Wouldn't you love to get a swag bag with an adorable hat in this adorable packaging?!

When the Academy Awards air this Sunday night, Sheri Hall will be paying special attention. Not because she is up for an award, or because she has any sort of stake in the outcome, but because, for the first time in her life, she has a connection with Oscar.

Oscar the Slouch, that is.

Oscar the Slouch - for girls!

Sheri knits hats, her newest design being “Oscar the Slouch”. When I say “knits hats”, I mean that it is what she does from sunup to sundown virtually every day. “One of the best things,” Sheri says, “about my knitting habit, is that I can take it everywhere. That is also one of the worst things.” But it is that dedication of her time and her talent that has brought Sheri where she is today, anticipating that her “Oscar” hat is making an appearance in 100 “Swag Bags” for certain members of the press, as well as the presenters and nominees of this weekend’s 84th Academy Awards.

Sheri Hall! Her daughter, a college photography student, took this shot.

That’s right: she had to make 100 hats – plus one for display – and every single one of those famous people we’ll be watching up on stage will have the opportunity to get one. Sheri admits that she got slightly bored, making the same hat over and over, but she says that changing the colors – and, of course interesting movies from Netflix – kept her focused and entertained.

A pile-o-Oscar-bound Oscar hats!

Oscar the Slouch - for boys!

Sheri began her knitting business on http://etsy.com, which is a well-known and respected web site for vintage and handmade items. Sheri didn’t even know how to knit until, seven years ago, while working at Main Street Kids in Worthington, Minnesota, she was inspired by a co-worker’s knitting skills. She says she loved it from the start, but that it took a little practice before she really knew what she was doing. Soon, “like every beginner knitter, everyone I knew received scarves or a dishcloth. Then I moved onto hats…baby hats. They are just so much cuter and faster than adult hats.” It was this obsession with making baby hats that led her to Etsy.




“I found myself looking on Etsy at all the cool things people were making and I thought, ‘Hey, I need to give this a shot and at least see if I can support my knitting habit.’” So, in June 2009, Sheri opened Oops I Knit it Again (http://OopsiKnitITagain.etsy.com or http://www.facebook.com/#!/OopsIKnitItAgain). She remembers how excited she was when she sold her first hat. Then, by the end of the first week, she had sold five or six more. Her business has steadily grown since then.

This is not the first business that Sheri has begun. While living in Worthington, she and her business partner and friend, Jackie Johnson, ran “Re-Find” together up until Sheri moved out of town. That business background helped her know what she was getting into with Oops I Knit it Again. Knitting, however, is a skein of a slightly different color.

The Pixie hat! I've run out of synonyms for "adorable"...

Now, working at home and being self-employed, she has discovered that there are perks and dangers. One perk: you can knit in sweatpants. One danger: skeins of yarn have threatened to take over Sheri’s house. Sheri’s family, however, has risen to the occasion. Phill, Sheri’s husband of 22 years, is now the main cook of the family. Sheri knows she couldn’t do what she does without him. “My wife is one of the most original, creative persons that I know,” Phill told me. “She never ceases to amaze me.”



Their children, Cody – a junior in high school – and Caitlin – a freshman at Hennepin Technical College, where she studies photography – have also been great about lending a hand. “I think one of the biggest changes [that the business has brought her] besides having a little extra money, is that it has changed how things are done around the house. My husband and our two kids have really had to step up and pitch in and do whatever needs to be done.” Though, she laughs, to the casual observer, “It probably looks like I’m just sitting around watching television and knitting while they do all the work.”

This is one of the cutest things I've ever seen in my entire life.

Though Sheri can make a simple hat in 15 minutes, some take her up to two hours. “Some nights I stay up really late just because that is a time I can actually get knitting done without interruption. I believe my all-time record in one day was 23 hats. I don’t think I can ever beat that record!” She does have a couple dependable knitters she can call on in extremely busy times – like Christmas – but she doesn’t necessarily see her business expanding to other full-time workers, at least not in the near future. She would like to branch into adult hats someday, but for now just does not have time. “I wouldn’t mind having more time to design and write up some patterns. Right now there are some things no one else can make because I haven’t had time to write down the pattern so it would be fun to develop some of those other aspects of the job.”
I asked Sheri about her inspiration as she creates new patterns and designs. “I never really know for sure what will inspire me or when I am going to be inspired for a new design. I tend to be most inspired by color. I can drive by any random object and see different color combinations and my thoughts now go straight to, ‘that would be a cute hat’! I try to stay away from what everyone else is making.”



The “Oscar the Slouch” hat is one of those patterns that is not written down. In fact, she developed the design specifically for the Oscar Awards. Sheri has more unique pieces, too, many of which are bought by photographers worldwide (as well as locally) to be used as props and “costumes” for their clients. Selling on Etsy means, of course, that her clientele is not limited to Grand Rapids, Minnesota, the place that Sheri now calls home. “One afternoon in 2010 I got an email from a set designer who was working on the Smurf movie, asking if I could overnite a pom pom blanket and a hat to the set location in New York because they needed it for filming the next day. Of course I said ‘sure’ and then we frantically made the blanket and got it sent out and then waited until this last summer to see if it even made it in the movie! It did!”

The kind of blanket used in the Smurf movie...

