Mishmisheya for a friend

August 1, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

My friend Lesa lost her husband, Chris, this past weekend. Chris died in a hiking accident.

Lesa is a fabulous chef, and I met her several years ago at an Armenian cooking class she taught at PCC. After that class, I asked her to donate her time as a chef-instructor for a class to help raise money for SOAR, an organization that provides support to Armenian orphans. It was at that class I met her husband Chris, who is of Armenian descent.

Like me, Lesa found her husband later in life and two of us bonded over this connection along with our love of Armenian food. We often talked about how rare it was to find such great men “at our age,” and how lucky were to share our lives with them. So hearing the news that Chris was gone was both shocking and heart-wrenching.

Lesa told me Chris’s ancestors came from the western region of Armenia, which is now part of Turkey. I also remember her saying that one of Chris’s favorite dishes was Kofta Mishmisheya.

Mishmisheya takes a bit of time to make, but this dish reminds me of the importance in taking the time whenever we can find it. We never know what tomorrow will bring, and sometimes even today. In our busy lives, with rarely a moment to sit, sitting down to a meal with loved ones is a gift, a precious gift worth savoring.

In memory: Chris Abajian

Kofta Mishmisheya

Ingredients:

1 large onion, chopped
3 -4 tablespoons vegetable oil
1-1/2 lbs ground lamb
1 teaspoon dried lime powder (found at Middle Eastern or Indian shops, or online)
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon allspice
salt and pepper
3 -4 tablespoons tomato paste
7 ounces dried apricots, soaked in water for 1/2 hour (use the tart, not sweetened variety)
3 -4 tablespoons currants or 3 -4 tablespoons raisins
1 lemon, juice of
1 teaspoon sugar

How to:

In a large frying pan, fry the onion in oil until golden.
With your hands, work the meat into a paste with the dried lime, cloves, allspice, 3/4 tsp salt, and pepper, and roll into walnut-sized balls.
Add them to the pan and cook, turning them to brown all over.
Stir in the tomato paste, add the drained apricots and the currants or raisins, and cover with water.
Simmer about 25 minutes (and longer is fine too…the flavors just get richer!).
Crush the apricots a bit with a fork, add lemon juice and sugar and a little salt and pepper, and simmer for another 20 minutes.
Serve over rice.

Want more to savor? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday.

Statistics

June 28, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

Me and Marshall near Coit Tower in San Francisco, 2006

My friend Marshall died yesterday morning. He was the first close friend I made when I moved to Seattle in 1985. We had been friends for 27 years.

I will never forget the day we met, leaning against the wall in the basement of Savery Hall at the University of Washington, where we were both first year Sociology Ph.D. graduate students.

“Who wants to pair up and be in a statistics study group?” someone asked.

“Me, me,” I moaned. “I hate statistics.”

“Me too,” said a soft voice beside me. I really need help.”

There stood Marshall, barely my height (and I’m only 5’5”), neatly dressed in his pressed shirt and jeans, petite but perfectly proportioned, like you took the classic hunk and just shrunk him.

It turned out we lived nearby each other, so we teamed up, especially after I told him my live-in boyfriend was an electrical engineer, a quantitative sort of guy who would probably be willing to help us.

Let’s just say that where that statistics course was concerned, neither of us did very well. But our friendship scored top marks.

I enjoyed Marshall’s laugh and his dry wit which belied his soft-spoken voice. I respected his integrity. He was exceedingly generous with his time and energy where his friends were concerned. We both shared a love of gardening, art and our beloved cats. He was always the consummate host and a gentleman, in every sense of the word.

Marshall could also be a perfectionist, fussy about details and life. I remember each of the places where he lived, never a speck of dust, always decorated to a tee, yet never over-the-top, just like Marshall.

Later, during our first year of grad school, I learned that Marshall—who was gay—had HIV. In those days, the early-mid 1980s, HIV was a death sentence. Few survived. But Marshall was one of them.

We both left grad school with a master’s degree but without a Ph.D., and went on to do other things, many other things. And our friendship continued, stronger than ever.

A few years later Marshall started to lose weight (and he never had much to lose to begin with) and his health began to falter, so he decided to leave rainy Seattle and move to Hawaii. I wanted him to have the best chance he could at being well, but I was sad that he would no longer live five minutes away.

