Organic Waffles: The Next Chapter

I'm learning to eat again.

I've had the remarkable fortune in my life to be challenged by food. I worked for a short time for a fascinating man who would go on to become a prominent personality in the world of foodie television. I was pretty much a disaster at that point in time, a neurotic woman in my mid-twenties with a catastrophe of a marriage, three tiny children and some chronic health issues. I didn't have time to think about anything, and so it might never have occurred to me that I was bumbling through life pretty blindly. In my mind, I was doing anything I had to do in order to survive the challenges of my situation. I hadn't bothered to think about what it takes to thrive.

This was before the ubiquity of thought-provoking food shows, at a time when giant freeway-side chain restaurants were easily confused by the masses for fine dining, and my exposure to real culinary culture was limited. TV Food Dude was, not surprisingly, the first person with whom I ever really discussed the implications of cuisine. I had always enjoyed flavors and admired quality preparation, but those conversations helped me to see food as something more. It was a perfect lens through which to view a culture, or a person. The rituals involved in selecting, preparing, and sharing fare can offer insight like no other into the world around us.

My diet at the time was as inconsistent as my life. Some days, I'd put tremendous effort into preparing a good, healthy meal for myself and my family. Other days, I'd load up on McSnacks and ramen noodles in an effort to finish the task of feeding myself in the quickest and easiest way possible. But that's not what I wanted.

I left that job, and later that marriage, in part because I realized that I couldn't make myself healthy without a pretty dramatic whole-life turnaround. And while I built the beginnings of a career for myself, I stumbled into another job that would teach me about the world, through the filter of food.

It was at a tiny cafe in a tiny suburb of Minneapolis, and I waited tables on and off there for almost five years as a side job while I worked toward The Dream Job. The menu wasn't overly ambitious, but every one of its simple entrees was creative, authentic and well-executed, a perfect reflection of the restaurant's owners.

The first winter that I worked there brought snow almost every Monday, like clockwork, hard enough to slow business to a crawl. To pass the time, The Boss and I developed a tradition of trying to perfect the grilled cheese sandwich--he'd cook, and I'd eat. In the years since that winter, I have had the opportunity to dine at some of the finest restaurants in the country, and to be honest, there's not much that tops creamy, melted chevre on flawlessly grilled whole wheat bread, served with thinly sliced pears and a dallop of date reduction. I learned a lot from that sandwich--that flashy presentation is cool and all, but there's no substitute for good technique and honest, real ingredients.

I'm a little bit older now. I've taken some of those lessons to heart, I think, and for the most part I'm pretty sure that the ingredients that I'm offering the world are of a higher quality than those I used to share. But every now and again, there are reckonings. And so I'm learning to eat one more time.

The dark side of my exposure to the world of food is that I've accidentally learned more about food production in this country than I ever wanted to know. Some of it is pretty common knowledge--our food is making us sick, and fat. But I also know that factory farm conditions are deplorable, that our present methods of food production represent an enormous portion of our country's dependence on foreign energy, that our approach to food in the United States is creating shortages in sustainable food supply elsewhere in the globe. And yet, I've maintained that eating "pretty healthfully" was good enough.

I got called out at the Minnesota State Fair. By a cow.

In the dairy barn, a beautiful black cow with curly, fluffy fur made eye contact with me from her display stand. She looked awfully soft. I gave her a good pat on the neck, and then a scratch behind the ears. And then she did it. She dropped ecstatically to her knees, and she leaned into my legs so I could scratch her more effectively. Like a great big puppy dog, she laid at my feet for several minutes, basking in whatever attention I could give her. It was hilarious.

Also, it was a moment of truth. At that moment, the idea of eating beef at all was off the table for the short term. She just reminded me too much of my own big, black puppy. But the idea of a creature like her, confined to a miserable, diseased life on a feedlot seemed unthinkable on the long term, as well.

I have no illusions about the facts that we are part of a food chain and that humans are omnivorous. But we have become such a production-based society that we have forgotten about everything but the bottom line. We've forgotten about the honesty of our ingredients.

