Festival of Colors

This Easter Brian and I went to the Holi Festival of Colors. Holi takes place at a Hindu Temple in Spanish Fork, UT (about an hour South of Salt Lake City.) It's so funny when I see pictures of this temple on Pinterest, labeled as being somewhere in India. It really does look authentic, but it's sitting on a farm in the middle of nowhere, Utah.

The festival of colors announces the arrival of spring and the passing of winter. It's a celebration to mark the triumph of good over evil, light over darkness, and kindness over cruelty. The colors, when thrown, represent oneness and brotherhood with all humanity: a lesson of spiritual and social harmony. There are tens of thousands of people that attend each year. Even though there are so many people everywhere, the event somehow maintains its peaceful message.

I went to the Festival of Colors for the first time about 4 years ago. Back then, it was only twice a day that they would throw the colors, and there were much more people at once. Now, they throw the colors every two hours because there are so many people that come. They've got organized parking now, vendors, security, etc. The Festival of Colors is kindof a big deal.

So basically, this is what happens:

This is us before the madness, so fresh and so clean.

Everyone gathers together in the anticipation of the count down, then the colors are all thrown in the air, and you're engulfed in a cloud of what combines to become a purple dust (by the way, the colors are scented... like roses). It's fantastic. 

After the dust settles....

We are a colorful couple. We got another packet of colors on the way back to the car. Guess what color.
Totally worth the drive, and the crowds, and the purple stuff that stays in your nose and ears for days on end. (Oh yea, blowing your nose is great fun after this.)

The fun didn't end in Spanish Fork. Bailey helped me do laundry when we got home. I found a packet with a little bit of of purple colors left in my pocket and we had a festival all our own. Awwww. She is such a trooper.

There's No Place like Home

Earlier this month, we (Brian, myself and the pups) loaded up the car and headed to my hometown of Lander, Wyoming. With a population of just over 7500, Lander is the kind of small town where everyone knows almost everyone. Lander sits near the center of the state of Wyoming in the Wind River Mountains. It's a genuinely beautiful place.

March 3rd marked my grandpa's 80th birthday (born 3/3/33), and his family and friends came from all over the place to celebrate. My mom, my uncles and aunts planned a great event at the senior center in town, where over 50 people showed up! It was kind of a surprise, he thought it was just going to be immediate family. He was surprised to see extended family and friends, but happy that both of us from Utah (plus Brian), and my "greeney" cousins from Colorado all made it. I know that none of us would have missed it for the world. Even my cousin Kadie, 8 months pregnant (or "beer belly" depending on who you ask) made the trip from Colorado Springs.

Photos courtesy of Christy Meredith

The party was a blast. A few of grandpa's family and close friends got up in front of the room to take a shot at embarrassing him. He's usually the jokester, but this time the jokes were on him. Growing up, he used to distract me at the dinner table to look the other direction while he swiped my plate from in front of me and hide it in his lap. He was always so quick about it, sneaky bugger, that I never suspected him. (I mean, why would he do such a thing!?) Other times, he would replace my silverware with a spatula instead of a fork, a ladle in place of a spoon, shotglass for my water, etc. and insisted that I attempt to eat dinner with them. Later, he graduated into the remote control whoopee cushion sound machine, hidden under the chairs at the dinner table. That was a fun little phase. Good times.

It was a short visit. Too short, as always. But it was so nice to see everyone and to have everyone together; which has become such a rarity anymore.

On the way home, the pups were pretty good in the car. Below are a couple of snapshots I took: both of them peeking out the door window to watch us pack up the car, Pepper waking daddy up from his nap on the floor, and Bailey intently interested in the passing landscape from the car. She looked out the window for a good part of the trip home. Funny dogs.

On our way out of town, I snapped this gem (below) from the car as Brian sped past. This area is always the highlight of the 300 mile drive for me. Red Canyon sits just a few miles outside of Lander; like a welcome banner, then a wave goodbye. "Until next time..."

Luck O' the Irish

La sona naomh Padraig!! (Irish for "Happy St. Patrick's Day!") I am such a sucker for holidays. Any holiday. I get all twitterpated with holiday excitement and a celebration in some form is bound to progress. There are rules and traditions to follow before these special days pass for another year. For St. Patty's, you gotta wear green or beware the pinching machine, must attempt to speak with a (bad) Irish accent, and blame your missing car keys on Leprechauns. Brian isn't big on participation or holiday cheer, but he's learned to at least go along with my shenanigans.