Marshall stayed in Hawaii a few years, then he moved to San Diego and finally to San Francisco. His health seemed to stabilize. We kept in touch, and no matter how much time passed, whenever we spoke on the phone, it always felt comfortable, like we picked up wherever we left off.

As time went by, I think I took it for granted that he would overcome whatever challenges life threw his way because he always did. So when I found out he had another disease, one where the outcomes were bad, especially when matched with HIV, I don’t think I gave it the credence it deserved. Marshall had gone back to school, had started a new career as a therapist and, recently, got a dog.

When he called and told me he was really struggling and was going to move again, this time to southern California, to be closer to where his sister lived, that he might need a liver transplant, that medications taken over the course of many years, had taken their toll, it was hard to hear. I don’t think I really wanted to accept what it meant, that my friend might not be around “forever.” In fact, he might not be around long at all.

I didn’t want to acknowledge the odds–which had never been in his favor–from the time we became friends and he first got sick, until now. He wasn’t a statistic; he was my friend. Our friendship had survived moves, the death of partners, family and friends, jobs that disappeared, new careers, relationships that tanked, illness, surgery…you name it.

The world is a little emptier for me today. I will miss him.

Friends come and go and friendships, like the friendship I had with Marshall, are rare. In that regard, we defied the odds.

Happy Hour in memory of my Dad

March 7, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

This past Sunday we hosted Happy Hour in our home. It was a very special Happy Hour because we held it to honor my father’s memory.

My Dad would have been 88 this past Monday, if he’d been around. Sadly, he passed away at the end of January. Since my extended family is small and scattered across the country, holding a traditional memorial didn’t make much sense. Plus, that sort of thing wasn’t my father’s style. Happy Hour, however, was.

We poured martinis and noshed on my father’s homemade pickles and sauerkraut. We even toasted over Skype with my cousin who lives in Key West, Florida. Stories, memories and laughter brought some closure and levity to one of life’s most difficult transitions. In the company of the best of friends, we raised a glass toasted to good health and long life. L’chaim.

Classic Martini

2 oz. gin
1 oz. dry vermouth
Ice cubes
Mixing glass, bar spoon, strainer
Martini glasses or short tumblers

Stir ingredients briskly with ice. Strain into a chilled glass. Drop in an olive or two or twist a small strip of lemon peel over the drink, or drop it in, if you prefer. Enjoy in the company of good friends!

Want to toast to deliciousness? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

A new year, a silver lining

December 30, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

Yesterday I reread the post I wrote to close out 2010. In it, I described wrapping up a particularly difficult year along with my hopes for 2011. I didn’t have to read past the first paragraph to see that 2010 was a relative cakewalk when compared with 2011: the “moratorium on hospital visits for family members” fell quickly by the wayside and my dream of “parenthood or bust” went unfilled. As years go, this past one packed a whallop.

A couple months ago I was talking with a woman who has helped me through many a cloudy day. I prattled on about my hopes for smoother sailing and brighter days ahead, how I feel envy towards those for whom life seems to come so easy. And this is what she said to me:

There is a certain poignancy to be found in hardship and loss.

Her words ring true. If I allow myself to look more closely at what I think I’ve lost, I can often find so much that I’ve gained,even a bit beauty in the pain. I’ve felt deep happiness on the heels of great sadness and some of my life’s most meaningful discoveries have followed days where I stared straight into the abyss.

Then today, another friend wrote to remind me that in this life we don’t so much get over things as through them. Each experience is woven into the fabric of our lives, more like a tapestry than a scrapbook. Her words are wise.

I met both of these women when I was well into my forties and I am grateful for their presence. I am grateful, too, that I found Big Papa, and grateful that my journey, circuitous and tumultuous though it has been, has led me to people, places and experiences that have enriched my life immeasurably. Yet I acknowledge that without loss or hardship, I might never have sought out Anne, gotten to know Sherri or met Big Papa. Life is ironic.

When we sit back and take stock at the end of the year, when we make our resolutions, the focus is almost always: out with the old, in with the new, goodbye to unpleasant memories from the year that’s passed and hello to the hopes and dreams for the year ahead. Why do we hold tight to the belief that we can will ourselves into a life without imperfection, without hurt, without loss? And why do we want to?

