Swiss Steak

Did you know that the "Swiss" in Swiss Steak is derived from an English term for the process of smoothing cloth between sets of rollers? In the case of steak, swissing refers to flattening or tenderizing the meat by pounding or cubing before it is cooked.

I didn't swiss any steaks yesterday. Rather I put the browned meat in the crockpot atop potatoes, onions, and sliced carrots, and poured diced tomatoes and tomato sauce over the whole concoction. Seven hours later we had a wonderful dinner featuring tender meat, perfectly cooked veggies, and a rich tomato gravy.

Did you know that umami, the term for the fifth taste (in addition to sweet, sour, salt, and bitter) is derived from Japanese, where the word means, literally, deliciousness?

We had Swiss Steak for supper again tonight, after walking the dogs and taking a quick trip to the grocery store. We were lucky to get our walk in before the afternoon mist became heavier and more steady. Not much more to write about at present. We're awaiting Spring's arrival, and how better to wait than with a bowl of slow-cooked deliciousness, a hunk of good bread, and a glass of amber ale? OK, OK, we had some ice cream, too. I guess that was better.

Gillette

Evan and Angie finished their first, fourteen-hour day on the road last night in Gillette, Wyoming. It turned out that Gillette is nearly halfway from Spokane to Omaha. Of course, there isn't much competition for that designation in that part of the country.

Gillette has a warm spot in my heart, and not just because of it's role as the "Pronghorn Capital of North America". Sally and I met in Gillette in the summer of 1976. Sally was the environmental engineer for Carter Mining Company, and I was there for a summer internship to do youth ministry with the Presbyterian Church. Neither one of us had a good work experience, yet some great people, wide open western landscape, and the beginning of our relationship made it all worthwhile.

Several of the stories we collected in Gillette involved the quality of the water, or lack thereof. One of my favorites was the experience of going to a grocery store, and pausing in the aisle where bars of soap were displayed. As I pondered the choices, an older woman walked up and asked, "Are you new in town?" When I nodded, she pointed at several brands of soap. "That one works, or that one. Don't bother with the others." It turned out there was so much mineral content in the water that only certain kinds of soap would lather, even a little bit. I remember thinking, "So that's what's meant by, 'She knows her soap.'"

So here's to Gillette, Wyoming. I wish that any who pass that way to have the kind of happiness that Sally and I have had in the years since we found each other there. Enjoy the conical buttes, the abundant Pronghorn, and the salt-of-the-Earth people.

But don't drink the water.

Empty

I wasn't speechless this morning as Evan and Angie pulled out of the driveway to begin their journey to Omaha. I did manage to squeak, "Call us from Idaho."

We have been empty nesters before, as the kids went off to school and work in their various directions, but this time feels different. Always before we had the expectation that the semester would come to an end, and that someone would be on their way back home. This morning I realized that "home" will likely be elsewhere for our brood, and that their being with us in the future will consist of occasional visits, rather than lengthy stays.

Even as we freely shed our tears this morning, Sally and I were thankful that we're so close to Evan and Angie, Erin, and Megan, that such partings are difficult. Not all families offer space where people can feel "at home", and where love, laughter, and tears are so freely shed.

There's so much more that could be said on this subject -- the quote from Gibran on "Children" comes to mind -- but I don't think it's really necessary. It's enough to say that, though our nest is empty, our hearts, most assuredly, are not.

The Giving Tree

The variety of human experience and perspective never ceases to amaze and occasionally confound me. Yesterday morning I read one of my favorite stories, The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, as the "Story for All Ages" at church. Following the service I was confronted by an angry woman who said that she "and many others" were deeply offended that I had read such a book, given it's "sick, sick, sick" portrayal of unhealthy relationships.

Alas.

I certainly understand that there are people in this world who abuse others, and who would use any tool available, including a children's book, to reinforce their efforts to subjugate women. How 'bout we blame the oppressors, rather than the book?

In my interpretation of The Giving Tree, we are all "the boy", standing on the shoulders of others who have paved the way for us, sacrificed for us, died for us. We eat the flesh of slain animals, pull vegetables out of the ground and stew their roots, slice trees into planks to build our abodes, chip other trees to be cooked into paper.... the list goes on and on. The truth of our existence, dating back to the first cells that discovered it was easier to eat another cell than to process nutrients directly, is that life consumes life. Do your best to wash your hands of it, but you are still implicated. You are a user! And so am I.

What is left to "the boy" who portrays our existence is to respond to existence by either taking life's gifts for granted or becoming deeply, eternally grateful. The grateful response includes giving thanks for what is taken (as with the Native American tradition of giving thanks for the animal's sacrificing itself for the life of the tribe), minimizing our impact, using nothing unnecessarily, and planting trees and gardens for those who will assume our taking ways in generations to come. Eventually we discover that our destiny is to become food for others, and we make choices as to how we respond to that awareness.

There are other possible interpretations of this classic tale. It could be about parenting. It could be about God. And yes, if you associate yourself exclusively with "the tree", rather than seeing yourself as "the boy", it could be part of a plot to force you into subservience.

Let me be clear. Sacrifice that is compelled isn't sacrifice, but rather slavery. However, neither is chosen service the equivalent of involuntary servitude. I'm grateful to have a story which gives rise to thoughtful consideration of these varying perspectives.

