Tonight is one of those nights where I don’t have much in the refrigerator and I have to scrounge around to put together dinner. One of the things I that we will have for dinner is potatoes. I have a very simple potato recipe that I really like and I am going to share with you. There are three reasons why I really like this recipe: (1) it is easy and it tastes good; (2) My husband really likes it; and (3) I always get compliments on it when I take it to various and assorted pot lucks, etc.

Ingredients:  Red or white potatoes, olive oil, and a package of dry ranch dressing mix.

Directions: Slice potatoes into small bite-sized pieces and place in oven-safe dish. Toss lightly with olive oil to cover the potatoes and sprinkle on the dressing mix and toss one more time (how much mix you use depends on how many potatoes you plan to cook. I just eyeball it and don’t put anymore one once it looks well seasoned). Place dish in oven and bake for approx. 60 to 85 minutes in a preheated 350 degree oven.

Enjoy!

       Eight days ago marked the starting of the grand ceiling and painting project of 2010. David and I have been slowly putting money aside to have the popcorn (and asbestos-laden) ceilings removed from our little 1970’s era home. And this summer enough had accumulated to have the project done. The asbestos removal, it turned out, was the easy part. The removal must be followed by fixing the drywall, texturing, priming, and painting the ceilings. David and I are smart and both work full time (okay, so I don’t quite work full time, but who is counting?) so we hired the painting work out. The asbestos removal took only three days to complete and seemed to go quite smoothly, but when we arrived at the house we were dismayed to find that in order to remove the asbestos and not damage our walls the contractor had put duct tape all over the walls and then had not-so-carefully removed the tape. This left the walls with some duct tape residue as well as removed some of the paint and texturing on the walls. Much to our dismay (and, I will admit, our relief in having the decision sort of made for us) this expanded our painting project from the main areas of our house to our entire house with the exception of the bathrooms (thankfully, popcorn ceiling free although both haven’t seen anything new since 1972 and could probably use a total remodel but that will be a project for another year).

        In the interim of the whole mess David and I have been staying with our ever-generous brother (my oldest brother), his wife, and their three-month-old daughter. We had to move everything our of our home and are very thankful for a garage and a small storage room behind it to house our things. It has felt so strange to be displaced from our home for a week and yet still be living here, going to work as usual, etc. I am terribly excited, though, to have our house all painted and better looking! The light pink shiny trim will now be white and the walls will get some color. I will post a few pics of the project later.

       Okay, so I am seriously behind in blogging. The Saturday before Mother’s Day David, Mark, Jessica, and Rusty all celebrated their mothers (and David & Rusty’s golden birthdays) by hopping off of an airplane. Being a sane person, I stayed on the ground. Here are a few promised pics:

Incoming! The day was absolutely beautiful and clear.

David and Rusty ready to fall through the air.

Mark and Jessica preparing to die.

They all loved it! And everyone landed safely!

      The Pacific Northwest is not known for being the place to grow a vegetable garden. At first glance the area appears lush and green and one would think that anything would grow well here. But the cool, wet climate is not conducive to the growth of, say, tomatoes or eggplant because we simply don’t get enough sunlight. Combine the lack of sun and heat to the short growing season and the rain that leaches necessary nutrients out of the soil along with the unpredictable late frost dates and vegetable gardening is spotty at best. Nothing close to my Eastern Washington experience of being able to grow almost anything.

      Most people I know who grow gardens in this area put their plants in sometime around May or June. Most seed packets and garden books, however, suggest that seeds can be sown sometimes as early as February with good results. I wasn’t quite organized enough to direct sow that early, but I was able to put in my first planting in early April. I followed with a second round of planting yesterday and so far so good. The weather here has been cool and certainly the plants are not growing as quickly as when I planted similar plants mid May last year, but I have yet to lose a single little sprout to frost, pests or disease. I will keep the blog updated time to time with how this is going. The radishes, kohlrabi, and peas all have little sturdy sprouts peeking up through the soil.

Dear Raccoon,

     Let’s start this off with saying that I am not an animal hater. And in general I have nothing against raccoons. I actually think that in the right context you and your friends are kind of cute. From a distance. However, it has come to my attention that lately you and your friends have decided that you have a right to my yard. I truly do my best to be tolerant of the many creatures that make their home in my yard. Unfortunately for you there is a size limit on animals that are allowed to make their home in my yard and you are larger than that limit.