Not long after the movie, Sheri got an email from a magazine. They wanted to use one of her hats on their cover. Then, this last summer, she got an email from the founder of “The Artisan Group” (http://theartisangroup.org) which is, “a juried group of artisans that provides handmade gifts for celebrity award show gift lounges and celebrity gift bags.” Sheri says, “I didn’t think too long about that opportunity before I accepted!”

“I will be gifting some members of the press at the MTV awards later on this spring. We do not get paid to do the bags, in fact, it costs us money! But it’s really all about advertising, so I decided to go for it. I also have 30 items going in Mothers Days gift bags for celebrity moms including Hilary Duff, Kim Kardashian and Beyonce! I was also recently chosen to put an item in a special gift bag that will be going to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes and their daughter Suri!” Sheri says that most of the celebrities who have gotten her hats have gotten them through gift bags, though she added, “I sold one to Jennifer Garner, but didn’t have the guts to ask if she was THEE Jennifer Garner. I thought that would be rude.”



One of Sheri’s customers, excited about Sheri’s rising fame, called up KSTP TV (an ABC News affiliate) in Minneapolis, and suggested that Sheri would make an interesting story. Jason Davis and a film crew showed up at Sheri’s house a couple weeks ago and they are expecting to air her story Sunday after the Academy Awards and then again on the noon news the next day. I asked Sheri – who was my neighbor when we both lived in Worthington – if all of this fame is going to go to her head. “Well I really don’t feel that famous or anything! The day Jason Davis called me and asked to come do an interview, I was sitting in my living room in sweats and I’m not sure if I had finished my hair or my makeup and I was thinking, ‘I’m pretty sure if you could see me now you wouldn’t be thinking I was famous.’”

Sheri never expected her work to be on the cover of a magazine, or in a movie, or in the swag bags at the Academy Awards or to be making hats for Beyonce’s baby. I think that’s part of the fun now – to see how far this knitting hobby has taken her. Shows like the Academy Awards are all about stories – big-screen stories – and Sheri’s story, while not on the silver screen, is making a lot of people very excited for their friend.

She’s making her customers happy, too. And that’s nothing to slouch at.

Again, adorable.

"My" U-Bahn station. Pretty much unchanged...unlike me and the city around it!

They say that you can never go back. That once you’ve left a place, you won’t return as the same person you were when you left. Well, conversely, Berlin itself is not the same place it was when I moved away, three days after my high school graduation, in June 1988, and I just have to say that I’m very glad! I’m not the same, either, and that, too, is a good thing.

Okay, if you look too closely, you'll see how tasteless this is. This is the waiting bench at Dahlem Dorf U-Bahn station. Yes...this is quintessential Berlin.

Our apartment building in Berlin. We were the top right-hand apartment (each one was two floors/half of each floor, for a total of 4 in the building).

I returned briefly a few times before my parents moved away in 1990, including being home for Christmas in 1989, one month after The Wall was opened – but I hadn’t been back since The Wall was actually gone, since reunification, since being married, being a mom, being, well, grown up. It had been over two decades since I’d been in this city, and it was, truly, not the same place that I had left.

My street!

My street - cobblestones and all. Looks pretty much exactly the same!!

I think the first thing that struck me when we arrived in Berlin was that our hotel was on THE EAST SIDE of the now non-existent wall! It was just so amazing to me – I mean, last time I’d been here, I couldn’t even GO to this part of the city (well, I could, but not without a lot of hoopla and scrutiny and a passport). Now, we could even ride the U-Bahn (subway) there whereas before the western U-Bahn line would not cross over into the East. It was like magic had occurred – like a marriage had taken place and the The Two had miraculously Become One.

Our hotel, in - the former - east!

Across the street from our hotel - and the view we had every morning while we ate breakfast. The Deutscher Dom.

The Brandenburger Tor / Brandenburg Gate.

My husband took this shot last week. (All the other shots - except the night ones and Bebelplatz - are from a year ago.)

The Quadriga on the top of the Brandenburg Gate. I'd never seen it from the Eastern side before! There's a story about how she was kidnapped by Napoleon in 1806 and taken to Paris. She was returned a few years later. Imagine kidnapping such an enormous thing! And back in the day before cranes!

And, of course, the most magic thing of all: the open Brandenburger Tor – the Brandenburg Gate. I could walk under it now! And, low and behold, the US Embassy actually TOUCHES the gate (with the French and British embassies close at hand – the three allied countries which oversaw West Berlin). Last time I’d been that close to the Gate, I was watching President Ronald Reagan give his famous “Tear Down This Wall” speech with my mother. We had to go through three checkpoints just to get there – in which I was laughed at by the German guards at each one because of my name on the invitation – “Gretchen” is a child’s name in Germany, and “Greta” would be the adult form. (“Chen” is a diminutive.) By the time I got to the third checkpoint and the guards chuckled yet again, I said, “It’s my name, right?” “Ya, ya!”

This statue is titled, "Cry Freedom" and I remember it from the days when it was almost a plea - today it's more of a cry of victory.

As we stood and listened to Reagan’s speech, there were East German guards standing ON the Gate with honking huge guns in hand. I remember thinking that Reagan was an optimist, that was for sure. And now, all these years later…I was walking beneath the actual Brandenburg Gate!! I touched the pillars and just stood there a while, letting it all soak in.

