Ten years ago,

we celebrated my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary in the fellowship hall at Zion Mennonite with stewed beef and sauerkraut. The beef was tender and the sauerkraut, fragrant, as sauerkraut is wont to be, so you might not believe me when I say the whole business had romantic underpinnings, but then consider it was a rerun of the dinner served all those years ago at their reception. Never mind that some of us entertained ourselves by seeing how much sauerkraut we could trick our younger cousins into eating.

And then there was the music -- a flute-saxophone duet of Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" performed, to the accompaniment of strings on a CD, by yours truly and my dear cousin Steph. It sounds ill conceived, I know, but it was at least the third time we'd performed that little number -- the other two times being at church and the high school Christmas concert. Even so, it's safe to say grandpa and grandma were pretty unaffected by all the Titanic hype and, consequently, unmoved by our otherwise quite stirring (i.e. our moms liked it) rendition. There may also have been singing, but since maybe three out of the multitude of cousins aren't tone deaf, that's best forgotten.

We had punch, of course, and nuts and mints, which were plentiful thanks to the aunt who slapped down would-be snitchers when they came to set up tables and chairs earlier that afternoon. She later recounted the experience saying, quite succinctly, "I'm firm about my nuts." If that's not enough to scare one toward the straight and narrow, I don't know what is. I just don't.

But it's only now, being married for three years, that I can begin to grasp the enormity of what it means to be married for 50. A lot of life happens in 50 years -- heck, a lot of life has happened in 10: a dozen or so high school graduations, that many more from college, a handful of graduate school degrees, four businesses, four weddings, five great grandchildren and another on the way, Paul's passing, cancer, retirements, first jobs, first loves, promotions, transfers, houses bought and sold -- all along with the day-to-day tragedies and quiet miracles a family of 40-some accumulates on the way.

On January 16 my grandparents started on their 61st year of marriage. We celebrated much as we did 10 years ago. But instead of beef there was ham, and instead of singing (which grandpa and grandma lobbied for but were ultimately denied, for the greater good) or Celine, there were tributes and jokes and a power point that Mallory, bless her heart, put together with next to no notice, and instead of Al from Marion taking the family picture, it was Brenda. There were nuts and punch and (cream cheese) mints, per usual, because what celebration of note could be complete without those mints? And there was cake, but I'll tell you about later.

I can't imagine what it's like for grandpa and grandma to look back on the years since they first met at the barn dance -- or when grandpa called on grandma when she had the chickenpox, depending on what version of the how-we-met story one's gullible enough to believe. Love and all else aside, it's an uncommon gift to have someone by your side who's shared all that time, all those experiences that have shaped your perspective and, ultimately, who you've both become. So if you happen across my grandma at the store or at TOPS club, or if you see my grandpa hauling pop or doughnuts into town for the guys at Kevin's office, tell them congratulations. And marvel with them a little bit at the miracle of 60 years in love.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Before the leaves turn or the grain ripens, fall settles in more subtly; the piercing clarity of the summer sun softens slowly to gold, painting everything it touches in such warm, glowing shades that your heart will burn and you'll lift your face to the sky to be painted gold, too.

All the while other things will be absorbing the light until you look around to see the whole world ablaze with possibility. At least that's how it is for me.

Some look to spring for rebirth, but I see it happening now -- partly because I'll always associate fall with fresh notebooks and new pencils with erasers yet unmarred. And there's the way farmers like my dad assess, reassess and plan for next harvest even while bringing in this year's crop. But mainly it just seems a little easier to breathe and dream, to shake off the lethargy -- and restlessness -- of summer and settle in for something new, whatever that may be.

My alma mater had some sort of off-the-books-rule that forbade freshmen from dating their first two weeks, or month, or semester (?) of school. The first several weeks of school were generally very camp-like with strangers thrown together away from home with an itinerary (orientation, then classes and mixer activities) and enthusiastic, if not occasionally overzealous, counselors (resident directors) to direct; the theory, I suppose, was that it was best to avoid the brief-yet-intense romances such a setting could inspire.

Oh but fall in Orange City, which happens to be on the Monarchs' migration path, could be magic, with many a young couple breaking the rule to fall in love over long walks, stargazing and coffee (the three primary dating activities the town had to offer those without reliable transportation). And while I, along with the rest of campus, followed the progress of these romances with skepticism, when I fell in love with Justin it was in the fall, over coffee, long walks and letters, and Linda Hasselstrom.

So there's that.

But I also remember falling asleep in the combine riding with my dad after school; the day may have been biting cold, but the cab was warm and the sound of corn raining into the hopper, soothing -- and my little belly was always filled to capacity with one of the meals my mom and aunt brought out to the field for their crew. How to describe that feeling -- Safety? Comfort? Contentment? In any case, for that little girl sleeping on her daddy's shoulder as he combined corn, everything was right in the world; there were only possibilities, not problems.

So there's that, too.

As I sit here writing now, I'm warm on the couch with J; not everything's right in the world and I'm mourning winter's eminent arrival, but there is an apple crisp cooling on the counter (thanks for the apples, mom) and the day was so beautiful and bright we could walk to the lake without coats even though last week it snowed. Nothing gold can stay, it's true, but there are possibilities, still.