The truth is that Americans consume about three times more protein than our omnivorous little bodies require, and that our methods for the production of this quantity at a price we can afford are dangerous both to our bodies and to the planet. While it's impossibly to accurately determine whether there are causal relationships between food additives and any number of diseases that are on the rise, we absolutely understand the relationship between our agricultural practices and the recent prevalence of outbreaks of foodborne illnesses like E. Coli O157:H7, and that the vast majority of water contamination in this country happens as a result of industrial agriculture. We know that it is better for our bodies and for the earth to consume livestock that is raised in ways more consistent with nature. And yet, I've been more or less pretending not to know, and eating in ways that were in direct opposition to my conscience.

Fine, Damn Cow. You win.

I'm on a temporary hiatus from meat, until I can do enough research to figure out the best place to source humanely and responsibly produced livestock. It's been two and a half weeks, though, and truth be told, I don't miss meat even a little bit. It's actually been a fun challenge to prepare meals that I feel good about, and that my kids can get excited about. I'm paying more attention to properly nutrition than I ever have, and mastering ingredients and flavors to which I'd never paid enough attention. I have much more energy. I dropped a pants size in two weeks, all the while stuffing my face. It's frankly pretty awesome.

Farmers' markets have always been among my favorite places, and Waffle Guy and I stopped by a small market this morning. It's a good time of year for this sort of shopping, and we left with bag after bag of gorgeous produce: peppers, leeks, parsnips, eggplants, beets, scallions. On the way home, we giggled about the quantity we'd purchased, and realized we'd need to share in order to consume it all before it went bad.

We invited my parents over for a Harvest Feast, and set about to cooking a marvelous meal with the kids. We had warm oatcakes with garlic-chive creme fraiche, served with a country tomato soup made with parsnips and leeks. On the side, there were mushrooms with caramelized onions and fresh basil; thinly sliced zucchini sauteed with white wine and mint; and roasted golden beets in a maple-balsamic glaze. It was some of my best kitchen work to date. I'm kind of giddy about it.

Best of all, everyone had a part in it. The Littlest Waffler rolled out the dough for the oatcakes, while her big sister seasoned the soup with salt, pepper, and a hint of nutmeg. Waffle Guy put his formidable knife skills to use, slicing and dicing furiously. Mom sliced mint leaves into thin, perfect ribbons.  I was the queen of the burners. It was magic.

I watched my family as they gathered around the table to eat, and I remembered those conversations with TV Food Dude. If it's true that you can learn a lot about people by what and how they eat, then I was proud of who we were as a family tonight--laughing, talking, savoring, contributing. We were alive and appreciative and real.

Waffle Guy could not stop talking about how good the food was, comparing items in the meal to some of the more notable dishes we've shared in restaurants. It's likely that he's awfully biased because I'm his wife, but I will say this: the technique was good, the ingredients were honest, and it was made with love.

I'm grateful today for food, and for the people who taught me to understand what it means. And I'm grateful for the chance to learn to eat all over again.

Decency Desperately Needed: Life as it ought to be Lived.

A number of years ago, I had the opportunity to meet Paul Rusesabagina very briefly. If you don't know of him, it is worth noting that Mr. Rusesabagina is a delightful man with an easy smile, and the author of an incredible memoir called An Ordinary Man. A movie was made about him in 2004. It was called Hotel Rwanda. It was nominated for several Oscars. Maybe you've heard of it.

Mr. Rusesabagina was a hotel manager at the time of a genocide that lasted for approximately 100 days in Rwanda in 2004, killing between 500,000 and a million Rwandan people, depending on whose estimate you use. While the Hutu majority slaughtered fellow Rwandan citizens who were (or were suspected to be) of Tutsi ethnicity, Paul Rusesabagina, a Hutu, sheltered over a thousand Tutsi men, women, and children in his hotel. It was a decision made at great personal peril, but with little question. To Mr. Rusesabagina, it was the only decent thing to do.

It's easy to think of atrocities like genocides as things that happen to "other people." Mr. Rusesabagina describes pastors murdering their congregants, teachers murdering students, doctors murdering patients. Neighbors killing neighbors. It seems mad, savage. Something that could only happen somewhere else.

The beauty of the memoir, An Ordinary Man, is that it very eloquently describes a sort of "frog in the pot" syndrome that can so easily happen to anyone, anywhere. If you toss a frog in a pot of boiling water, the adage goes, it will immediately leap out for fear of being killed. But if you take that same frog, and you put him in a pot of cool water, he will stay. And if you slowly turn up the heat, he will hardly notice.

