Funnel Cloud

I thought I saw a funnel cloud this afternoon.  Of course, we don't actually get tornadoes (yeesh, that "e" in the plural form looks so weird) here in Fairbanks.  But there was a massive thunderstorm front moving west.  We raced it all the way from town.  All sun and light ahead of us; doom and gloom behind.  Planes were being diverted over Ester Dome to escape the oncoming system.  And this storm front hit another air mass, creating an apocalypse-worthy swirly cloud DIRECTLY OVER OUR HOUSE.

Just out of frame: Dorothy's house on its way to Oz.  Or maybe it's a portal through time.  Or to Asgard!

Me: Hey, John!  Come look at this funnel cloud!
John: What?! [comes outside] Wow!  That's sure swirling around fast.
Me: Do you think I'll get hit by lightning if I stay out here on the porch?
John [in his patronizing scientist voice]: Considering that we live on a hill, and you're the least tall thing around, no.

Buoyed by his logic, I stayed outside snapping photos until the torrential rains arrived seconds later. At least the rain refreshed the pansies I left to die of heat stroke on the deck.  Garden update: all plants are fine.  Of course, the only plants in the raised bed that I have so far are the withered (but alive!) beets and parsley I planted more than two weeks ago, and some shoots that I'm telling myself are kale (but are probably something insidiously weedy).  The tomato starts are doing fine and dandy inside the greenhouse, which miraculously didn't blow away in the storm.  I can count the number of mosquito bites I've received on only one hand, so for all intents and purposes, this gardening season is a resounding success!

Theo has been sick for the past couple of days.  He's had a sporadic fever, and still hasn't recovered his appetite, and earlier this afternoon I noticed an almost imperceptible rash over his torso and face.  We rejoiced over the couple of bites of guacamole he nibbled at tonight.  Avocados (see, there's no plural "e" here – what gives with the "e" in tornadoes? It makes it seem like a tornadoes are a tomatoes-rich Mexican torpedo dish or something) form a fair portion of his solid food diet.  I'm sure when he's a teenager eating us out of house and home, I'll look back to this time of picky eating as the halcyon days of being able to afford to feed my kid.  But I wish he would eat a pound of butter and put my mind at ease about his growth.

Between the sick kid and the recent shootings in Seattle, my mind hasn't been at ease at all of late.  I didn't know any of the victims, but of course in a city that small, I know someone who knew them.  Someone who happened to decide not to grab coffee at Café Racer before work that morning; so by the grace of a random or semi-conscious decision, thus avoided being there when the shooting happened.

A tragedy like this makes me think of lots of things, all running on the extreme end of the anxiety and worry spectrum.  One of my deepest fears when I was pregnant was that Theo would, despite all our efforts, grow up to be someone without the capacity for empathy.  I'm not saying that's what the case was with the Seattle shooter, but in addition to worrying about whether my child will be mentally healthy and empathetic as an adult, I worry about him randomly and tragically coming into contact with someone who isn't.

I can't prepare for randomness.  Whenever we part ways for the day or for the hour, I can't help but tell John that I love him.  I wear this phrase like a talisman to ward off the chaos and randomness that the world might throw at us.  I say it, I mean it, I say it again, though I know it can't protect us.  When he rides his bike to and from school, I automatically think of the drunk drivers on Goldstream, or the blinding light of the setting sun and that narrow spot on the road near Ivan's Alley.  Even now, by typing these words, I hope that somehow by naming my fear, I'll stop it from coming true.

Sometimes, always, I wish I could invent a way to send a text back through time (I'm assuming that sending information like this would be a hell of a lot easier than time traveling myself).  Or, like at the radio station, if someone swears on the air, the DJ can press the "Dump" button, and a few seconds of the broadcast are eliminated before they even air.  That's what I want – a dump/delay button for the past.  Just a few seconds are all that are necessary.  Of course, with that kind of magic loophole technology, we could be heroes and stop the big tragedies of the last decade.  But it's the randomness of a May morning three years ago that I think about the most, when John's sister was killed by a driver who fell asleep at the wheel and veered into oncoming traffic.  I want to press a button that deletes that randomness from the timeline.  I want to send a message that somehow affords her a few seconds delay, a car length of chaos avoided.

