valentines, this and that

I remember when Valentine's Day used to be a much simpler process.

Now to uphold the family bra-and-panty valentine's tradition established so many years ago, it means that we all go out shopping together. Rule number One - never purchase your foundation article without trying it on. 4.5 hours later, all is well in the realm of the family tradition. For some reason, Rick declined an invitation to join us at the mall. And Jake opted for the post-mall visit (Smart man. Oh, and the chocolate-raspberry cake was delicious. We approve of you giving Becca other such baked gifts in the future.)

My darling husband gave me another beautiful piece from Santa Fe to be my Valentine. This is from artist Jennifer Tafoya Moquino. How did he know that one of my most favorite trees are the Raindrop Trees (quaking aspen) from the mountains of Utah and Idaho? (probably just a coincidence - Not). It is the only tree I miss here in the beauty of the Pacific Northwest and all its trees.

Rick and I went out to see Slumdog Millionaire. What a powerful movie. It was stunning. It is a definite see-again movie. Plus, bonus points, MIA's "Paper Planes" (love it) and the opening song "O Saya" was amazing. Double thumbs up from this happy Valentine.



Friday night we got a visit from the Seth-n-Amy clan and all the Christensen Rugrats. (Jayne: "What's your fway-vit pwincess, Aunt Serri?" Me: "Princess Aurora." Jayne: sage head nod. "Sweeping Booty.") Kristen and Becca fed all the children cereal and burned the brownies, so it balances out in the karmic universe.

Love to you all. Hope your Valentine's Day was wonderful and filled with love and family as mine was.

Sherri

winter formal

Becca and Jake and Kristen were in fine form tonight for the VSAA Winter Formal. They delayed long enough for the perfunctory photo shoot for the parents. They were all darling.







And it just started to snow.

The Momgoose

love for aunt vernetta

I was flipping through the book of recipes we got for Christmas and stopped when I came to Aunt Vernetta's bread. I am actually surprised that there is a measured recipe - I'm fairly certain that Vernetta's kitchen is where I learned to cook without measuring anything.

I was young the first time I helped her make bread. Did she teach us all? Her kitchen was still the original farmhouse kitchen, big and full of light, that enormous table taking up most of the floor space - a table seated to capacity two and three times each day with family and the hired help considered family. Making bread was an intimate, tactile experience, hands in the flour, kneading the warm dough back before Bosches and bread makers. I can recall the dark, rich smell of that last batch just before it came out of the oven - you always had to burn the last batch for Uncle John. And I can still hear her voice. Kimmie said it on her blog - "That's about right," she would say, soft and in a little sing-song lilt from repeating it to me - or all of us.

Time always moved differently on the farm. Slower, as if the current of light and air moved with the wide loop of the Bear River down on the far side of the farm. When I was really little, it was Vernetta's big boots I followed out to feed the calves. Later it was the cousins, and then when I brought my children, it was the cousin's children. But in the beginning, Aunt Vernetta led us to the back of the milking barn, split the milk and water and just the right amount of mix into buckets and the big plastic bottles. The feral kittens popping out from the hay barn. The calves with their rough tongues and heads butting up into your face if you weren't careful.

I can even recall feeding chickens with her, back when there were chickens in the top of the old barn - after it was the playhouse, after it was something else, I am sure.

Once when I was little, I leaped from the highest point I could find in the hay barn (our favorite pastime back when there were bales stacked like towers in there) and gashed my head on an exposed nail from one of the rafters. I know I ran screaming like a banshee to find Aunt Vernetta, who calmed me down, dressed my little wound, and gave me a glass of milk and a piece of bread. Those soldiers at Pearl Harbor she cared for during WWII probably got the same gentle care, only without the bread and milk.

My memories do not reach back so far as when I was a baby and lived there on the farm, but I am told that I didn't want to go back to my parents by the time they came to get me. Perhaps it was that early bonding that took me back throughout my life, even if it was only in my mind, to get my feet under me, re-ground, breathe a sigh of relief. And make bread.

Grieving the loss of a loved one is such a personal experience. Even with understanding and release. My life was made better for Aunt Vernetta. Because of her and Uncle John, the farm was always a place of sanctuary for me, a reliable anchor in my otherwise nomadic childhood and chaotic youth. My love and gratitude goes out into the universe today in remembrance and honor.

Sherri