Therein lies the error of our ways, or at least mine. For the past few years, I’ve wished for the same thing: no mishaps, no calamities, no miscommunication, no sickness, no death, no bad news—please let nothing go wrong. And every year, I am sorely disappointed.

That’s why my resolution this year is to take a second look whenever I think the glass is half-full. Just like the sea. When the tide is out, you never know what treasures might still be found in shallow water.

Because I know things will happen to me in 2012 that I’m not going to like. Some days won’t be pretty and I’m guaranteed to experience heartache. Someone I care about might die and chances are, for one reason or another, I’ll be seeing the inside on the emergency room on at least one occasion. I know I may not find a silver lining in every cloud. But I’d like to see what happens if I try.

So here’s to looking at you, 2011: to all the lessons learned, the hard-won insights, the character lines etched on my face and in my soul. Though I may have dragged myself through some of the past 12 months kicking and screaming, I know I’ve come out on the other side more resilient, with a deeper appreciation for the blessings in my life.

As for 2012? Bring it on, I say. Bring it on!

Take this silver lining
Keep it in your own
Sweet head
And shine it when the night is
Burning red
Shine it in the twilight
Shine it on the cold, cold ground
Shine it till these walls
Come tumbling down

We were born with our eyes wide open
So alive with wild hope now
Can you tell me why
Time after time they drag you down
Down in the darkest deep
Fools and their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep

Step into the silence
Take it in your own
Two hands
And sprinkle it like diamonds
All across these lands
Blaze it in the morning
Wear it like an iron skin
Only things worth living for are
Innocence and magic, amen

We were born with our eyes wide open
So alive with wild hope now
Can you tell me why
Time after time they drag you down
Down in the talk so cheap
Fools and their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep
Know that the light don’t sleep

Time after time
They drag you down
Down in the darkness deep
Fools in their madness all around
Know that the light don’t sleep
Know that the light don’t sleep

Bonnie Raitt, Silver Lining

Comfort food: A bowl of soup to honor the memory of a friend

December 20, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

Today marks the third anniversary of my friend Dee’s passing, and tonight Joel and I will sit down to enjoy a bowl Moosewood Mushroom Barley Soup in her memory, just as we did last year and the year before that. Making this soup—which Dee and I enjoyed together on many occasions–is my way of honoring our friendship, a friendship which spanned four decades. For me, keeping up this tradition is a source of comfort.

I miss Dee and think about her a lot. In the three years since she died, there have been many days when I’ve wished I could call and hear the sound of her voice, and when I wrestle with challenges that life sends my way, I sometimes wonder what words of wisdom she might have shared.

Living life without loss isn’t possible–I know that. Granted, some encounter more than others, but loss is something we all must face: loss of those we care about, loss of dreams, even the loss of our own abilities as we age. So the more important question is how do we comfort ourselves? Prayer, meditation, time spent alone or in the company of family and friends, getting away from it all, solace from being in nature or getting lost in the hum of urban life, working out, doing yoga, gardening, walking the dog. Each of us has our own unique way of seeking comfort.

And then there’s comfort food. Whenever I hear those two words rich, hearty fare springs to mind: Mac ‘n cheese, meatloaf, mashed potatoes or apple pie and a bowl of ice cream, or a bowl of steamy soup.

Everything about Moosewood’s Mushroom Barley Soup reminds me of Dee, from the earthy smell of mushrooms which conjures up memories of playing in the woods behind our houses, just across the street from each other– to sharing a meal at Moosewood Restaurant whenever we could scrape up enough change, as Cornell undergraduate students, living in a house together in Ithaca, New York.

But mostly my heart remembers the many times Dee and I made this soup for each other: she for me, me for her, and occasionally side by side. So today I toast to you, my friend—the friendship we had, and everything you brought to the table.

Remember Me

Do not shed tears when I have gone
but smile instead because I have lived.

Do not shut your eyes and pray to God that I’ll come back
but open your eyes and see all that I have left behind.

I know your heart will be empty because you cannot see me
but still I want you to be full of the love we shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live only for yesterday
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of what happened
between us yesterday.

You can remember me and grieve that I have gone
or you can cherish my memory and let it live on.