I couldn’t stop marveling about it all. To hear about something is one thing, but to see it and touch it is quite another.

There are a couple places in the city today where huge chunks of the wall are still in place as a memorial. The instant I saw the wall, and drew close to its shadow, I grew cross, grumpy, and withdrawn. That’s how going to the East used to make me feel. It was all so wrong for any country to imprison their people – and all in the guise of keeping them safe. Even, of course, to the extent of killing them if they tried to escape. It just made me angry. So, seeing that wall still standing – even though I could obviously go around it now – just made all those emotions come roaring back. I felt like a sullen teenager again.

Definitely NOT what used to be in Eastern Berlin.

That being said, when we saw, directly across from the former Checkpoint Charlie boarder crossing, that there is a DECADENT WESTERN McDonalds, we just had to eat there. How could we not?!! Last time I’d been at that exact place my passport had been scrutinized by bored German guards and I’d left with a tremendous headache from the horrid whistle on the Eastern U-Bahn. This time, by contrast, I headed East to go “home”. Yes indeed, the world has changed since I was a teenager, and here, at least, it’s a good thing.

The Bundestag...aka, the former Reichstag. This was a museum back in my day. Now it's the very real seat of parliament for Germany.

Everything was gray in East Berlin back then. Gray and depressing and repressed. Now, that exact same piece of land is fantastic – not because commerce and Westernism is so perfect…but because freedom itself gives joy. I am so happy for the people of Germany.

Imagine coming back to a place after more than two decades – a place you loved, a place you understood – and finding it entirely different – not just larger, but fundamentally a different place. I knew what it felt like to live in Berlin – it felt like a benevolent trap – not because I felt trapped, per sey, but because you had this constant knowledge, in the back of your heart, that you could not leave this city. Not without a lot of fuss and bother. You could not jump in your car and drive away. You could not escape – the entire city was surrounded by a communist country and you were NOT welcome there. But now you’ve come back, and the FEEL of the city has changed – the mind-set of the people has changed. It is not the enclosed, shut-off place that it was. It is no longer a trap. Imagine how different – how fantastic – that feels! The city you love no longer has a tourniquet that cut into its very heart. The people of Berlin understand what freedom feels like. As if the air itself is different.

It’s as if the city you love has grown up – that there had been a locked room which no one was ever allowed to see except in gray-tinged glimpses, kept hidden by some cross adult, which now has been opened for everyone to see. Does that make sense? It was as if Berlin and I had both grown up together.

The United States embassy abuts the gate.

The French embassy is across the street from the U.S. one...and down a wee bit.

The British Embassy - just around the corner from the U.S. one.

The Russian embassy - a block or two further up the Unter Den Linden - I'm sure in the same place it was back in my day, though I never walked around there to find out. Each of the embassies have an armed guard in front of them.

I remember riding on a Ferris Wheel one time. It was placed as close to the Brandenburg Gate as it was allowed to be. The wheel stopped when I was at the very top, and I could see into East Berlin, see the tower guards with their guns and orders from on high, see the no man’s land that kept the Easterners away from the wall (they could not walk up to it as you could on the western side), see Unter Den Linden – that famous street, cut off and feeble, compared to its former glory. A sparrow flew past me and kept on flying east, over the wall, over the guards, over the city. I marveled at his freedom to enter the locked room.

Now, more than two decades later, we all have wings to explore this amazing city.

The gate by night.

Berlin is, truly, an incredible place. (It is the only German city without a curfew! Gotta keep those cabarets going!) There are tremendous museums, fabulous stores, and friendly people. And, of course, the history everywhere you go. It fits its new role as an undivided capital perfectly.

Okay, it's impossible to do this justice. This is in Bebelplatz. Know what that means? I'll tell you in a minute. First, let me describe it. This is a window, below which is a all-white room, with white bookshelves on all four walls, floor to ceiling. The shelves are bare. Remember Belelplatz now? It's where Hitler had a magnificent bonfire to burn books. And this window and the room below is the memorial to that wickedness. It will blow your mind.

P.S. – It’s been very hard to write with any degree of perfection about Berlin. It’s all so close to my heart and there is so much to say that it’s hard to say anything concisely! I hope this rambling post isn’t too annoying to read! Oh, and also, I posted about Berlin on August 13th of last year. That was the 50th anniversary of the wall being built, if you’re interested in checking it out. http://afinedayforanepiphany.wordpress.com/2011/08/13/50-years-ago-today-an-overnight-atrocity/

No, I'm sorry, I don't know who this introspective man is/was. But I loved the birdie on his feather!

First story: Lunch at the Musee D’Orsay. When I was in Paris in 1987 with my mother, we ate lunch on the Isle de la Cite at a tiny, hole-in-the-wall restaurant. I don’t remember what Mom ate, but I ordered the only thing that I recognized on the tiny menu: steak. Steak Carpaccio, to be exact. No, I didn’t know what the “carpaccio” part meant, but Mom assured me that it would be tasty. I think she was trying to broaden my horizons.

Okay, so here's the start of my "Paris skyline" portfolio. LOVE some of these shots.

Love the angles. Love the buildings.

Typical Paris.

Now for those of you who know what Steak Tartare is, you may go ahead and laugh. But for the rest, read on.