We stayed home for St. Patty's as the weather was less than desirable. We enjoyed the company of one another and of the puppies, we drank green beer and ate delicious "traditional" (as far as I know) Irish fare. I made Corned Beef Rubens for lunch and a hearty Shepherds Pie (stew/gravy with mashed potatoes on top) for dinner. Both were my own experiments than actual recipes, which almost never turn out exactly how I want them, but I have to toot my own horn this time and admit that they turned out to be amazing. The Shepherds Pie was definitely a hit with the man-child Brian: as "most definitely one of my favorite things you've ever made for me." Pretty high praise - he does not say this often. Twas the luck o' de Irish I guess.

I was so excited about the success that I decided to share this delightful recipe with my fabulous readers.

Corned Beef Reuben Sandwiches: (makes 2 sandwiches)

Ingredients:

• 1/2 medium yellow onion, long slices
• 1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
• 6 slices of Corned Beef (aka Irish bacon -I got slices from the deli at the grocery store)
• 4 slices Muenster cheese
• 4 slices Rye bread (I like Oroweat Dark Rye)
• Top with 1000 Island Dressing or Spicy Brown Mustard as desired

Instructions:

•  Saute onion slices over medium high heat in a small bit of olive oil until softened, meanwhile, pan fry the Corned Beef until lightly browned. Add Worcestershire sauce to onions and saute until absorbed. 
•  Add all ingredients like a grilled cheese. Just in case you've never made a grilled cheese sandwich, do the following: Lightly butter rye bread on one side, and lay buttered side down on a warmed skillet over medium heat. Add fried Corned Beef, sauteed onions, and cheese, then the other slice of bread (buttered side up.) Add 1000 Island Dressing or mustard on top rye slice if desired. Brown both bread slices. Serve warm.

It's so unbelievably easy and just as tasty. I can call it traditional because of the corned beef, but I suppose I won't truly know until I make it across the pond to the land of green myself someday. Erin go bragh! (Ireland Forever!)

***Bonus***

Just a fun little tid-bit.
This happened:

Story:
Brian took a week off work a few weeks ago to use his vacation time before he lost it. On a Sunday night, I quickly drew faces on all of the eggs while he was upstairs. I thought it would be a funny little surprise for him. I waited impatiently all week for him to say something and giggled to myself at the thought of him whipping the carton lid open and seeing these faces stare up at him.  But the dude didn't make himself breakfast all week! Finally, on the last day of his vacation, I stole his muffin that he would've eaten for breakfast, thinking it would force him to reach for the eggs. It worked. He joked that I have too much time on my hands, and that he almost didn't want to eat them...almost.

The Good Fight

Okay so, remember my resolution to read 1-2 books each month? Well let's mark January and February as a complete fail. There really is no excuse, I just didn't make time for it.

I started the year off with The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho; a genuinely remarkable read. I just finished it on March 1st. Even though it took me 2 months to read 260 pages (pathetic, I know), I thoroughly enjoyed it whenever I managed to pick it up. Paulo Coelho is an incredibly wise man. I have "ruined" (says Brian) the book with my scribbles in the margins and my underlining of passages I deem thought provoking. Which is...a good chunk of each page.

Throughout the book, an underlying message of the "good fight" appeared again and again:

"The good fight is the one that's fought in the name of our dreams. When we're young and our dreams first explode inside us, we are very courageous, but we haven't yet learned how to fight. With great effort, we learn how to fight but by then we no longer have the courage to go to combat. We become our own worst enemy. We say that our dreams are childish, or too difficult to realize,or the result of our not having known enough about life.We kill our dreams because we're afraid to fight the good fight."

And I sat there and pondered...what's my "good fight?" What am I supposed to be "fighting" for?

For those of you that know me well, you know that my great love is for travel. Like...obsessed! I saw most of the United States in high school, but I sprouted an interest in other cultures, religions and languages in college. I actually graduated with my Associates degree in Humanities. (Most of you are like, whaaa?) And almost everyone asked me, "what are you going to do with that?" When I said "something to do with travel, like a travel agent or cultural anthropologist." Then they told me it was a waste, and not practical. But, it's still what I want to do every day. Even if all I do is plan fabulous vacations for others and never go myself. It makes me happy.

"When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth....Adapting oneself to new situations and receiving in return all of the thousands of blessings that life generously offers to those who seek them."---Paulo Coelho, The Pilgrimage

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On another note, Brian and I took a field trip to Barnes & Noble a couple of weeks ago; Brian had a gift card left over from Christmas that he had been dying to redeem. (He found 3 great books he's really excited about -  he read the first 50 pages of one in the store before he bought it. Thanks Gene and Deb!) He even let me use his remaining $1.32 toward my purchase. What a gentleman. Ladies, I'm keepin this one. No, but really, he's great.

While he was nerding out in the Sci-Fi section, I had my own geek-fest in the Travel Essays. I spent over an hour navigating a whole shelf and a half; I stood there like a star-struck teenager. I had butterflies furiously flapping in my stomach. I stood there flipping through, reading, day dreaming, reminiscing about my own travel disasters. That's when I realized...this is my dream. At least once, I want to be one of these crazy nomads that drops everything and spends their savings on an unbelievable year long trip to everywhere, for no other reason than to see what happens. I'm way too impatient to save it for my mid-life crisis. Anyway I left the bookstore with a discounted Ken Follett novel, Walden, and about 45 pictures of books that went straight onto my wish list on Amazon.com. Of that entire shelf of Travel Essays, probably 3 of them didn't make it on that list.

What can I say? It's my passion. For a while now I've toyed around with the idea of taking an online course in Travel Writing. (Yes, there is such a wonderful thing.) And now, I'm seriously thinking I'll give it a shot. Gotta go for it... gotta fight the good fight.

My Funny Valentine (Disclaimer: Contains Mush)

Who got spoiled stinkin rotten this Valentines? This girl! Brian surprised me with a flower delivery to my office on Tuesday, and a box of chocolate covered strawberries on Wednesday. Holy moly did I get the royal treatment or what! To top it all off, my sweet guy took me to Tuscany (the restaurant, not the city, but I was just as happy) for Valentines dinner where we sampled some pretty fancy Italian food. 

I was presented with a single red rose by the hostess as she led us upstairs to the balcony. We were seated in a semi-private area of only 4 tables under a beautiful stained glass dome of grape vines (it's the UFO looking thing at the top of the picture below.) The best part of the night had to be that Brian was somewhat unimpressed and a little grossed out by the pork belly appetizer. Amazing man that he is, he sat with my finished seafood appetizer in front of him while I devoured his as well. (I was also not a fan of the pork belly, but the polenta and the sauce that was under it was worth licking the plate clean. Which I did with bread; civilized and whatnot.) 

I got him some cologne and a bag of mini-Snickers. I feel like I did nothing in comparison but I swear that's what he wanted, and he was excited. Whatever works I guess, he's pretty low-maintenance. Anyhow, it was an amazing week and it was great spending it devoted to my best friend. I am so lucky to have him in my life, I know I'd be lost without him. Thanks hun, for being my rock and for sharing your appetizers, I mean,  your life with me. You're the best. 

I hope everyone had a fantastic Valentines Day with loved ones - be it your significant other, family, friends, or dog.

What Do You Mean You Don't Bake the Baby?

It's Mardi Gras, "Fat Tuesday," and since I couldn't be in New Orleans with my people, I took the party to the office. Any day that begins with eating King Cake for breakfast is the mark of a very good day. Add some festive beads and you've got fabulous.

Exhibit A

King Cake was so named for the biblical three kings. The cake is baked in a circle and sprinkled with three colors of sugar: purple (symbolizing justice), green (faith), and gold (power.) Inside every cake is a tiny baby to represent Baby Jesus. It's a sign of good luck to whoever finds the baby in their slice, and they are expected to host the next King Cake party.

Whilst in New Orleans this past October, I picked up an "authentic" King Cake mix in a box from a vendor at the airport. Last night, the mix finally made its debut in my kitchen. I tore open the colorful box, and pulled out the little bags of individual ingredients: the cake mix, glaze mix, the colored sugars, and yeast. Yes...yeast. Unbeknownst to me, King Cake is more of a bread-like, cinnamon roll ish pastry. "You mean to tell me this thing has to rise twice before baking!?" I cursed to myself, and debated not making it. I'm an instant cake mix type of girl: rip, dump, stir, bake, done. This cake had a 12 step program.

So I stirred...let it rise for 30 minutes, flattened and sprinkled praline sugar over butter (God bless the South), formed the dough into a circle, shoved the baby into the dough...let rise for 30 minutes...again...then baked it. The kitchen was a mess, not to mention the dogs. Constantly at my feet, everything I dropped they wore. And when I ripped open the bag containing the praline sugar, because I just don't know my own strength, Pepper was covered in half of its contents. And there she stood...frozen in place and terrified, her big eyes pleading "get it off, get it off, get it off!"

With about 5 minutes left of baking time, my hand flew to my forehead. I looked at Brian with my mouth agape as I connected the dots...the baby was plastic...and now it was in the cake...in the oven. There were some profanities muttered on my way to the oven. I argued with myself that there were no instructions regarding the baby on the recipe card...but upon second glance, there it was in big bold letters: "DO NOT PLACE BABY IN CAKE BEFORE BAKING."

Well...it looked fine. I stared at it for a couple minutes, picturing a melted plastic mess somewhere in the cake. I sectioned off about a third of the circle, the area I believed to be the region that hid the baby. I considered several delicate ways of searching but none offered any results. There was no other way. I had to massacre the cake. If I couldn't find it, I would be threatening the lives of my co-workers. It was a sacrifice I had to make, but I finally found it. To my surprise, it was still in tact. (Well played, cake mix maker, well played.) It started off white and was pink after baking. All in all, no damage, just a little sun burn. The rest of the cake was enjoyed by all in the Houseboating office; Amber had even confirmed the taste to be authentic. (Not like plastic? Good, that's what I was shooting for.) No one died, so I can officially file this experience as a WIN. I suppose you could even call it a miracle...after all, the baby is Jesus.

Let the Good Times Roll!

Fat Tuesday is always the day before Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of the Christian season of Lent. Lent lasts "40" days (more like 45) and ends the day before Easter. Traditionally, participants will give something up in order to practice discipline for those 40 days. I usually try to give up going out to eat, take out and fast food - just plain eating unhealthily. I don't always succeed in the way I hope, but I'll give it another shot this year too. (With the exception of Valentines Day, but I'll make it up to God with an extra day on the end.) I have also realized I need to add more spiritual practice in my life. I've slacked off after I stopped going to my previous home church. So I'm committing to attend another church each Sunday, and I'll keep a journal of daily devotionals (shout out to whoever invented the Bible App.) I'm hoping to build a new habit that outlasts Lent, but as anything else in life - I'm sure it's going to be harder than it sounds.

Anyone else celebrate Mardi Gras/Lent? What are your traditions, what are you giving up for Lent? Swearing, road rage, candy?

Life on the Fast-Track

It was Devin's birthday on Monday (he's one of Brian's good buddies, and mine by association). The plan was to get a group together for Go-Karting to celebrate. I have never go-karted before, but have always been curious to try. It was mid-day Monday that I started questioning if I should go or not, and began thinking of excuses to abort mission Fast-Track. (To be fair, my knee was giving me a fair amount of grief until later that afternoon.) But I also worried that I was going to be in the way of "guy time" or whether I would severely embarrass myself in a way that only seems possible when it happens to me. Despite my better judgement, I hitched up my proverbial pants and psyched myself into going. 

There were about 12 people (including myself) in our group, I was the only girl but I didn't mind that; (I kid myself into thinking I can "roll" with the boys.) I signed up and got my racing license, racing name: Travelbug. I was ready to make some boys cry. So we strut out to the track to gear up in our racing helmets and pick our karts for the line-up. I sat down and reached behind me for my seat belt, then looked at it puzzled. Was it one that goes around each arm and connects in the middle? Nope, just one loop. I looked around and everyone else had a simple no-questions-asked, car-type belt that extended across the body over one shoulder. I looked at mine again. Nope, definitely not the case. The "pit crew" attendant saw my struggle and pointed out that it was to go over my head and then connect to another that's fixed on the seat. Again, I looked around puzzled. Mind you, the whole time I'm wearing the bulky helmet, the kind that hinders your view no matter what contortions you can put your neck through. There wasn't anything to connect this belt to! Finally I wriggled myself (rather clumsily) out of the tiny awkward cart so the attendant could yank the other side of the belt from where it was jammed under the seat (go figure.) Meanwhile, every guy waiting in their carts for me to figure this out had this face:

Luckily, being stumped by a seat belt is not high on the list of things that can easily damage my ego. Then we were off! The 10 lap (dis)qualifying round began and I was quickly in last place. If you've never driven a go-kart before - it's a lot different than driving a car. Not hard, but different. Apparently the only beginner in the crowd, I floundered all the way around the track screeching and bumping...at about 10 mph. But getting the hang of the kart was the least of my problems. The racing helmets, though safe, block your peripheral view entirely. Might as well squeeze your noggin into the hole of a cinder block. (And I get claustrophobic in an airplane.) So about 3/4 of the way around my second lap, I was hyperventilating and shaking so dramatically that I turned off into the pit stop where the crew attendant cut the engine and helped me out of the aforementioned seat belt.

I splashed my face with some water and sat with my head between my knees for awhile, after which I was completely fine. From that point on I watched from the lobby window and silently cheered them all on. All the while mumbling to myself in a deep announcer voice. I'm certain the employees all thought I was insane. Actually it was probably more fun to watch them all bump in to each other and watch their faces as they screeched around tight corners, not sure if they would make it. Boys. They never grow up, they just get bigger. After two rounds, they all came back through the lobby with their chests all pumped up and big ol grins on their faces like:

They stood around the final ranking board and compared stories on which of their group was the most difficult to pass, who blocked who on what turn, etc. So even though I didn't actually get to race, I was very well entertained. My go-karting days are far from over. I will conquer the track one day. But until then, I guess I'll have to stick to the freeways.