You can cry and lose yourself become distraught
and turn your back on the world
or you can do what I want – smile, wipe away the tears,
learn to love again and go on.

~David Harkins, British poet

Mushroom Barley Soup from the Moosewood Cookbook

Serves 8

Ingredients

1/2 cup uncooked pearl barley
3 tablespoons butter
1/2-1 teaspoon salt
3-4 tablespoons tamari or soy sauce
4 tablespoons dry sherry
6-1/2 cups stock or water
1 medium onion, chopped
2 medium cloves garlic, minced
1 lb fresh mushrooms, sliced
fresh ground black pepper

Preparation
Cook barley in 1-1/2 cups of the stock or water in a large saucepan or Dutch oven. Bring to a boil, cover and simmer until barley is tender (20-30 minutes). Add remaining stock or water, tamari and sherry.

Meanwhile, melt the butter in a skillet. Add the onions and garlic. Sauté for about 5 minutes over medium heat. Add mushrooms, and salt. Cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until everything is very tender (about 10-12 minutes).

Add the sauté with all its liquid to the cooked barley. Add fresh ground black pepper to taste and simmer, partially covered, for another 20 minutes. Serve with a slice of hearty bread.

Searching for more comfort? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday.

Giving thanks for breath

November 24, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

For the past several Thanksgivings, I’ve attended a fundraiser at my gym for Food Lifeline. I get to take a spin class on the holiday, people in need get food: it’s a win-win. I pedal furiously, sweat profusely and breathe hard. And, with every breath, I tell myself how grateful I am to be able to do exactly this.

The ability to breathe, to walk, to think, to eat, to see, hear and touch is what I am most thankful for this year. I love turkey, the trimmings, and pie. But when it comes right down to it, these truly are the side dishes in life.

This year I count too many loved ones who—in one way or another—face enormous challenges: a sister with cancer, a paralyzed father, a mother-in-law with Alzheimers, a close friend with liver failure, and several friends who have undergone treatment for various cancers. Each has struggled with being able to do some of the things most of us take for granted every day.

So when I sit down for my Thanksgiving meal, I plan to take a moment and breathe deeply, appreciating how it feels when air fills my lungs. I will notice my feet, the way they touch the floor and ground me. Then, as I lift my fork and take a bite, I’ll give silent thanks for being able to feed myself and swallow food, for being well enough to feel hunger and the desire to eat.

As I look around the table at the smiles on the faces of my husband and friends, and listen to the sound of laughter or music playing in the background, I will give thanks for eyes that see and ears that hear. And when I reach out to the person sitting next to me and touch their shoulder, or take their hand, I will notice the warmth between us while I count my blessings for ten fingers that feel.

We, who are fortunate enough to enjoy this holiday, have so much to be thankful for. Our homes, our food, our health, and the loved ones we share our lives with. This year I give thanks for all of this and for the simplest gift life has to offer: breath.

Brined, smoked and glazed: the BEST turkey ever

November 16, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

About fifteen years ago, I attended a “Kentucky-themed” Thanksgiving feast (Thank you, Alice!). If memory serves, most of the recipes featured bourbon. At least that’s what I remember. That and the turkey.

This turkey was the best tasting turkey I’d ever had. Brined, smoked and glazed: it had that whole salty-sweet, moist-crisp thing goin’ on. That night I swore that if I ever had a chance to cook turkey in my own home, this was how I was going to do it.

For years I fantasized about that turkey, and talked it up every chance I got. Then I met Big Papa and when we had our first Thanksgiving at our house, I told him this way was the way. Thankfully, he was up for the challenge.

We’d gotten engaged some months earlier and invited our mothers to visit over the holiday so they could meet each other before our wedding.

When Big Papa carved our turkey and tried his first bite, the look on his face said it all. Of course he confirmed my suspicions by announcing: “That’s the best darn turkey I’ve ever had.”

And our moms? They were pretty impressed too.

So here’s the recipe we used, the recipe we will use again and again. Because brined, smoked and glazed turkey is the best turkey. Ever.

Cranberry and Zinfandel Brined Turkey with Maple Glaze

Serves 12 (Note: I bought a smaller turkey, about 10 pounds, and cut the recipe in half).