Eventually, there will be no more frog.

In Rwanda, millions of reasonable, thinking, intelligent people fell victim to absolute madness. It began with ethnic tension, enhanced by economic imbalances.  Slowly, it played out on talk radio, where menacing pundits referred to the Tutsi minority as "cockroaches" and defined Hutus who protected or sympathized with Tutsis as "traitors." As time went by, the radio beckoned Hutus to "exterminate the cockroaches." With the help of a militia leader who smuggled more than half a million machetes into the country, it cultivated in unimaginable atrocities, with Hutus attempting nothing short of an extermination of an ethnicity.

Frogs in pots.

Rwandans, by African standards, enjoyed a good quality of life. Rwandans place a high degree of value on education. It is culturally important to know the history of one's country there. These are a people who understood the perils of war in the past, and the ethnicity which perpetrated the 1994 genocide was a majority with quite a bit to lose. And yet.

Reports vary on exact numbers, but militias recruited massive numbers of average joe citizens to commit their dirty work. Perhaps hundreds of thousands of human beings died at the hands of machetes, wielded by people they knew. Reasonable people. Thinking people. Frogs in pots.

So what went wrong?

I had the chance to ask Mr. Rusesagabina a question, and I'll never, ever forget his answer.

"What is the difference between the people who will murder their neighbors, and people who won't?" I think my motivation was selfish--I am haunted by this question every time I read an account of the Holocaust, or of "ethnic cleansing" in Bosnia, or of the genocide in Darfur. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know that much of the Nazi rank and file started off as little boys who picked flowers for their mamas; who grew up to be regular guys that made love to their wives and went to church and paid bills and were just people until some horrible ideology became so precious to them that they would give up every last shred of their humanity to prove some insane, awful, unforgivable point. What happened there?

I think I asked that question because I wanted Mr. Rusesabagina to assure me that I would never be evil. I'd never be "weak" like that. Maybe I wanted him to tell me the key was to be enlightened, or smart, or educated. I wanted him to tell me there was some intrinsic part of my being that was immune to becoming a monster.

But that's not what he said.

"The difference," he said, "is that some people realized that soon enough, this would all be over, and they would have to answer for who they were when things were not sane."

It is important to remember that the decisions you make, the behaviors in which you engage, can have consequences that you cannot see. Hate wins temporarily. But ultimately, civility returns, however briefly, and those who have descended into hatred in the meantime are left to answer for their words and actions. It is only a matter of time.

Paul Rusesabagina said the same thing in his book, too: "This is why I say that the individual's most potent weapon is a stubborn belief in the triumph of common decency."

It's true. For every person I can think of who will lie, or cheat, or steal, I can think of a dozen who have made my life better. For everything that you see or hear about how corrupt and awful a world we live in, I bet you see more examples of basic human decency, whether you realize it or not. Food shelves are everywhere, run by volunteers and stocked by quietly thoughtful people. Driveways are anonymously shovelled for neighbors with limited time or mobility, leaves are anonymously raked, lawns are anonymously mowed. People fall in love and hold hands and feed babies and tithe and deliver meals and throw surprise parties and get married and give to charity and pay their taxes (even if they grumble) and send sympathy cards. We are kind, most of us. We care for one another.

And yet, there are frogs in pots.

"We are all born with a powerful herd instinct and it can force otherwise rational people to act in inexplicable ways," writes Mr. Rusesabagina.

And that is what scares me.

You see, today Fox Nation, a FoxNews affiliate, ran the following headline:

"Obama's Hip-Hop BBQ Didn't Create Jobs"

I would link to the page, but they don't deserve any more hits. You can find it yourself, if you require proof. The New York Times and The Washington Post both covered it.

Beneath the slug, photographs of three celebrity party guests, all black, surrounded the president's own photograph. There were no photographs of any white party guests, nor any allusion to any ethnically-white stereotypes.

Fox executive vice president of programming, Bill Shine, defended his network's decision to air the headline, citing Politico's reference to kids who "stole the show doing hip-hop dance routines" as grounds for choosing such a headline.

My heart is broken.