We went to lunch at the Musee D’Orsay, in this beautiful room full of chandeliers and frescoes on the ceiling. We looked at the menu and there, in black print for the world to see, was “Steak Tartare”…and I said, “That’s what I want”. The waiter said, “Are you aware that Steak Tartare is raw meat?” I replied, with a smile, “Yes, I’m good with that.” Images of carpaccio danced in my head while we waited for our food.

More wonderful skylines.

What lay before me was a perfectly shaped circle of raw ground beef, topped with a raw egg yolk.

I looked at my husband. I looked at the meat. I took a bite. I took a few more bites between wheedling bites away from my husband and his fully cooked meal. My husband, bless his heart, helped me out. When we walked away from the table, we left behind a small mountain of meat…and a good story to tell to anyone willing to listen.

Wouldn't you love to have such a window in your bedroom? Or to starve in such a garret?

Second story: If you can’t tell, I love the skylines of Paris. My husband asked me, while we were packing to leave Paris and head to Berlin, how Germany would differ from France. I wasn’t able to answer him – it had been too long.

"Our" street - for a few days.

After we got to Berlin, the answer was obvious – two answers, really. 1) The people weren’t all wearing black and smoking. And 2) The skylines can’t compare. Poor old Berlin has all new buildings – well, a LOT of new buildings – that’s what happens when your city is bombed to smithereens in a world war. Paris, on the other hand, has THE PARIS LOOK. It has these triangular buildings at the end of each block. It has round dormer windows and buildings smack up against each other and chimney pots that rise above the roof lines like Legos.

Ahhhh, Paris.

P.S. – In Berlin I ordered Steak Carpaccio. It was delicious.

Our hotel - sadly, without the dormers.

Quintessential Paris.

The Chinese building across the street from our hotel Sure wish I knew more about the building - it was so neat.

Just down the road from our hotel. You see these all over the city...

One shot of the Louvre. Because that's what a tourist must do. BUT...if you go, give yourself LOTS of time...maybe even more than one day...in order to do it justice. Amazing.

Notre Dame Cathedral. Front and center.

The most beautiful front door ever?

I'm a big fan of rose windows.

Can't really capture the emensity of it - it's staggering, really.

Back outside now. So many cool images to capture.

A little gargoyle action.

Just a wee detail.

Amazing, amazing architecture.

The back of the cathedral is far more gorgeous than the front, in my opinion!

The petticoats of the cathedral.

I couldn't stop taking photos.

Couldn't resist capturing this guy.

More gorgeousness.

Charlemagne. Did I spell that right?!

This post is mostly just pictures. I mentioned last time that I like the outside of Notre Dame Cathedral better than the inside. The inside is…intimidating? Impressive. Hard to photograph. Still, it’s amazing, too.

So, anyhow, here’s the (mostly) outside of the gorgeous building. If you go there, DO NOT miss walking around the back – outside – it’s fabulous.
P.S. – I really love flying buttresses.

An iconic Parisian scene.

We arrived in Paris on a Wednesday morning. Before we even got to the hotel I realized that if I had cherished any hope of “fitting in” then I had been optimistic to a fault. The truth was, I stuck out not like a sore thumb, but more like a beaten down, paraplegic thumb.

My favorite place in Paris - at a distance.

As I was packing, back in small-town Minnesota, a thought crossed my mind: I wonder…do the French still wear black all the time and do they really still smoke in this day and age? I decided that I ought to pack a lot of black clothes, just in case, but I wasn’t willing to take up smoking just to fit in.

Love this shot.

As we stepped out of the taxi in front of the Hilton hotel, (the only time we used a cab at all was going to and from the airport…it’s a heck of a long way out there, especially when laden down with suitcases) the truth hit me: yes, the French still wear black. Yes, they still smoke, and yes, I am blatantly, obviously, without a doubt, an American tourist.

Bother.

Not only was I not smoking or dressed in black from chic coat to high-heeled toe, neither was I wearing boots. (Even worse: I wore tennis shoes!) And my hair wasn’t dyed reddish. And my coat was pale blue, Minnesota-wear (in other words, North Face and warm). To top it all off, my French language skills STINK and so even if I could dress the part, (and instantly loose about 30 pounds) I would still not fit in.

The outside of my favorite building.

I decided to embrace my bad tourist-self. (“Bad” as in “good”…not bad.) No, I did not wear a fanny pack. I didn’t sink quite that low. I wore my lavender hat. I wore my tiny paisley purse across my chest. I stood in front of the Metro ticket booth with my husband for quite a long time, while he figured out what tickets we needed. And I didn’t even blush.

The front gate.

We headed straight away to my favorite place in Paris, odd though it may seem for a protestant. I was so excited to show my husband this Cathedral. No, not Notre Dame. Sainte Chapelle.

I love architecture. Again, the outside of my favorite building.

I adore this building. It was built in the 13th century to house the (supposed) crown of thorns. I first came to St. Chapelle when I came to Paris with my mother when I was in high school. Then we had to stand in a long line, as the weather was warm and spring had sprung.

In February, the lines aren’t nearly the issue that they are in warmer weather. (At the Louvre we didn’t have a line at all, and at the Musee D’Orsay we just had a short one.) I prepared my husband as best I could for St. Chapelle – but no one can really be prepared for this magnificent place.

As you walk inside the lower chapel...aka, the crown.