Brine:
2-750 ml. bottles Zinfandel wine (doesn’t have to be expensive Zin)
1 gallon apple cider
1 pound fresh cranberries
1 cup honey
1 cup kosher salt
4 sprigs fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon black peppercorns
4 sprigs fresh sage
2 sticks cinnamon

Turkey:
1-18-pound turkey, preferably free-range and hormone free

Glaze:

Maple syrup, preferably Grade B which is a bit stronger tasting

How to:
To prepare the brine, combine the wine, cider, cranberries, honey, salt, rosemary, peppercorns, sage and cinnamon in a large pan over high heat and bring to a boil. Let the brine boil for about 4 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, let cool and refrigerate until it reaches about 40-degrees.

Place the turkey in a very large container (or a plastic brining bag). Then pour the chilled brine over to cover. Refrigerate at least 24 hours and up to 48 hours. I brined ours in a bag and turned the bag every so often so that all parts of the turkey had their turn sitting in the brine. The turkey turned a lovely shade of pink.

We grilled our turkey (Thank you, Big Papa!) with cherry wood chips which impart a wonderful fruity, smoky flavor. About an hour before the turkey is finished cooking, I “painted” maple syrup on the skin using a pastry brush.

You could just as easily brine your turkey and cook it in a 350-degree oven. Either way, before you cook the turkey, remove it from the brine and drain well; then discard the brine.

If you are roasting your turkey in the over, roast it until it reaches an internal temperature of 155°F in the breast meat, tenting (draping foil over parts of the bird that are looking done, like the wings) it with aluminum foil (which we did) if it starts to brown too much, about 4 hours. We also checked our bird’s temperature whilst grilling. It’s uber important that turkey meat is cooked thoroughly.

Let the turkey rest 5-10 minutes before carving; internal temperature should rise to 165°F. Carve and serve warm.

Adapted from “Caprial and John’s Kitchen: Recipes for Cooking Together,” by Caprial and John Pence (Ten Speed Press)

Want to be thankful for more deliciousness? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Ladies Aide: Recipes and friendships across the miles

September 21, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

A very special package arrived in the mail last week–Favorite Recipes: A collection by Ladies Aide Society-Armenian Memorial Church.* It was sent to me by Bev, a friend I’ve never met in person, but who has offered support during some difficult times in our adoption.

Bev is one of several amazing women whom I’ve only “met” in a virtual sense, because we live on opposite sides of the country. Yet despite the miles that separate us, we share a bond: we’ve walked the same long and difficult path to adoptive parenthood via Armenia. It’s a small cadre of women who share this journey with me and, an even smaller circle where there’s a feeling of friendship that belies the fact we’ve never met face-to-face. It’s been tough to stay in the game. I don’t know how I would have made it without my new friends who have “been there” for me even if they couldn’t be here, with me.

The minute I opened ‘Ladies Aide,’ I slipped into culinary fantasy land. The recipes triggered memories of dining in Armenia, and now—with my aide in hand–I can recreate some of that deliciousness right in my own home. I loved reading the notes Bev included to mark favorite recipes, some from childhood and several that had come down through her family. It was like she was right there beside me saying, “You’ve got to try this one.”

I’m grateful for the friendships I’ve made in the years we’ve waited to become adoptive parents. When I struggle with our uncertain future as we walk this road, all I can do is rely upon the comforts I know. Good friends—and good food—rise to the top. Thank you ladies! I appreciate all the aid I get!

I selected four recipes to make over this past weekend:

Kufteh Yaghenee: a yogurt-base soup with lamb meatballs
Fattush: a salad with veggies
Shisk Kebab: lean lamb with eggplant and a tomato marinade
Taboule: bulgur wheat and veggie salad

This week, I’ll post recipes for the first two dishes and next week, I’ll post the second two. All four were delicious and Big Papa and I agree they’ll be in our cooking repertoire for years to come.

Kufteh Yaghenee (NOTE: This made about 32 of the kufteh though mine may have been more “golf ball” size; I think this recipe would easily serve 6-8. We froze half the kufteh for another dinner)

This looks like a lot of work, but it’s really not…or at least is more in the kufteh prep. The final soup prep only took a few minutes. It is SO GOOD.