The book could be twisted and misinterpreted though. We'd better burn it.

Anniversary

Yesterday marked Sally and my 33rd wedding anniversary. For the most part we did what we normally do on a Tuesday -- I fixed her oatmeal and coffee, and she went to work. Given the nice weather forecast, Sally rode her bike downtown, and then Evan and I rode down to meet her for the ride home.

Our anniversary celebration was dinner at Clinkerdagger in Spokane, accompanied by Evan. We have tried several other "nice" restaurants in town for such events, usually coming away less than satisfied. At one we were diverted to the basement bar where they "served the same menu", ostensibly so fogies like us would not interfere with the beautiful people facade of the restaurant.

In other instances we have been totally ignored by wait staff, or served food that was remarkably pedestrian for the price. In the latter case, we once made the mistake of offering an honest opinion about our meal when asked by a waiter. That occasioned a scene not unlike Monty Python's dirty fork sketch.

Last night featured no such theatrics. I called for a reservation and was asked if it was for a special occasion. Given our affirmative response we were seated in an area with a lovely view of the river and downtown, adjacent to some other parties celebrating birthdays and anniversaries. The waiter was helpful and courteous, the food was exceptional, and they even threw in a complimentary crème brûlée.

Evan's presence was both helpful (he was our designated driver) and typical for our anniversary celebrations. For our twenty-fifth anniversary, Sally and I considered a number of possible ways of celebrating before independently deciding what we most cherished was the opportunity to have dinner with our kids. Eight years later, we still enjoy having each and all of our kids with us at any opportunity. To have been together for so long and still have such love for each other and for our kids is a great blessing, and one which I do not take for granted.

Happy Birthday, Cayenne!

March 2nd is the day our family has designated as Cayenne's birthday. It's easy to remember because it's also Sally and my wedding anniversary. More on that later.

The first information that we have about Cayenne is that she was picked up by Animal Control and received by the Whatcom Humane Society on September 26, 1998. She weighed about 40 pounds and had a rope collar, but no identification. She went unclaimed, and so was put up for adoption.

Cayenne didn't attract much attention, in part because she didn't demand it. In retrospect I'm guessing she was pretty much overwhelmed by the entire experience. The most notable aspects of her being were her mismatched eyes and incredibly soft coat.

Though I worked at the shelter during those days, we weren't looking for an animal to adopt, at least not at first. It's hard not to take ALL the animals home. I remember telling Sally about a yellow Lab I really liked, in part because of the similarity to our older dog, Sandy. Sally visited the shelter, but became enamored by the skinny red pup with mismatched eyes instead of the Lab.

We adopted Cayenne on November 13, 1998. I have long felt badly that she spent so much time at the shelter, right under my nose, without my taking her home sooner. Once we got together, Cayenne claimed a considerable share of our attention, and a bigger piece of our hearts. I won't go into the stories today, other than to say that anyone who ever doubts the full consciousness and deep intelligence of non-human critters has really missed out. We've given Cayenne a home, true, but she has provided us with so much more.

Cayenne's ripping and tearing days are behind her, both in regards to her considerable foot speed and capacity for destruction. These days she finds putting weight on all four legs to be a challenge. Frankly, owing to issues with her early care and development, we never expected she would live this long. The dog that once climbed a six-foot gate to get into the living room now struggles to make it up the stairs from the basement. But she's hanging in there.

So here's to Cayenne. We don't know how many more birthdays she'll see, but then, that's true for us all, isn't it? And in the final analysis, the value of life can't be measured by mere quantity, but rather by the quality of our relationships, experiences, and love given and received. By those standards, Cayenne has had quite a run. Quite a run, indeed. Happy birthday, girl.

Take a Hike

Last summer, Sally and I had a tree expert talk to us about "dead-wooding" the large Ponderosa Pine in the front yard. The process would involve cutting out dead limbs and damaged areas to open up the crown and improve both the health and the appearance of the tree. Our neighbor, Ron, came over while we were talking with the expert, and quickly surmised that we pretty much like trees, and especially big ones. Later, Ron showed me an old newspaper article about the largest Ponderosa Pine in eastern Washington, and asked me if I'd like to hike to it some time.

Last week we finally took that hike. Evan accompanied us as we drove a ways southeast of town and turned onto progressively smaller roads before departing the car and hitting the trail. The tree did not disappoint. More than 17 feet in circumference at chest height, it is a true forest giant. As I have reminded several people in the last week, nothing we will attempt in our lives will be as difficult or unlikely as what that tree has done just to remain where it is.

As we drove back home, Ron pointed to a number of granite outcroppings called "Big Rock", just northwest of Valleyford, off the Palouse Highway. Another hiking possibility took shape.

This morning Ron, Evan, Sally and I packed lunches, cameras, and water bottles and headed for Big Rock. We spent about three hours hiking up to the monoliths, clamoring up and down some of their most accessible faces, enjoying a beautiful spring day by ourselves, 10 or 20 minutes from 400,000 people who don't seem to realize that such beauty exists in our back yard.

It was a fantastic day. Much better than my customary perch on a chair with a cat and a computer for company. Wherever you live, my guess is there's someplace lovely close by. Why not take a hike?