I know that I can't control what happens, and I can't change the past.  So I'll just keep telling the people whom I love that I love them.  Repeatedly.  So they know it's true and I know it's true and if the world throws us into the chaos of tragedy, then there's never any question that we knew we loved each other.

You. I love you.

Garden

Today I planted carrots, kale, arugula, beets and bibb lettuce in my little raised bed (plus a raggedy parsley plant) – a rather ambitious start to my Fairbanks gardening career.  We'll see if the parsley and beet seedlings were sufficiently hardened off to survive the night.  Is that laissez-faire attitude really a good idea for a novice gardener?  My deepest fear is that nothing will grow.  My second deepest fear is that I'll mistake the seedlings for weeds and uproot my nascent garden before it even begins.  My third deepest fear, and probably the most realistic, is that a moose will come in the night and ravage everything.

As I was troweling up dirt in neat little rows, I suddenly noticed a cloud of buzzing flies surrounding me and I wondered if I had died and turned into a fly-attracting zombie.  But then I realized that they were just enticed by the unctuous aroma of the chicken poop I used to amend the soil.

Back inside the house now, and I discover that John has already fed Theo dinner, encouraged him to make his first in-the-potty poop, and is currently bathing him. This parenthood thing can be a pretty sweet gig if you play your cards right.

Homecoming

My first and middle right-hand fingers are encased in dried super glue as I type this.  I was attempting to fix the broken-off knob on the Le Creuset butter dish, a casualty of John's over-eager kitchen cleaning.  My parents just left.  They were here for Sunday dinner.  They brought rib-eye steaks from Homegrown and I made a salad.  John brought Lulu's french bread.  There was vanilla Hagen-Daäz and wine.  I skunked my dad at cribbage and even managed to beat him at a hand of gin before he left, disgusted at my victory and tired of my uncomfortable chairs.  As I tried to wash the crusty super glue coating away, I gazed out at Ester Dome from the kitchen window and a raven descended from above Spinach Creek into the valley below.  Life was pretty perfect at that moment.

We are back in the 'banks after a spring break in Seattle.  It was a good trip.  Of course we didn't get to see everyone we wanted to.  I didn't even stop by work (SCC to the A! I'm sorry!).  But it's hard fitting in a decade worth of friends into 10 days.  We stayed at Andy and Jen's, and then at Eric's for a weekend.  It was hard keeping up with Theo without baby gates.

The trip kind of re-cemented in my mind how much I long to return home.  Yes, home.  To Seattle.  Even the sidewalks of cement hold nostalgia for me.  There's still snow here in Fairbanks to deal with, though we're on the sunny side of equinox to consider.

But when exactly did I stop considering Fairbanks home?  I remember each Alaska Airlines flight back to Fairbanks during college, or my decade living in Seattle, I would longingly stare out the window (and it was always a window seat) and feel nostalgic about every twig and berry on the purple tundra and feel like I was cutting off a part of me by not living in Fairbanks.  Every twist and turn in the Tanana River was a knife edge in my side; why don't I live here?  Why am I denying myself, my soul, by not living in Alaska?

Three weeks ago when we flew over north Seattle, I experienced the same kind of longing.  The red flashing light at NW 65th St and 32nd Ave NW.  The neon sign of Anthony's.  Shilshole.  The sea.  Making out Market Street and Ballard Ave.  I thought I was coming home.  But maybe I've been confusing the feeling of homecoming and the longing of nostalgia all these years.

I'm still not sure where home is, but home should be in the moment, when the raven floats into the valley, when I know the immediate future can't afford a ticket home to Seattle for summer, when I should plan and devise each square foot of summer garden as Theo naps in my arms.  It's 30 degrees above at Chateau Perreault.  Soon, it will be summer.  Soon, I hope to immerse my arms in dirt and ignore the ache of my lower back as I build rudimentary raised beds of beets, kale and tomatoes in our front lawn.

It's been a year and a half since our departure from Ballard.  And honestly, it doesn't even feel like two months since we left.  So I'm giving Fairbanks another chance.  Come on, summer.  Make me forget my longing for the sea, or for a perennial bed of lavender in those temperate Seattle climes.  Give me a summer full of dinners on the deck and a garden full of Lacinato kale.  Make me forget the longing of Seattle spring.  Because I'm tired of living in two worlds and desiring every place but my own.