I am sad that my country has reached a point in its history where common decency at the highest levels seems to be lost, and where the citizenry of my country is willing to accept that loss of common decency as a routine part of the political/social/economic/human game. What has happened to our standards, when we accept racial/socioeconomic/religious bigotry as normal? Because it doesn't matter which side of the political fence you sit on. Racism is wrong.

I am heartbroken that we are willing to give airtime to candidates who will say, as Michele Bachmann did, that "Gay marriage is probably the biggest issue that impacts our state and our nation in the last, at least, thirty years. I am not understating that." As millions of unemployed men and women struggle to feed their families, while the most essential lifelines for our working poor are being slashed from government budgets in order to keep tax loopholes for corporations wide open--why then are we pointing fingers at the behavior of "other people"? The private behavior of "other people" is really our biggest issue? What has happened to our backbone, when we are willing to ignore our needy in favor of federalizing the rules for interpersonal relationships? Because it doesn't matter which side of the political fence you sit on. Hypocrisy is frightening.

I'm devastated when I read the transcript of Glenn Beck comparing the attendees of a youth camp in Norway to the Hitler Youth in the very earliest days after a right-wing terrorist shot and killed more than 90 children at that camp, which, in fact, was not Fascist by its very definition. I am apalled by the cruelty we will allow in our media, and hurt that my fellow Americans will pay money to support a man who would so willingly dance on the graves of the innocent. They were youth. They were a future that is no more. Why aren't Americans of every political stripe boycotting every product and network that has any affiliation whatsoever with this man? Why aren't we demanding at least a very, very basic level of decency? Because it doesn't matter which side of the political fence you sit on. Cruelty is evil.

I am crushed by the fact that we cannot collectively seem to treat those with differing opinions, lifestyles, socioeconomic conditions, or ethnicity as equally valid human beings. I am afraid of the implications.

I'm no Chicken Little. I don't think the sky is falling. This is not a call to action against an imminent American genocide, and I am not insinuating that you are the sort of person who does not realize that "soon enough, this will all be over, and you will have to answer for who you were when things were not sane," as Mr. Rusesabagina said.

But I'm wondering if we don't realize that we, too, are frogs in a pot of one sort or another. I'm wondering if there is some wisdom in the idea that we should pause in this challenging time and consider the consequences of the finger-pointing and the hatred and the blame that we're allowing to thrive in our culture.

Somehow, we have forgotten that underneath all the ideology and rhetoric, underneath every empty theory (they're all theories, remember--different than fact), underneath all of the heat and the vitriol and the anger, there are very real, very human beings.

Actions matter. So do words.

But other things are important, too. Our quiet cultural acceptance of a complete lack of human decency is perhaps more terrifying than those who so vocally spew their contempt. What matters isn't whose theory is right or wrong, or to which system of over-hyped rhetoric you most closely relate. Those things are temporary, and they change. How much you lost in the stock market doesn't matter, nor does the number of dollars you pay in taxes. What matters is who you are, when everything seems insane.

One more quote by Paul Rusesabagina:

"Kindness is not an illusion and violence is not a rule. The true resting state of human affairs is not represented by a man hacking his neighbor into pieces with a machete. That is a sick aberration. No, the true state of human affairs is life as it ought to be lived." 

I'm ranting, I know. And I'm not particularly qualified to preach. But it's important to me that we all consider that when this vulnerable time in our nation's history has passed, when we've returned to the "resting state of human affairs," there will be some of us who have wielded all sorts of unnecessary arms. Hostility and agression and extremism are weapons of a very dangerous sort. The problem is, we rarely see the damage that such weapons can cause until it is far too late.

And so we must ask ourselves:

Who are we, right now? What are we willing to accept from our politicians, our media? From our beer buddies? From our families?

For all its imperfections and missteps, our country was founded on some pretty basic principles of human dignity, and for more than two centuries that country has strived and worked and grown to overcome that which stood between its flaws and its future. When did we stop striving and working, and start pointing fingers and shouting?

I really, truly believe that decency and civility win, in the end. In the meantime, I think we owe ourselves something better than this animosity we're feeding, all in the name of politics and the television stations that make money because of politics.

I am a liar.

I didn't pull the last post down after a day. See, all the friends I thought would mock me didn't actually mock me. They thought it was badass.