As you walk in, it is as if you are entering the crown of the Queen of England. My pictures do NOT do this place justice. The arches are gold and the dark blue walls are decorated with golden fleur de lis. It is tiny and breathtaking. The downstairs chapel was built for “the people” but the upstairs chapel – up a tiny, narrow, stone staircase which millions of feet over time have worn down so that the center of the steps are smooth and concave – was built for the royal family so they could worship apart from the hoi polloi.

Inside the "crown".

I said that the downstairs is breathtaking. The upstairs, by contrast, is breath-stealing. Truly, it will leave you speechless. The walls – on three sides – are solid stained glass. You feel like you are in a jewelry box. When I was there with my mother, all those years ago, I saw something in that room which has forever remained with me: a flock of birds flew past the glorious windows, their shadows traveling across the glass like living art.

This just doesn't do it justice. The room is phenomenal.

There were no birds this time, but still the room enfolded me with its beauty. I love, love, love this place.

More magnificence.

The Rose Window - the fourth wall of the upper chapel.

We visited Norte Dame that day too, which I like better on the outside than the inside. (I’ll post those pictures another day.) We took the subway back to the hotel, our feet already tired, and napped before our jaunt to the Champs Elysees which I wrote about yesterday. Later in the week we did the Louvre and the Musee D’Orsay – but, as one can’t photograph the insides, those stories are best told by guide books.

I might have to tell you about my meal at the Musee D’Orsay, though…but that’s another post.

I adore the angled buildings in Paris.

We took a stroll our first evening (after a nap!) along the famous Champs d'Elysees. Behold: The Arc de Triomphe!

My favorite person to travel with! In front of our hotel in NE France.

She looked at me in utter surprise for a second. I imagined that she was thinking, “What a silly American.” But what she said was, “Do you drink champagne?” “Yes,” I replied. “I drink champagne.” At least the bubbles make it tolerable. And so while Nora and my husband got a (to them) lovely red, dry something, I was brought a full champagne flute and managed to drink most of it over the course of the evening…and I mean COURSE.

Course after course, after course.

The famous tower...from the top of the Arc. Be warned: if you want to climb up to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, you should be in GOOD SHAPE. I started up the NARROW, WINDING stairs feeling good about myself and my four-decade old body. By the time I got to the top I was a weak-kneed old lady, mentaly writing my obituary. "She died in a courageous battle against gravity and vertigo, her camera gamely at her side, her husband rudely unaffected by the tremendous journey. At least she died happy."

After the canapés, it was baguettes (CRUSTY and warm) and escargot (garlicky and amazingly wonderful). Then came a green salad (honestly don’t remember much about that but it had a lovely dressing). Then a palate cleanser of some sort of mild lemony sherbet (delish and, well, cleansing). More rolls and a de-crumbing by the hotel owner – she took care of us the entire evening (her husband was the chef). I think next was the main dish – chicken – tender, herby, tasty, and, in my opinion, NOT the main attraction – wonderful, yes, but it almost took a back seat to all the rest of the meal. I think there was potatoes and spinach, too…but by then I was in a glutonous fog and I can’t remember too much. (At least my fog wasn’t caused by the wine!)

Then another palate cleanser. Then the cheese cart.

Ooh, la la, the cheese cart! It was gigantic and barely fit through the ten or so tables, and held probably 25 different kinds of cheese.

Nora asked me what cheese I’d care for. (She’s an optimist, isn’t she?) I had no clue. I said, tentatively (because I can’t pronounce it very well anyway), “Gruyere?” “Ahh,” Nora and the owner said, “Compte. It’s much better.” She cut me a ridiculously large triangle of cheese and then asked me what other kind I’d like? More? I thought. How can I even fit this into my tummy? “Camembert?” I asked. “Ah, oui. And one last choice?” I hadn’t a clue. They gave me something creamy and lovely and rich to which I did not do justice. Let me just say that Compte IS better than Gruyere…but I’ll just be content that I can finally get Gruyere in my small mid-western town and not get bent out of shape over no local Compte around here.

There is a wee museum at the top of the Arc. I think that she was captured in stone just as she had climbed up the horrible, winding, steep, narrow steps.

I think that at the end my husband had coffee, but I wasn’t daring enough to brave the looks I’d get if I asked for decaf. You know, really, people say that the French are not fond of American tourists and that they’re snotty, arrogant, etc. Well, I suppose perhaps some are, but if you go there expecting to have a good time and not forcing your code of behavior onto them, then it really doesn’t matter how they treat you – just shrug it off, have fun and ENJOY!!!! It’s an amazing country.

I’m sorry I don’t have photos of the meal to share with you, it was so fantastic, but I wanted to share with you the meal anyway. In the next few days I’ll tell you more about our trip…and then our jaunt over to Berlin, equally fantastic!

One of the relief's on the Arc.

Another relief. Recognize the central character?!

"Here lies a French soldier. Dead for partriotism." At least, that's the best my high school french can do. At the site of the Arc.

Across the street and down a little from our hotel. Can you say "random"?!

There is a place on Orcas Island which I am very fond of, odd though it may seem when you hear what it is. Yes, you may be thinking that there are MANY places I am quite fond of on Orcas, but places like the beach and the mountain go beyond fondness and reach the degree of obsession.

This place I am speaking of is not a place I am obsessed with, though I am, well, intricately connected with it. Doomed, even. Though not, most likely, to this exact place.