Filling (prepare in advance)

¾ cup butter, cut into small cubes
½ teaspoon allspice
¼ teaspoon red cayenne pepper or paprika
1/8 teaspoon black pepper
Pinch cloves
¼ cup walnuts chopped, optional (I did use them)

Kufteh

1 lb. very lean lamb or beef (or both) , ground fine
2 cups bulgur wheat
1 medium onion, chopped fine
½ teaspoon red cayenne pepper, optional
2 teaspoons salt

Broth

3-lb. chicken, cooked, skinned and deboned (okay – true confession…I used skinned, boned chicken breasts)
2 quarts chicken or lamb stock
1 quart Madzoun (Yogurt! I used Greek Fage yogurt)
1 egg
1 tablespoon dried mint (I used fresh)

How to

(Traditionally lamb fat or beef suet were used with ground walnuts and some seasonings) Knead butter and spices until soft and pliable. In a bowl put 1 cup cold water. Dipping your fingers into the water, pinch off small pieces of butter the size of chickpeas and shape into small balls. If the mixture gets too soft to handle, chill it. Roll balls until mixture is gone. Refrigerate (can also keep two weeks in freezer).

In a large flat bowl or basin mix meat, bulgur, onion and seasonings. In another bowl put 2 cups of ice water. Dipping your hands in the water, sprinkle the meat and bulgur mixture with the water and then knead for 5 minutes, sprinkling water gradually from time to time, using approximately 1 cup of the water. Knead mixture until soft and well blended. Put the mixture to one side of the pan and top with a few drops of water to keep moist.

Pinch off a piece the size of a pecan. Holding it in your left hand, make a dent in the middle large enough for 1 butter ball. Seal and smooth the surface with wet hands. Repeat until all the butter balls are covered. If there is any Kufteh mixture left, roll into unfilled balls. Balls can be frozen to use at another time.

Bring the broth to a boil. Carefully drop the balls into the broth with a slotted spoon and cook for 1 minute (my Kufteh were larger and took about 4 minutes…I took one out periodically and cut it open to check cooking progress). Remove Kufteh balls with slotted spoon.

Beat the Madzoun/yogurt and egg together. Add 2 ladles of hot broth one at a time and mixing well each time. Slowly add the Madzoun/yogurt mixtures to the broth, stirring constantly. Warm slowly to prevent curdling (mine curdled a bit but was still tasty).

Remove from heat and add kufteh balls and mint. Serve in bowls with the cooked chicken (and I think the soup would be fine without the addition of the chicken too).

Fattush (serves ~6)

1 head romaine lettuce, broken in pieces
1 small green pepper, chopped
1 small red pepper, chopped
1 small red onion, chopped
2 medium cucumbers, quartered and slices
1 tomatoes, chopped
¼ cup parsley, chopped
1/3 cup fresh mint, chopped
1 medium Syrian bread (or pita) split and roasted, broken into pieces

Put chopped vegetables into a salad bowl. Add dressing and toasted bread. Serve.

Dressing:

2 cloves garlic minced
Juice of one lemon
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon sumac powder (available at many Middle Eastern and specialty grocery stores)

Blend all ingredients.

*Note: A heartfelt THANK YOU to those who contributed recipes to “Favorite Recipes: A collection by Ladies Aide Society-Armenian Memorial Church” in Watertown, Massachusetts!!

Want more aid in the kitchen? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Soul sisters born from different mothers

June 3, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

Last week I had lunch with a new acquaintance. It was our first time meeting in person; prior to this day, we’d only recently “met” via the blogosphere.

Within minutes we were chatting about the myriad ways our lives intersected: both raised in small upstate New York towns barely an hour apart, both bloggers, adoptive moms (adoptive-mom-in-waiting in my case), long road to parenthood filled with infertility treatments, adoption efforts gone awry and even similar career paths. The parallels in our lives were uncanny, our shared viewpoints were many.

I left feeling like the world was a smaller, friendlier place. And that’s a feeling I really need these days. Two people who really didn’t know each other, yet found so much common ground.

Bloggers make the choice to put their stories—sometimes very personal and intimate stories—out on the internet, available for any and everyone to read. For the most part, that’s a good thing. Blogging helps build community, establishes connections to a treasure trove of resources, and sparks professional and personal relationships.