Curry Recipe

While John is walking Theo back to sleep, I am eating an illicit second helping of tonight's dinner: a thai coconut curry with beef and sweet potato.  I am in love with this recipe (because it's awesome and incredibly easy), so much so that I'm writing it down for posterity below.  Amounts are approximate, since I basically make it up as I go depending on how much of each ingredient I have on hand.  It's not quite authentic, since I rarely make up my own red curry paste, and I use brown sugar instead of palm sugar, but with the results I get from standard supermarket ingredients, I couldn't care less about authenticity.  The sweet potato and coconut milk combine to make the most ridiculous velvety sauce imaginable.  If you'd like to swap out the beef to make this recipe vegetarian, I'd recommend some kind of hearty vegetable that could withstand the hour plus of brasing time in the oven so it doesn't turn into absolute mush.  Ideas?

Beef and Sweet Potato Coconut Red Curry

Ingredients

1-2 T. peanut oil or coconut oil
1 onion, chopped small
1 2-inch piece of ginger, minced
3 - 4 large cloves of garlic, minced
1 large or 2 medium red sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into large rounds or chunks
1 package (1.75 oz) of A Taste of Thai red curry paste or its homemade or rival brand equivalent
1.75 - 2 lbs. chuck roast or other type of beef appropriate for braising, cut into largish 2 or 3-inch cubes1 14 oz. can of coconut milk
1/2 - 1 c. water or broth
1 T. fish sauce (or just use salt to taste)
1 T. brown sugar (OPTIONAL - your coconut milk may be sweet enough on its own that added sugar is unnecessary)

Cooked jasmine rice
1/4 - 1/2 c. cilantro
1 lime, sliced into wedges

Serves 4

Directions

(Note: in an ideal world, I would salt the meat a day or two ahead of time and brown the pieces in oil before beginning the recipe.  But I have found that the time and effort required to pre-salt and brown the meat isn't really worth the payoff when the expediency of dinner is of upmost importance.)

Preheat oven to 325º F.

In a dutch oven or large oven-safe pan, sauté onion in oil over medium heat until soft and almost translucent (5-7 minutes).

Add ginger and garlic, cook until fragrant (30 seconds - 1 minute).

Add sweet potato and beef and stir to coat with aromatics. 

Add curry paste and coconut milk.  Add approximately 1/2 c. water or broth so that the liquid in the pan almost covers beef and sweet potato.  Stir to combine.

Add fish sauce and brown sugar, stir.  Bring to simmer, then cover pot and put in the oven.

Cook for 1.5 - 2 hours or until beef pulls apart with fork.

Serve over jasmine rice with chopped cilantro and a healthy squeeze of lime (these garnishes aren't required, but they really amp up the awesome).



... And because no post would be complete without it, here are some some shots of Theo:

Getting his boots tied by his papa.

On our way home from a mid-afternoon walk.

In Roger's arms at a recent lunch gathering with the old crowd.

Here Comes the Sun

My mood has improved with the return of light and relative warmth.  The raven is gone; either he was bothered by my sudden interest in his presence (I did end up leaving out a few chunks of sausage and cheese for him, which John accidentally snowplowed under a berm, so it looks like I will have some cleaning up to do come spring), or he was just using the carport during the most frigid nights.  His scat is still there as a fond remembrance.  I really liked going to sleep at night thinking about the raven also sleeping just a few feet away from me.  I hope he returns.

To make up for his absence, the jays, chickadees and redpoles are out in full force.  Probably because I have laid out about two pounds of cheese and seeds for them in the past week.  That is not an exaggeration.  So, basically, for want of a busy social life, I have started to make friends with (by bribing with food) the local birds.  This should turn out well.  With all the cheddar that the jays have been hiding in their caches in the trees, I am already anticipating the property smelling like a sweaty cheese monger come spring.

I've actually had a couple of great weekends and hung out with real, non-avian, friends.  Last week, my friend Michelle had a birthday party at her adorable house in Lemeta.  As I stood in her entryway under a beam of incandescent light, zipping my boots on and off, I felt completely welcome and happy to be in Fairbanks.  Maybe it was the two glasses of wine consumed at her party.  Or the tasty barbeque moose meatballs.  Or maybe what I need to do is get rid of the fluorescent light in my own entryway.  Or just get out of the house more often.