What the heck am I talking about?

Mt. Baker cemetery.

A beautiful memorial at the cemetery...with beach stones, shells and leaves.

Mt. Baker cemetery is located on – surprise! – Mt. Baker Road, and it affords a beautiful view of the mountain for those who are spry enough to enjoy it.

Think about that for a moment.

Why is it, anyway, that so many cemeteries are located in beautiful spots? Perhaps it’s to give the visitor something else to think about for a little while. Something to comfort them with its permanence.

Every single time I've visited Grandpa and Grandma's grave, I've also visited Baby Bott.

Until about 15 years ago, the cemetery was surrounded by forest, giving it a secluded, cozy feel. Now most of the trees are gone, ever since Buck Park, an outdoor recreation park including the world’s largest (at least at the time it was built) skateboard park is now its closest neighbor. As unpleasant as that may sound to some of you, it’s actually not all that big –nor is it crawling with saggy-bottomed teenagers. It was built to give the local kids a good place to hang out after school…after all, when you live on an island, the options are limited.*

An old island resident. Was he here for the Pig War? (More about that in a future post!)

My grandparents are buried there and I used to go with my mother, every Memorial Day, to pull up weeds and tidy up their graves. They died within a few months of each other when I was 4 years old so I don’t remember them too well, but we’d go there and Mom would talk about them and we’d listen to the peacocks across the road and Mom would pull the weeds that grew among the flowers planted on the gravesite.

My grandparents. Imigrants to America from Scotland, they loved island living. I guess I come by it naturally.

No, it was not creepy. It was not scary. It was natural. I get so irritated when I hear my kids talk about “creepy graveyards”. No! It’s not a yard for graves! It’s a nice, attractive place, full of history and stories and beauty! It’s a place for memories. Not suggestive and sinister legends.

Okay, I’ll get off my soap-box now.

Just a neat old marker.

I used to ride my bike there frequently of a summer evening when I was growing up. I’d say “hi” to Grandma and Grandpa – sometimes even staying awhile to voice my frustrations – and then head home, coasting down Mt. Baker Road, zig-zagging up the hill to Buckhorn, and peddling into our garage, now the only part of our old house you can see from the road due to a domineering fence the current owners built clear around the half-acre lot.

Grandma and Grandpa Fraser.

I’ve been tempted to knock on their door and ask if I can see the house – they’re the same people who bought it from my parents 25 or so years ago. But I’ve never dared. I’m not sure I could bear it. Truly, I think the memories and the emotions would overwhelm me and I’d bawl like a baby right there in the familiar-yet-not-quite-right foyer.

I had a swing in my room, hanging from the beams of the cathedral-ceiling, which bonked you in the head if you were foolish enough to play beneath it and forget that it hung there. And there was a loft with hot-pink carpet which, due to the non-breakable rules of nature, was stifling hot in summer but was still a great place to pretend or hide with a good book.

There was a loft above the kitchen and dining room, too – where my mother had her sewing room and two guest beds and you could look over the edge and drop things on unsuspecting people in the living room below.

Not that I ever did that.

Another life remembered. What would he have thought of blogging?

That was where my father built my doll house one year and I was banned from climbing the stairs for the entire month of November and into December, right up until Christmas Eve. I tried to identify the mysterious sounds that emanated from that sacred place and I did, correctly, though I never could have imagined how wonderful it would turn out to be.

Mom stored her canned goods up there, too. Beans, tomatoes, peaches, pears, jams, applesauce, sometimes even salmon. I’d play grocery store up there, and “house” and I could play with Mom’s button box and watch her create beauty out of yards of cloth.

Yes, there are a lot of reasons I couldn’t bear to return to that house, couldn’t bear to see other people’s stuff in MY HOUSE.

My grandparents built the house – from plans they found in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. The same grandparents who now live a few miles away, in Mt. Baker Cemetery. Well, reside. I suppose that “live” isn’t the right word.
Though, to be sure, their memory lives on.

Apple picking just down the road from our house on Orcas. From left to right: my sister, me, Grandma, Mom, my sister, Grandpa

* A note about Buck Park: a few years ago, when it was still pretty new, I visited it with my sister. My favorite thing there was a signboard that I dearly wish I’d gotten a picture of. It said, in chalk for easy updating:
Broken arms: 7
Broken legs: 2
Broken pelvis: 1
Broken ankle: 9
Broken hearts: one
How I wanted to give that girl a hug! Not so much that I was worried about her heart, but I loved, loved, loved, that she included that in the list. Truly, a writer in the making!

Secondly: I was reading one of my favorite blogs the other day, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but my very own blog address! I had been tagged! Remember playing “tag”? The kid runs at you, possibly in a stealthy football-player manner, punches you or otherwise touches you, and you are then “it” – you then are the tagger. The person everyone tries to avoid.
Well, in this day and age (as in, I’m far from the age I was when I last played “tag”) being “tagged” has several new meanings and I’m okay with this form of tag because I don’t have to breathe hard, run, or sweat.
So…here are the answers to several questions which are the essence of this new form of “tag”. I hope that you’ll enjoy the reading!

My sister made this a few years back.