But there is a seamy underbelly too and most of us, who have been “out there” for awhile, experience it eventually. Prejudice, anger, hatred, mistrust and ignorance: I’m not naïve but at times I am truly shocked at the mean-spirited comments that freely fly. Lately, I’ve seen more of them than I’d care to.

It’s not that I don’t welcome dissenting opinions, and I’m all for healthy debate. The world would be a boring place if everyone had the same perspective. Diverse outlooks make planet Earth, and the billions of people who call it home, a more interesting place to live.

In the U.S. we are very fortunate to have freedom of speech and freedom of press. To be able to say what we want and write what we want, without fear of reprisal, is a liberty that can easily be take for granted. Of course, this freedom also means that we’re inevitably going to run into those who say things we don’t like, don’t agree with, find distasteful or downright disturbing.

I want to believe that, on the balance, people have more in common with each other than not, that we’re more likely to rush to the aid of our neighbor than throw the first punch. That said, I’m savvy enough to know that every day isn’t going to be lunch with a soul sister from a different mother.

Still, as Pollyannaish as it may sound, lately I’ve found myself hoping that people will either “play nice” or metaphorically “stay home.” I wish people would be more respectful of each other and treat each other with greater care. I know it isn’t always going to be like that, but sometimes I like to dream.

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

~John Lennon, Imagine

Hot Poop

April 5, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

“It came right out of his butt,” Nate said, his voice filled with awe.

He held out his hand and extended a forefinger in our direction.

“It’s still warm. And soft!”

There is was: an eraser-sized blob of brown, gooey squirrel poop, fresh from the squirrel perched on the branch of the tree forty feet over Nate’s head.

For the past fifteen minutes, while he jumped and flipped on the outdoor trampoline, Nate had been telling us it was raining squirrel poop. Here was proof.

Big Papa and I took a closer look at the poop as we sat nursing a glass of red wine. Warm sun hit our cheeks and sparkled on the fields of wheat growing off in the distance. We were visiting Walla Walla for three days, a much needed respite from the stress in our lives: a weekend of beautiful vistas, wine tasting, traffic free roads, and mornings where someone else makes the coffee.

That and time with close friends. Nate’s parents, Ben and Julie go back decades with Big Papa, back to the days when they all shared an apartment during college, back when Big Papa subsisted on beans and noodles and Nate wasn’t even a speck on the horizon.

During the six years I’ve been a part of Big Papa’s life, we’ve made four trips to Walla Walla together. On each trip we make sure to spend time with Ben, Julie and Nate. We might not see them frequently, but each time we visit, I am reminded of the role good friends have in our lives, particularly good friends who have a history together, who know things about each other that go without saying.

Big Papa wandered off for a bit to watch Ben dig a ditch on his day off for the new irrigation system to water their garden beds. Nate entertained all of us with his back flip prowess and Julie served wine and cheese while listening to our stories: an adoption gone awry, one sister with a serious illness, one mother with progressive Alzheimer’s, our seemingly endless litany of recent woes.

Then we all took off for a short walk across the fields behind their house to see how high the creek had risen. We poked around in an old barn and looked at owl pellets. We watched Tip, the dog, frolic and run.

Before we knew it, the sunshine began to fade and the chill in the air picked up steam. Red and orange lined the horizon and dusky blue crept into the edges of the sky. We headed inside.

Julie rummaged through the kitchen, looking for something to feed five for dinner. I felt guilty because we’d shown up without much warning and our impromptu visit had stretched on for hours.

“I’m sorry. Nothing’s here” she said as she offered up a plate of veggies to nosh on before we sat down at the table. Pasta and sauce followed for dinner.

Nothing here, I thought to myself. Why there’s everything here Big Papa and I need.

We spent the better part of an afternoon and evening laughing, trading stories and opening our hearts. We wiled away the hours in each other’s company. And now here we were sharing a meal with the best of friends. Hands down, that’s four stars in my book.

Friendships like this don’t fall from trees. They take years of careful cultivation, being there for each other through the ups and downs of life, listening to the stories of family members who’ve been sick or passed on, relationships, marriages, infertility, loss, wild toddler years, hopes, passions and dreams. A day like this day and friendships like this friendship are the exclamation point in life, the crème de la crème. Hot poop.