And if you, like me, need reminding on occasion, try these (because even once winter's come, we'll still have Libby's and apples):

Pure Gold Pumpkin Bread

1 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/3 cup buttermilk
1/2 tsp vanilla
4 Tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
1 egg plus 1 egg white, at room temperature
1 cup pumpkin puree (I used Libby's)
1/2 cup golden raisins, if desired
Nuts, if desired
Candied ginger, if desired

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. (My new oven bakes 100 degrees too hot, which I discovered thanks to the 4-dollar oven thermometer from Target.)

Whisk together dry ingredients. In another bowl, beat butter until creamy, add sugar and beat until lightened in color and texture, then beat in the eggs. (I did this all by hand, having failed to pack the hand mixer for the move to Minnesota; it worked just fine.) Add pumpkin puree and vanilla and stir until just blended. Add pumpkin purée, and beat until just blended. Add the flour mixture alternately with the milk, stirring until just combined. Fold in raisins and nuts, if desired.

I made this in mini loaf pans, but you could use a large loaf pan or muffin tins -- either way, make sure your pans are greased. I topped the loaves with candied ginger and if I'd had more on hand, I would have folded some in with the raisins. It's really good.

Bake until done -- about an hour for a large loaf, or 20-25 minutes for mini loafs and 15-20 for muffins.

Betty Crocker's Apple Pie

(with butter)

You can find the main recipe for Betty's apple pie here; however, I don't make a two-crust pie -- I go the crumb-topping route because that's what I prefer. Also, I use butter instead of shortening. I'm not enough of a pie crust expert to have decided opinions other than that. I do have a few basic tips, though.

1) Make sure the water is ice cold.

2) Do not overmix -- it's okay if there are butter smears in the dough, as pictured below; the less you handle the dough, the more tender it will be.

So that's all I've got on pie crust, but this article from the New York Times can tell you more; there are other opinions, of course, but this is definitely a good read.

If you want to use the crumb topping, all you have to do is cut a 1/2 cup butter into a 1/2 cup of brown sugar (packed) mixed with 1 cup of flour; that will take care of a 9-inch pie; you can adjust the amounts up or down slightly, depending on what you need.

It's true that today

the stove caught me on fire. If you notice that my jacket looks a singed on the bottom, that's why.

Great Faces, Great Places:

Where kids run free,
the grandmas laugh
and teach their granddaughters to cheat.
Where wives suffer husbands
who are nothing but pests

and brothers who act like young toughs.
Where little girls are by turns sassy
and incredibly sweet
which they, of course, learn from their moms.



Where little boys wear hats
and ride way up high
while grandpas plot adventures and scheme.
Meanwhile the livestock is content with the occasional treat
as long as there's always grain and hay.

The End

First Things First

My new kitchen is small, as kitchens in 600-square-foot apartments are wont to be, but I have to say that what it lacks in counter space, it makes up in cupboards. Here's the tour:


1. The stove is of undeterminable age, and at first I thought it was unusable -- but that's mainly because the door pulled apart when opened, spilling out insulation. But the landlord replaced some missing screws and I used a can and a half of Easy Off and so far everything has been functional, though I've yet to figure out it's eccentricities: I've undercooked one batch of banana bread and burned another. Even so, I think it has a certain amount of charm.


2. This is where I wash the dishes and microwave my oatmeal. The microwave does take up an inordinate amount of space, but it's a necessary appliance, like the Kitchen Aid, which is in the cupboard on the bottom lefthand side.

3. Here's the other little bit of counter space where I do most of the mixing and chopping and assembling.

4. And here's the whole set up. I'm a big fan of the curtain.

I'm also a big fan of bread and after coveting this cookbook for a year, I finally bought it (with one of those 40 percent coupons from Borders). I recommend buying the cookbook and signing up for the Borders coupons. It will change the way you and make bread and buy books, respectively.

All you have to do to make this bread is mix together a) 6 1/2 cups all-purpose flour b) 1 1/2 tablespoons yeast c) 1 1/2 tablespoons kosher salt and d) 3 1/2 cups lukewarm water. The beauty of it is that you can store it in the fridge for up to two weeks and make a variety of things -- pita, pizza crust, calzones, rolls, etc. You can find the master recipe here and the accompanying New York Times article here.

This one's for you, Tonya.

Because I do make good on my promises, eventually.

Home, to Minnesota

I am a homebody; always have been. I hated going to summer camp – possibly because the only time I went the other girls were mean to me and I came home with lice (the indignity of it still rankles); hotel sheets creeped me out (still kind of do, just ask Justin) and I hated using strange bathrooms (I’ve mostly gotten over this). My idea of a good time was staying home to read my library books and I only reluctantly attended sleepovers, unless said event was with my cousin Steph, because her house felt as much like home as my own.

I grew up, less shy and more adventurous, but still so rooted to that southeast corner of South Dakota where my big messy family lives and works with varying degrees of harmony and general goodwill that I spent the summer after I graduated college and before I started graduate school at home, making slightly more than minimum wage at the small-town grocery store in the next town over. And I loved every second of it. But I also cried myself to sleep a lot, categorizing everything that would never be the same – watching the moon rise through my bedroom window, walking to grandma’s house for a visit, getting up at dawn to have a cup of coffee with dad. All these precious things, if not slipping through my fingers, would be changed as soon as I left for Creighton in the fall, because then I would be a grown up and my home, though perhaps not my heart, would be in Omaha.

The thing is, you see, that I had always imagined my life turning out differently than that. Before I went to college, my grandpa told me to bring back a nice Iowa farm boy with a half section of land. I laughed it off, of course, but I kept my eyes open, half expecting to find one. Because that’s what people did at Northwestern – they found their farm boy or football star or science nerd or whoever freshman year, got engaged their sophomore year and finished out the next two years in the married student housing. And no, I’m not exaggerating.

Thankfully, this is not how it went for me, friends. Though I can’t say exactly – my memory’s starting to fail with my advancing years -- I don’t think I had even one real date with a NW boy, though there was a close call or two. However, I did find a farm boy back home who pursued me rather relentlessly and for the few weeks I convinced myself I liked him as much as he liked me, I could see my life unfolding as I’d always expected: Planning meals to take out to the field, getting together with mom a couple times during the summer to can produce from the garden I’d planted, perhaps working a part-time job somewhere, but mostly tending my babies and my other responsibilities on the farm -- like the horses, of course.

And honestly, there are things that sound so lovely about that life even now, except the farmer. He was nice enough and all, but he was also all wrong. Completely wrong.

And so, like many humanities majors before me, I went to graduate school, because that’s what humanities majors do when their other prospects are limited.

(An aside: As much as I poke fun at my English major, I can’t say that I’d change it; I’d maybe do something in addition, but not instead, but how do you know that at 17 or 18 when you’re just figuring out who you are, let alone the direction of your life’s work?)

This meant Creighton because of the scholarship and stipend (I do have some business sense). My parents took me down to look at apartments one day in July. We left home at 6, pulled into town around 9:00 and before noon, we had the apartment secured and a sofa, loveseat, bed and mattress purchased at Mrs. B’s. We ate some lunch at Applebee’s and were back home well before 5 because that’s how my dad rolls. A few weeks later they moved me down for good and after they’d left, having helped me unpack the U-haul and assemble the Walmart furniture, I sat in the empty apartment, listened to Counting Crow’s August and Everything After and cried.

But then I took a nap and got on with it, because that’s how I roll.

And slowly, slowly the apartment started to feel like mine and Omaha, if not like home, exactly, something close. I met Justin in October and suddenly there were all these places that took on new significance. The Barnes and Noble in Crossroads where we first met up for coffee; Romeo’s, where we went on our first non-date date; The 13th Street Coffee Shop where we got hot cider once and walked around the Old Market not holding hands but wanting to; Delice, where we share a pot of tea on the occasional Saturday morning; Taco John’s; Friendly’s Used Books; Borders; the 90th Street Bag and Save where I once drove J to drink with a list-free shopping trip, and then, finally, a little brick house on Ohio Street with a retro black and white bathroom and peony bushes.


I knew in fairly short order after I met Justin that we would end up married and we did, a year and a half or so after we first met sharing a theory textbook in class. And my life, let me tell you, my life has turned out different and better and more than I ever could have imagined it to be.
That’s not to say I don’t still get homesick for South Dakota; I do. I miss the endless wind and the sky and my family so much so that sometimes it’s easier to stay away than it is to visit. I’ve even looked at possibilities for moving back, but there’s not as many Lutherans there as there are in Minnesota. And since J insists on being a Lutheran and since he’s called to church work, we’re moving north to a tiny apartment on main street with a balcony that overlooks the park and the bar. It’s pretty much perfect, especially since we got the cat pee smell out.

J’s been up there a month already, and I’m going this weekend and while there have been some nice perks to having the house to myself these past weeks (including, but not limited to, fixing cereal for supper pretty much every night, watching the occasional Lifetime movie and listening to country music without being shamed or mocked, buying almond butter – yes I know it’s expensive, honey -- without censure, and having no undershirts in the laundry to fold), I'm thrilled beyond words. Truly.

There are details to work out yet, a house to sell and such, but I’m not worried. I’m going home.


It's likely to be awhile before I get the kitchen in the new place up and running, but when I do, I promise you all sorts of good things like pizza and, at long last, turtle cookies. But in the meantime, make these. I've tried them, twice, and I plan to make them again in a side-by-side comparison with mom's Perfect Soft Chocolate Chip Cookies, which I've always loved and once used to impress J early in our courtship; only I put in twice the flour and they turned out very biscuit-like. God bless him, he ate them anyway.

But here I am getting carried away. Back to the NY Times recipe: Don't worry about the fancy chocolate disks; use whatever chocolate you like -- for me that's Ghirardelli 60 percent cocoa chocolate chips. Also, I used all-purpose flour, though I did weigh it.