I've joined a book club and hosted it at my place this past Saturday.  Only two people showed up, and we spent more time talking about our kids than the book in question (Jonathan Safran Foer's "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close"), and I nearly burned the black bean soup (though I imparted a lovely smoky essence to it, thanks to my lack of attention), but it was a super fun night.  And today, Scott, Selena and Grier were up visiting family so we got to hang out with them and the whole Hopkins/Guttenberg clan.  Selena made a delicious egg scramble with broccoli (heretofore a verboten vegetable at the Johnson/Perreault household as per John's preference, but I'm going to start bringing home again that delicious cruciferous candy).

Despite the fact that Theo is under the weather (new parenting challenge: vomit!), we took him for a little walk this afternoon up to the Solstice Trail on Keystone.  Some photos below.

Theo has a pair of sunglasses!  (Thanks to Debbie Brownlow)

John told me to take my hands out of my pockets for this one, otherwise I'd look like a hipster kid from the city getting lost in the woods.

Raven

For the past few weeks, whenever John has gone out to the carport at night to collect wood or plug the plow truck in, he's heard what seems like a bird flying away.

This morning in daylight, I saw scat in the snow underneath the beams in the carport.  Tonight, when I went out with the flashlight to see if I could catch a glimpse of our visitor, I actually saw a bird flying away, and I could hear the muffled thrumming of its wings beating in the air.  It was alerted to my presence by the not-so-subtle sound of my boots tromping through the snow.  I tried as hard as I could to be sneaky.

There is a raven roosting in the roof beams of our carport. 

So, Step One of Plan Raven has reached fruition.  Now for Step Two.  But how do I entice this raven to hang out and become my best friend, or at least to stick around and not abandon the roost?  The obvious answer is to just leave him/her alone.  But I think I'm going to be leaving some food out there, just to see what happens.  I'll probably have to sign some kind of contract with my husband promising that it will be me, and only me, who will collect the rotting food remains come spring.

So, I'm pleased as punch that our property is inviting a host of bird friends.  The jays still come around, though they are not quite as fond of the discount cheese.  We have tons of chickadees and other tiny little birds that seem to dart from tree to tree but neglect to eat the gourmet seeds from the bag of bird seed I bought from Fred Meyer.  And now this solitary raven.

But otherwise, January was a rough month.  At least one of us has been sick since mid-December.  I've lost count how many colds I've had.  I thought this whole breastfeeding thing was supposed to ward off sickness in the baby, but at least I know that Theo is building up his immune system.  (I feel like Calvin's dad for saying that, like it's some kind of character-building exercise, this slogging through the mucus bog of life.)  We are just now emerging from the congestion haze of the latest bug, so my hopes are high for a healthy February.

I'm not volunteering as a docent this semester.  I miss hanging out at the museum, but with all the bitter (and I mean bitter, like 40 or 50 below) cold we've had, and the viral kind of cold that this family has been struck with, it's very much a relief not to have a morning commitment.  I've lost my will to lead a productive life before 9am.

I am singing with the Choir of the North again.  It's somewhat easier to have a standing weekly activity at night.  Especially when that means that John is the one who's putting Theo to sleep while I'm off gallivanting around singing my Stephen Foster madrigals.  Apart from a handful of other, older community members, I'm one of the oldest members of the choir.  And that is weird.  Very weird.  I usually arrive early to choir, so I can sit and read for a few minutes (I've got to eke out the personal enrichment whenever I can), but I usually end up eavesdropping on undergraduate conversations.  Topics generally entail drinking, campus dorm life (like, oh my god, I can't believe the RA found out about us drinking in our dorm room), or boys.  I can't hear what the tenors or basses talk about, but I bet the topics are exactly the same.  Some of the kids (kids! I call them kids! I must be old) sweatshirts emblazoned with Class of 2010 mottoes or 2011 All-State Choir tees, and my brain automatically does the simple arithmetic.  I graduated high school in 1996.  These kids are fifteen years younger than I am.  It's fun to sing again, that's what I keep reminding myself.  I was one of the youngest members of the Seattle Symphony Chorale, so being one of the oldest in Choir of the North is just another notch in my belt of choral experiences.  We're doing Brahms' Zigeunerlieder (gypsy songs!) and some Gold Rush-era nostalgia songs for our spring concert on May 4th.  I am totally going to hit you up hard later this semester to entice you to go.

And now for a photo of Theo: