous group of people that are so essential to my heart that it would stop were they to leave, showered me with love and joy and gifts that I didn't deserve on my birthday.  The next day I picked up my sweet kindred spirit Stephanie, and we spent the morning reflecting and laughing and crying, and then joined some of the other beautiful loves of Deana's life for a memorial that was fitting and tragic. Later we sat in the backyard of Deana's house and mingled in that sort of dazed way you do after a tumultuous afternoon, smeared red lipstick on one another and left red kisses for our departed friend.  On Saturday I was overjoyed to be with my family, that amazing Braegger clan that is full of laughter and chatter and gossip and pie.  My cousin Taylor's wedding was beautiful, it was so fun to be a part of it.  Shay and I were charged with playing the music; it was great to have a reason to dance and celebrate.  Finally, Sunday came and after a year of waiting I went to see the amazing Darcy Nutt, who tortured me for several hours, but the end result is a beautiful and perfect scar.

From this week, I learned (again) that tragedy and joy are the most unlikely companions, but hand in hand they walk together.  I guess it makes sense, as their existence is dependent on the other's success.  Thank you, my friends, my family, for sharing in both with me.  If my life has any purpose at all, it has everything to do with you.  Thank you, Deana, for helping me remember all of this.  I hope you've found yourself in disco heaven, and that you'll save a dance for me.

Sincerely,
h.

Love by the Slice

Dear Readers,

A few weeks ago, I was sitting next to my Uncle Wally near the fire pit at the hollowed grounds of Banbury Hot Springs. We were discussing my blog, the very one you're currently visiting, and I mentioned that I was working on not being so depressing. In response, he told me what my Grandma Hazel used to say to him when he was depressed: "Usually people are depressed because they're spending too much time thinking about themselves."

This conversation has echoed through my mind several times. My Grandma was and continues to be a very important person to my life and development. She died when I was Lucas's age, a very young 8 years old. Even then I put her on a pedestal, and when I think of her I picture someone filled with nothing but warmth, light, and love. I would love to grow up to be just like her. I suppose that it goes without saying when I hear words of advice that she's given, I listen to them reverently and closely and lock them away safely in my heart. What Wally shared with me has held an extra sort of gravity, and I think it's because it was a message that I particularly needed at this time in my life.

I, just like everybody else, have a lot of reasons to feel sorry for myself. My life has had more than it's share of grief, pain, illness, and misery. I have struggled with clinical depression for the entirety of my adult life, sprinkled with post-partum depression as well as anxiety issues. I have an auto-immune disease that reminds me daily that it's alive and well and doing it's best to make things difficult. Funny, I'm getting upset with myself for listing my complaints like this. I don't wear self-loathing well. For that reason, it was and is hard for me to recognize that I am being selfish when I allow one or the other of the items on my list of despair to bring me down. Once again, I can look to my Grandma Hazel's example for guidance; she spent a great deal of her life battling diabetes. I'm sure her list of struggles in life far exceed my own. However, I don't remember ever hearing her complain. I don't recall a time that she had negative words to say about anybody else. But I do have vivid memories of her patience, her kindness, and her pie, which she shared with whomever walked through her door.

This next week I will have my 33rd birthday. As a gift to myself, I am releasing myself from self-pity, and will replace it with the freedom to perform good works for others. I will allow my mind to rest from it's thoughts of self-doubt and critisism, to leave the job of deprication to others, to find and recognize my strengths and beauty. I will think kind thoughts, say kind words, and practice kind deeds. After all, I am doing no one else (let alone myself) a service of wallowing in guilt, grief, and depression. There's already plenty of that in the world without me adding to it. Most importantly, I will make more pie, and everyone that walks through my door will be offered a piece. I'm not sure that there's a better way to serve love and happiness than by the slice, after all.

Sincerely,
h.