DESCRIBE YOURSELF IN 7 WORDS – introverted extrovert, bossy, impatient, Jesus fan, voracious reader, baker
WHAT KEEPS YOU UP AT NIGHT? – guilt and stress over how much I have to do
WHO WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE? – I would like to be a person who is able to balance life better.
WHAT ARE YOU WEARING RIGHT NOW? – My heart on my sleeve.
WHAT SCARES YOU? – Man’s inhumanity to man.
WHAT ARE THE BEST AND WORST THINGS ABOUT BLOGGING? Best: getting to write, having a voice, “meeting” new friends! Worst: the time it takes.
WHAT WAS THE LAST WEBSITE YOU VISITED? NOAA (national weather site) – because I live in Minnesota, for goodness sake!
WHAT IS THE ONE THING YOU WOULD LIKE TO CHANGE ABOUT YOURSELF? – My impatience. (See my “7 words” answer!)
SLANKETS – YES OR NO? Not so much!

TELL US SOMETHING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO TAGGED YOU. Charlie Louie at http://hotlyspiced.com, who – just to clarify for my American friends who assume anyone named “Charlie” is a boy – is a girl. Hotly Spiced is a story-and-recipe-filled blog which offers up incredibly funny and/or interesting stories about life in Australia and New Zealand as well as tasty recipes which are sure to appeal to any appetite – American, Australian, or otherwise! Thanks for the recognition, Charlie!
NOW TAG 5 BLOGGERS…all of whom, should they be willing, are now “tagged” and should play the game accordingly!! Thankfully, it’s a game that even non-athletic persons such as myself can play without being embarrassed.
http://heddigoodrich.blogspot.com whose blog, Confessions of a Wannabe Writer, is one that I am always excited to see in my in box. We are coming from the same place – both attempting to be published – and her posts never fail to make me laugh. She is an American, living in New Zealand.
http://scrappysam.com Samantha Keller is married to a friend of mine from college. I discovered her blog when her husband posted her link on facebook. She writes from the perspective of a pastor’s wife who does not sound like a pastor’s wife and she is VERY funny. Her current topic of conversation is purity and sex within the church context…which, while not perhaps what you’d think of as funny, is certainly a topic that needs to be discussed.
http://leftonwalnut.com This blog is written by Kay, who, along with her husband, is a professor at “a large Midwestern university”. Her posts are normally short and infrequent, but are always interesting and often poignant. I really enjoy her thoughtful blog.
http://memorablemama.blogspot.com Kimberly writes thoughtful posts about her life as a mother of young boys. Kim and I went to high school in Berlin together, and while this may feel like nepotism to mention a friend, I do so because she writes well and she is also trying to gain more readers in her literary pursuits! Her stories are personal and heartfelt and often reflect her meaningful relationship with God.
http://rutheh.com.  This is a photography blog which I have enjoyed a lot. Ruth is helpful and friendly and I have definitely appreciated her photographs as well as the stories about the pictures which accompany each post – making the viewing all that much more memorable. I think her “3 Magi” picture on Epiphany (January 6th) is my favorite!
And finally (yes, I know this is six!), http://mnprairieroots.wordpress.comI mentioned Audrey’s site a few posts back. I discovered this site when looking for Minnesota blogs – and I’m very glad I did! It is true that Audrey is the lovely woman who asked me to be a part of the Minnesota Moments magazine article, but that’s not the only reason I am glad I found her blog. Audrey writes in a down-to-earth manner about interesting places in and around Minnesota. She includes marvelous photos and her sense of humor is always present. Audrey has become my friend – a mentor, even – even though I’ve never met her in person, and I am very glad to know her.

My friend's father made this! I think it's life-sized...or at least pretty close. It's an Orca...otherwise known as a Killer Whale.

JUST TO LET YOU KNOW – the stressful part about tag…the choosing. I have chosen sites which I enjoy immensely. This does not mean that, just because I did not choose you, I do not enjoy your blogs as well! I tried to choose ones that, as far as I know, have not been “tagged” before and I also chose ones that meet me where I’m coming from in this blogging world. (Obviously I like to cook, as is clear from a couple of these choices!)
THREE BONUS BLOG MENTIONS!! These first two bloggers have been tagged before…but I can’t help but mention them anyway because I enjoy them so much! http://justasmidgen.com Who can resist the word, “smidgen”? (In fact, when I was small, my mom called me “Smidge”.) Hailing from Calgary, Smidge includes a poetic write up with each recipe and every recipe I’ve tried of hers I’ve liked!
And also, http://thekitchensgarden.wordpress.com. This is a blog that is so much more than recipes, it’s wonderful stories of growing up in New Zealand (do you detect a NZ theme in my choices?!) as well as current tales of the author’s life on a self-sustaining farm in Illinois. Celi is a hoot.
A few months ago, when I had barely begun to blog, I got a kind nomination from http://neekswrite.wordpress.com (“The Short and Long of It”) for a Versatile Blogger award. It was so kind of her but I was overwhelmed by what the “requirements” of the award were – to mention 15 blogs that I like. I barely knew 5 other blogs that I liked at that point! So I did nothing about it, forgot about it, and suddenly now I realize that she deserves a mention on my blog as one who kindly singled (“fifteened”??) me out. Neeks’ blog is like none other I’ve seen yet – she asks her readers to supply 3 words and she will then write a short story using those 3 words. Pretty fun! She’s definitely worth checking out.