So, the Snark Song will stay.

(You guys are strange.)

For One Day Only

I'm pulling this down tomorrow, but someone told me they'd pay good money to see this. 

Don't worry about it, dude. This one's gratis.

Scenes from the Hana Highway, Part 1

I heart Maui.

Of course, I am obligated to love Maui. If one does not love Maui, it is proof that one has a soul made of glurpy, bubbling tar. But that's not why I love Maui.

I love Maui because its inhabitants are slightly nuts, and its roads are terrible. Someday soon, I'll (hopefully) amuse and delight you with dramatic retellings of Cafe Romantica and the Van In Which It Is Housed, The Really Pretty Scary Lithuanian Farmer and the Really Big Knife She Wields,  The Thai Restaurant Owner Who Screams At You From the Toilet, and perhaps some other fun stories from the Hana Highway. 

Right now, fresh off the heels of my nuptials, I'm still feeling kinda sappy. So tonight, I'm a-gonna tell you all a sweet little bedtime story from the curviest road on Earth. 

Once Upon a Time, on a far-off island, a girl consumed a ripe young coconut full of juice immediately before embarking upon the return trip from Hana, Maui, to her hotel in lovely Wailea. A handsome prince drove the bright red Jeep-shaped chariot in which they travelled. 

Within about a half an hour, the lovely maiden realized that she really had to pee. Like, really.

"OH MAH GAHHHHHHH!!!!! PULL OVER!" the maiden cried in desperation, and her handsome prince obliged. Darting off into the woods, the fair lady sheepishly took care of bidness. Don't worry. It was worth the indignity. She felt much better after that.

Mere moments after the couple returned to the road, the handsome prince abruptly pulled over again. 

"What are you doing?" asked the maiden, noting that if Prince Charming needed to take his turn in the woods, he should have thought of that a quarter of a mile ago. Geez. But the maiden was wrong. 

"I am letting this police officer pass me," said the wise prince. "Being followed by a police officer on the Hana Highway might be less than ideal. It's bad enough having to drive this road without having to watch my rear view mirror and check my speed constantly."

The couple pretended to be busy looking for something in the car so that the officer wouldn't realize that they had pulled over for fear of being pulled over if they didn't pull over. They waited a few minutes longer than necessary, and then resumed their drive. 

For about ten minutes. 

You see, as the prince and the maiden rounded a(nother) very sharp curve, they noticed that the police officer had parked on the side of the road. 

"[Drat]!"said Waffle Guy--I mean, the prince. "He's going to be behind me again!"

The lovely maiden was about to complain, when she and waffle guy noticed it in unison. There he was, a handsome, young Maui police officer, standing at the edge of a giant, lush, green gorge, coffee cup in hand, simply taking in the view. 

Following his gaze, the couple noticed the view that had commanded the officer's attention. 

"OH MAH GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! PULL OVER!" the maiden cried again, as though it was the only thing she knew how to say. 

There, over the gorge, was a rainbow. A flippin' double rainbow. On the Hana Highway. In gosh-darn Maui.

On perhaps the most dangerous corner of perhaps the most dangerous road they could find, the charming-but-dim couple got out of their Jeep-shaped chariot to photograph the prettiest thing they'd ever seen.

If you look very closely, you'll see Waffle Guy--ahem, the Prince--shooting photos of the
 double-flippin'-rainbow on the side of the road in this photo. Darwin Award to follow. 

And, yet, they lived happily ever after. 

Thanks, Maui Policeman, for showing us the way.

The Wedding: A Summary

We had a tiny wedding in a far-off place, attended only by immediate family and a handful of lifelong friends. I highly recommend this strategy, by the way. It was relatively stress-free and positively delightful, I didn't have to introduce myself to any coworkers' husbands' sisters' dates at the reception, and the smaller crowd kept my tendency toward social anxiety at bay on one of the most important days of my life. It was great.

However, since we've been home, lots of you have had lots of questions for Mr. Waffle and me as to exactly how it all went down. I've been trying to tell you all, but words don't really do it justice. All I can tell you is that everything about it was perfect.

I thought I might show you a bit. These photos were taken by one of my oldest friends, the brilliantly talented Natalie Champa Jennings. When you're done here, do yourself a favor and check out her site.

A Wedding Story 
(cue cutesy violin canon here)


We got married at a place like this:

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

It's this really cool old place called Edgefield, just outside of Portland, Oregon. A hundred years ago, it opened as the Multnomah County Poor Farm, a massive old manor house where people who had lost it all would go to rebuild their lives. When the poor farm closed, it became a nursing home that was condemned in the '90s, purchased by a company that restores quirky old properties, and turned into what is now essentially a giant playground for grown-ups and the children who love them. It has several restaurants, extensive gardens and orchards, a vineyard, a winery, a distillery, a brewery, several music venues, a billiards hall, a pub, an art house, a golf course and a spa. It probably has other cool things, too, but I haven't discovered them yet.

If you believe in ghosties, the place is totally haunted. I'm not convinced that we share our space with spooks, but I am entirely certain that we all leave a bit of ourselves wherever we go. To me, the symbolism and the spirit of the place was moving. I loved the idea of beginning anew in a place that was founded on the principle of a fresh start. I was grateful to the people who'd been there before us.

We were married on Independence Day. It's not because we're particularly patriotic. It's because we're nerds, actually. Mr. Waffle notices really bizarre number and letter patterns, like palindromic license plates. So when we decided to wed, we plopped open a calendar and looked for interesting dates. There weren't a lot of them this summer. 7/4/11 was about as good as we could come up with, as 7 + 4 = 11. That it was a holiday was only icing on the cake, and that it occurred on a Monday and made everything less expensive only spoke to our annoyingly practical side. Plus, it made it really easy to come up with a cheeky color scheme. And let's just admit it--all wedding colors are cheeky. We went for a subdued navy and scarlet attempt at a Martha-Stewart-does-Fourth-of-July sort of theme. 

Here's are the highlights:

The Waffle children, his and mine, served as our bridesmaids, groomswomen, and flower girl. The ladies and I all started our day in the spa, getting dolled up. The Littlest Waffler particularly enjoyed this, as she had both a tiara and someone to secure it for her.  

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

After getting our hair and makeup done, I went back to the kids' room to have a snack and put on my dress. Somewhere, there are photos of a very coiffed and made-up version of me, wearing nothing but restrictive undergarments as I shovelled a pop tart in my face. Sexy. 

But the girls! Ohmygah--the girls! They were so beautiful.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

My eldest Waffle Child helped me into my dress, and we were off.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

The officiant was one of Waffle Guy's childhood friends.  Mox's words were precious. I feel like he did a great job of capturing the essence of our relationship, and sharing that with the people who mean the most to us. I was so grateful that he agreed to be a part of that day. 

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There were rock stars. Our talented and dear friend Ryan Paul of Sleep Study teamed up with Kevin Steinman, another Minneapolis-based musician and friend, to provide what was unquestionably the coolest soundtrack for any wedding, ever. Go ahead. Listen to the song, and just try to tell me with a straight face that you didn't tear up just a little bit.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

Once, when I had a bad day, my best friend Molly brought me a plant, and a red balloon, and a card that had Winnie-the-Pooh on it. The card read, "No One Can Be Uncheered by a Red Balloon."

It was true then, as it is now, and it was with this is mind that I decided to forego a bouquet in favor of a giant red balloon. It made me giggle.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

And, you guys, Waffle Guy looked so handsome! I got all teary-like when I saw him.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

My favorite rock star of all played a song that we wrote together.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

Before we made vows to one another, we made some promises to some very important people--I to his kids, and he to mine. The words were simple.

"Today we become a family. I promise to love you, and to care for you in any way that I can, for the rest of my life."

 We kissed those pretty foreheads, and gave them matching necklaces to symbolize that we're all in this together.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There were our vows. I'll post those later, in a separate post, if you're interested. And then, all of a sudden, I was Mrs. Bailey! I still get all giddy when I write it, by the way.

There was a kiss.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There were smiles.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There were a few tears. 

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There were some more kisses.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There was an awesome reception involving (in no particular order) McMenamin's Monkey Puzzle Whiskey, some really good food, more great music, a comfy white cotton dress, a saltwater soaking pool, and great company.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

There were fireworks in the distance, and fireworks in my heart, as he carried me off to live happily ever after. 