      I realize that you may think that I am being unkind and biased against you, but I must insist that you please leave my property for good. My plea is backed by the many ways in which you and your friends make yourselves pests. Let’s start with the cherry trees. I am most certain that you have eaten more cherries off that tree than I have (of note they are much better if you wait until they ripen, but you don’t seem to have the patience.) In addition, do you remember just a few weeks ago when you destroyed my front flower planters? Those hyacinths were a gift! You had no right  to tear them to pieces and unearth the bulbs. The list goes on with troubles like ripping apart our just-filled yard waste bags and leaving the shreds all over our lawn. And then not to mention scaring the neighborhood children and startling me in the morning while I am on my way out the door to work. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that you were supposed to be afraid of humans?  I find this behavior to be most unacceptable.

      As you can see clearly the appropriate response is for you to leave my property and never to return. I do not want to see you and your kits parading across my fence again this year. Please pack your bags and vacate immediately. If I must urge again it may be in a much more unpleasant manner and so I encourage full cooperation.

Thank you in advance.

Love, Megan

     There is a young man employed by the hospital in which I work who appears have a condition that most refer to as “Down’s syndrome". This man is a delightful chap whose sole job is (as far as I am aware) to fill the Purell dispensers. In a hospital of approximately 250 beds this is no small chore. The way that this works for him is diagrams of where the dispensers are located. He can often be found in the hallways with his little cart looking at his diagrams and locating every dispenser in the area. All in all, he is quite good at what he does as long as the dispensers are on the diagrams.

     One of the delightful traits of most people with Down’s syndrome is that they tend to be jovial and get great amusement out of the smallest things. When I started working in the neonatal intensive care unit I noticed that the young man would sometimes peek into the glass doors to get a better look at our tiny patients. While I was at work the other day standing by my patient’s room and stringing IV tubing the young man walked by the room to check the dispenser. He carefully added Purell and then peeked his head into the slightly open door. His entire face lit up in awe and fascination at the four pound bundle in the crib. Unable to contain himself he clapped his hands together and exclaimed:

“Baby!”

   He flashed me a sheepish grin before continuing on his way. This little moment made my day.

      David and I have been carefully setting aside small sums of money each month to be able to soon afford removing our popcorn ceilings and repainting the interior of our house. One of the sticking points on this project is the question of asbestos. Our house was built in the early 1970s- before asbestos’ damaging effects on the human respiratory system was known. Not all homes built during this time used it, but some did. I have done some extensive research online as to what we ought to do. You can get the popcorn tested at a center for around $25, but beyond that most sites had conflicting information. Sometimes even calling the same center different days (spoke with different people) resulted in different answers. Was it safe to remove the sample for testing ourselves? Do you need multiple samples or just one? If multiple samples where do you decide to sample? If there is confirmed asbestos do we need to report it? Isn’t there just a way to find- I mean somebody built this house isn’t it documented somewhere? Etc. You get the picture.

      Yesterday I was chatting about home improvements with my neighbor. It just so happens that we own essentially identical homes (her floor plan is a mirror of our home’s). She stated that she had removed one of the room’s popcorn ceiling, but was debating on doing the rest of the house because asbestos removal is expensive. Asbestos? Yes, she informed me. Our house as well as the neighboring houses that were all build around the same time contain asbestos.

     The moral of the story is that sometimes when you have a question it doesn’t need to cost you hours of research and $25…just go ask your neighbor.

     It’s Wednesday night and I am once again David-less. Between working full-time, going to grad school, and subbing in various community orchestras I don’t see much of him these days. Which, of course, is never a good thing because it leaves me to my own devices on more nights of the week than normal. Devoid of our normal Wednesday evening activity (community group has been moved to Fridays) I was left with an empty house and my take-home work from the hospital staring back at me. So, like the reasonable, hard-working person that I am I left the work sitting at the desk and headed out the door for the gym as I saw that they were offering a spinning class tonight.

    I arrived with a few minutes to spare and quickly scribbled my name on the roster to reserve a spot and waited for the step class to finish so that the spinning class people could move the bikes onto the raised platform that classes are held. The instructor’s name was “Sandy” on the board and I was expecting a female and a normal round of jumps, hills, etc. that these classes have to offer. Five minutes after class is supposed to start in rolls the instructor, a slim man with tattoos wound around his arms in biking shorts, a torn t-shirt and red  socks displaying the spinner emblem. The best part, though, was his white towel with a bright orange ribbon sewn around the hem.

“It’s Wednesday Night, Baby!”

     Commence the most difficult spinning class I have taken to date. I think, in part, because it was taught by a boy. I survey the class from my space in the back. There is the normal smattering of gym night people: young women, a few young men, and only a handful people who look a day older than 35. The one exception was a distinct older gentleman who appeared to be from India wearing pleated dress slacks and thick 80’s style glasses. 

“Push it baby! Push it baby! One! Two! One! Two! Faster! Gear it up! Push! Pull!”

    The class allowed little time to rest between the periods of intense riding. The instructor had a funny habit of talking out of only one side of his mouth and winking at people who caught his eye. Twenty minutes in and my lungs were loudly reminding me that I had forgotten my trusty red albuterol inhaler. The older gentleman was starting to get a furrow on his brow, but I noticed that he was not adding difficulty to his bike like the rest of the class. He surveyed all of us white people sweating it out. I could see him laughing at us behind his thick glasses:” stupid Americans. Turning that knob makes this difficult.”

“Push!Pull! OW! Bring it home! Put that road behind you! Push! Pull! Come on, baby!”

   Thirty-five minutes into the class and my stomach is thinking that the dinner I ate an hour and a half  ago isn’t compatible with this level of cardiac output to my legs. I could feel the hot sweat dripping off my face down my arms.

“It’s Wednesday night, baby!”

The class finishes up. The man in the thick glasses never even broke a sweat. I chat it up with an old co-worker of mine from my days in the medical unit who also happened to be taking the class. I am exhausted. I am so going back next week.

     A week ago marked my one year anniversary in my current job position in a neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). The job was a longtime goal of mine and actually having it in my grasp seemed so improbable and wonderful at the same time. I spent the first few months immersed in the world of critical care. The unit seemed big and the nurses grouchy and all the information impossible to comprehend. The acronyms and medical mumbo jumbo rolled off the tongues of the staff much faster than I could ever understand them. I spent most of my time asking ceaseless questions: where do I find this item? why are we doing that? what does this machine do and why? what is that drug for? what does that mean? we are going to do what at the bedside?

      One year later I am still often overwhelmed with the amount of responsibility and activity that occurs within the walls of our little unit. The nurses are a bit more friendly and the words and procedures more familiar, but the job is not all it is cracked up to be. While I truly enjoy the position it does not hold the attraction and draw that it once did. I love the constant learning and being frequently presented to new and different cases, but I find that even in this there is not satisfaction.

“Indeed, I count everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him….” Philippians 3:8 ESV

“There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God, for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment?” Ecclesiastes 2:24

       This Wednesday started out as any regular Wednesday. Breakfast, getting David off to work, straightening the house, and reviewing my list of errands before heading off to Hopelink to volunteer. For just this week I delivered to an extra person as her “regular” volunteer was unavailable. I had agreed to do the extra delivery weeks ago and nobody stopped me from collecting a second round of eggs, milk, bread, and other staples. I chose to deliver to the new lady first, carefully winding my way through an unfamiliar Kirkland neighborhood. Her house was pretty easy to find, a small pink house with an overgrown yard and porch full of hanging wooden knick nacks. I rang the doorbell and a woman peeked at me in confusion from behind the blinds. It took a lot of gesturing at the full grocery bags to get her to open the door.

Lady: What are you doing here? What are those for?

Me: I am from Hopelink. Your regular volunteer wasn’t able to make it this week so I brought you your groceries.

Lady: (confused) My volunteer delivered to me yesterday.

Me: oh, hmmm….

Lady: But my son, you know, he’s been in the ICU on a ventilator and everything. He’s getting better, though, and he is probably going to come live with me for a little while…I sure could use some extra food.

Through a communication snafu the Lord had provided this poor lady with food to feed both her and her son for the week. God works in the little things and it was such a blessing to be part of it.