My mother is a soup magician. When I was growing up, she could take turkey bones, leftover green beans, a little lemon juice, onion and celery and rice, and make a pot of deliciousness which would bring us all running when “soup’s on” echoed down the glass-walled hallway. When I was home over Christmas, she made soup too – though with quinoa noodles, a noticeable change since the ‘80’s – and proved that she still has what it takes to bring us running.

Because I’d watched Mom turn leftovers into magic so many times, I wasn’t afraid to try making soup myself when finally on my own in my tiny grad-school kitchen. It must be in my genes. Luckily for my taste buds, I was not disappointed.

We finally got some snow last night; about 5 inches of powdery, dry stuff with which the prairie winds have a heyday. The lack of snow to this point has somehow curbed my soup-longing but today I’m drooling over cookbooks, planning at least a week of soup, soup, soup!!

Wild rice - before it's cooked.

That being said, it’s more easily found than it used to be, when people in Minnesota could find it but no one else ever could. It grows well in Northern MN, as well as (as the name suggests), parts of Canada. I know it can be found in Trader Joes across the United States, though I’m not certain it can be found in Australia – sorry to you, my Aussie readers! As with everything these days, I’m sure it can be found on-line wherever you live!

After it's cooked and the grains have popped open. Steamy goodness!

Cooking wild rice for a LONG TIME is necessary to soften the tough outer shell of the grain. The packaging should have directions to cook the rice. I think using the stovetop is best, though I’ve done it in the oven (takes 2 hours) and I’ve even seen microwave directions, though I’ve never tried it that way. Rinse the rice before you cook it, to get rid of dust and/or small stones. You can buy pre-cooked and canned wild rice…but that always seems like a bit of a cop-out to me! It does speed up the process, but it also adds to the cost…and, most likely, the sodium levels.

Cooking times for the rice may vary. You can tell the rice is done cooking when MOST of the grains of popped open. There may be some water left – it does not have to soak up all of the liquid, just enough to pop the majority of the grains of rice. Conversely, sometimes you have to add more water if not enough of the grains seem to have popped.

The butter...the onion...the flour...the broth

So, cook ONE AND ONE HALF CUPS OF WILD RICE according to the package directions. Then, when it’s ready, (it will take approximately one hour, sometimes half that again.) you can proceed with the rest of the yummy soup.

You will need, in addition to the rice:
8 Tablespoons butter
5 Tablespoons finely chopped onion
2/3 cup flour
4 cups chicken broth – I often end up needing more…
3 cups cooked wild rice (from the one cup, dry that you already cooked – there may be more and that’s fine – but if you do add more, know that you may have to adjust the salt etc.)
1 teaspoon (or to taste) salt – though more is needed at the end
Two grated carrots – or even 3!
Two cups cooked, chopped chicken (approximately)
1 – 1 ½ cups half and half
Pepper to taste
I always need to add more salt at the end and sometimes add a little onion powder too, to up the flavor a wee bit. I have even been known to add chicken bullion (shhh…don’t tell any real cooks about that).

Melt butter in saucepan, sauté onion until tender. Blend in flour, gradually stir in broth. Cook, stirring constantly, until mixture comes to a boil, boil and stir 1 minute. Stir in rice and salt and carrots, simmer about 5 minutes. Stir in chicken. Mix in half and half and heat, but try not to boil with the half and half in it. Add pepper and more salt if needed. I often will add a little more broth and/or half and half at this point – depending on thickness desired, personal taste, etc.

All done!!!

So…there you have it. My medicine for a winter’s day. ENJOY!

Why does it look orange? The carrots...I may have added too many! (But can you ever have too many veggies?!) Then I added the rest of my broth because it was thawed and needed to be used...so it looks a little thin in the picture, but it actually is very thick and filling and fabulous!

The main gate into Chinatown. That's me in the blue coat...

Here’s a fact for the “who knew?” file: Vancouver has the largest population of Chinese people outside of, well, China. Driving through the city (whether by car or “sky train”), this becomes obvious in a hurry. The number of Chinese language storefront signs is far greater than the number of English storefronts.

The actual area of Vancouver known as “Chinatown” isn’t huge compared to the vastness that is Vancouver, but it is enjoyable to walk around, eating, buying, sniffing and experiencing all that is Vancouver’s Chinatown. You are truly in a different culture in a land where we speak the same language…to a degree. In Chinatown, proper, you hear more Chinese than English…which is not at all surprising and perfectly understandable.

We had a lovely time.

Yes...I spent a little money here.

Bird's nests, anyone? I almost would have been brave enough to try bird's nest soup...had I had several more ounces of bravery.

Inside this store, there were jars upon jars of things I've never seen before. And, though I couldn't read very many of them, I could read this: Dried Sea Cucumber, $1,100.00 a pound. And this: Dried Abalone, $1,300.00 a pound. I'm not sure how many dried abalone one gets for thirteen hundred dollars, but it better be a heck of a lot!

If only I could read Chinese! Some of the things were obvious...but others...not so much. And the smells were remarkable!

I love the angles.

Beautiful - in a moment of no rain!

A garden dedicated to Dr. Sun Yat Sen. We didn't have the chance to go to his official gardens, but this one was a lovely alternative.

And...the year of the dragon begins!!!

PS – I’ll post about Vancouver again in the near future…there is so much more to the city!