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

As my little girl celebrated by writing on my hand with a sharpie, it occurred to me that my wedding, like my life, had been better than I would have ever dared to dream it could be.

I'm a lucky girl, and I'm grateful every day for the love with which I'm surrounded. Simply put, my family is my greatest joy.

Natalie Champa Jennings. nataliechampajennings.com

Escalator Family

Months ago, they decided that escalators were way cooler than steps. And so it came to pass that I don't have step-children. I have Escalator Daughters. And my daughters have an Escalator Dad.

Lessons from a Tourist's Photos: What Happens When You Reach That Bridge

Waffle Guy and I lagged behind the pack on our hike to the top of Multnomah Falls, Oregon, absorbed in the photographic possibilities that a few great lenses and phenomenal scenery had to offer, but the Littlest Waffler was waiting for us when we reached the bridge over the lower falls.

She trembled. Her weeping was silent, the tears leaving disorderly little trails on her cheeks.

"I wanted to cross it, Mama," she said. Her gaze was fixed on her dusty shoes. "I am so scared of heights. I couldn't."

"You don't have to cross that bridge," I told her. "But take a minute before you decide to go back down. Do you think you'll be really proud of yourself if you make it across?"

I picked her up and buried my face in her neck, the same spot I'd nuzzled when she was a newborn. Her arms reached easily around my shoulders now. She shook, but she held tight.

"I can feel your heart beating," I whispered. "Can you feel mine?"

"Mmmm-hmmm," she whimpered.

"That's the feeling of my heart taking all of the fear from your heart. Pay attention to that feeling."

We stood silently at the side of the trail for a long, long time. And then, "I'm ready, Mama."

I carried the Littlest Waffler out onto the bridge. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "I have to walk across myself." Her hand held mine tightly, but each step was her own.

Later, at the top of the Upper Falls, she would perch on a rock at the river's edge and beam with pride.

A time will come when she realizes that her mother is just a regular old person. But on that day, I was relieved to discover that I still have super powers. I scooped all of her fear out of my heart, held it in my hand, and blew it into the rapids below.

Brain Dump, or Therapy for the Impatient Mother

The youngest two Wafflers road-tripped back from the west coast with my parents after the wedding, stopping to play in all sorts of places along the way. I'm thrilled that they had the opportunity to create memories like that with my folks. When I think about the trip they're taking now, I think of my daughters as their future selves, snuggled in bed with daughters of their own, telling them the stories of the summer they hightailed it through the mountains with Mema. I can only imagine the silly conversations going on in that vehicle. They're due home any minute now. I'm delighted that they had the experience. It's awesome.

But.

I miss my kids.

I miss them so much that I cleaned their rooms today in anticipation of their arrival. And I asked Waffle Guy to hang new curtains for them. I baked them my Super Top-Secret Recipe Chocolate-Butterscotch Cookies of Ridiculous Goodness (with sea salt flakes). I laundered all their bedding with extra fabric softener, so it smells good, like the Middlest likes. I really miss them.

The weather, however, is not cooperating. Two lines of severe thunderstorms have moved through the area, slowing my family's homeward progress by a couple of hours. I normally love a good storm more than just about anyone, but this time, I miss my kids so much that I want boring weather.

And so, I'm here, writing to kill time. This sucks for you, the reader, because I have nothing to say, really. So you might be bored. In the spirit of consideration, however, I thought of some stuff to show you. Some of it might even be fun. We'll get through this together. It will be okay.

First, here's a picture of a palm tree in the sunshine through a rain-covered window. I took this photograph from a bus in Puerto Rico, where I went with the Middlest's school in June. It was one of the best weeks of my life.

If you hate trees, that's okay. I have a photograph of a baby bird, too. I didn't actually take this one. My amazing "escalator daughter" Taylor took it. We found the baby bird in Brooklyn. He was drowning by the side of the road in one of the craziest rain storms I'd ever seen, and there was no mama bird trying to save him. We watched. No mama.

So...we found a great organization in Manhattan that agreed to take him in and rehabilitate him, but first we had to smuggle him on the Subway from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side at rush hour. Every time the sweet little baby bird squeaked in hunger, I glared at the escalator daughters and told them to stop squeaking their shoes. It worked out perfectly. At the Wild Bird Fund, they named the bird Kate, which was nice of them, except I'm pretty sure it was a boy bird. There is absolutely no scientific basis for the male gender assignment to the bird, as I don't even remotely understand how to sex a bird. But I just have a gut feeling that it was a dude-bird named Kate. It's good to see that we've come far enough that the fellas want our names, no?

If you're the sort of person that hates trees and birds, all is not lost. Try this one on for size. Here's a photograph of a Ninja Turtle with Paul Bunyon in his head. He was made at an event at my new gallery by my awesome brother, Tylo, who knows a lot about what goes on inside the heads of Ninja Turtles.

If you're the sort of person who hates birds and trees and Ninja Turtles who have Paul Bunyon on their minds, then I'm afraid I can't help you. As a consolation prize, here's me with a motorcycle dude who is dressed up like a cow, and has a giant, helmeted stuffed cow on the back of his bike.

Now don't you wish you'd acted interested in palm trees?

Destination

At our wedding, my mother-in-law read these words, borrowed from a Hopi blessing:

"And there are things to be considered:

Where are you living?
What are you doing?
What are your relationships? Are you in right relation?
Where is your water? Know your garden.
It is time to speak your Truth.
Create your community. Be good to each other...

There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid.
They will try to hold on to the shore.
They will feel they are being torn apart, and they will suffer greatly.

Know the river has its destination.
...We must let go of the shore, push off into the middle of the river
Keep our eyes open and our heads above the water.
See who is in there with you
And celebrate.

At this time in history we are to take nothing personally.
Least of all, ourselves.
For the moment that we do, our spiritual growth and journey comes to a halt.

...Gather yourselves!
Banish the word "struggle" from your attitude and your vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are the ones we've been waiting for."

It was special for a lot of reasons. The words are stunning, to be sure. Deeper than words, there was a lovely connection to Waffle Guy's roots--his father worked for the US Public Health Service, and Waffle Guy was born on the Navajo reservation. His parents developed deep ties to the Navajo and Hopi people, and still exhibit tremendous respect for the traditions of those nations. The connection to my husband's genesis, and to his parents' history, was a powerful thing to include in our wedding.

Deeper yet was the challenge to our future. I stood in front of my closest family and friends, and listened to those words, and marvelled at what a big thing it is to do all that we do in "a sacred manner and in celebration." In my trials, at my darkest hour, I wondered, will I truly find it in myself to celebrate? Could I do that for my husband, for my marriage?

Later that night, I looked at photographs I'd taken the night before our wedding, when we took a caravan to Oregon's Cannon Beach. My new in-laws arrived with a bag of kites, and my children, and Waffle Guy's children; my brothers, parents, friends--everyone dear to me--launched them into the constant offshore wind. The beach was alive with color and laughter. We squealed when the icy Oregon ocean lapped at our feet. Some of us took photographs in an effort to preserve those precious moments. Some of us held hands with our partners, or snuggled with family.

All of us celebrated.

It occurred to me, looking at photographs from the beach, that this is why I love my family--the one into which I was born, the one to which I gave birth, and the one into which I have joined. The past two years of my life have been rich with sacred, incredible moments like those.

My family is here with me, far from shore, and celebrating. God willing, I'll find a way to thank them, someday.

God, I love Belgium.

K.I.S.S.

Silly Hafiz, always making me cry. What can I say? The fella had a way with words.

Every child has known God, 
Not the God of names, 
Not the God of don’ts, 
Not the God who ever does Anything weird, 
But the God who knows only 4 words. 
And keeps repeating them, saying: 
“Come Dance with Me , come dance.”

-Hafiz

And what if that was all? What if we kept it so simple, and danced?

Shedding Light on the Subject

It all started in March of 2010, when I stumbled on a blog post by Laura Zabel, who works at an amazing organization called Springboard for the Arts. 

Zabel boldly pointed out that it might do the arts community a bit of good if more people had the guts to call themselves artists. 

...I think that in our effort to command greater respect for the profession of being an artist, we’ve excluded people from identifying as artists and prevented them from seeing the art in their everyday lives. We want artists to get paid, obviously, this is something I feel strongly about. But in order to do that, we’ve created all these ways of defining who is a “professional artist” and that’s usually linked to those who make their living as an artist. But what about the hobbyist? The avocational artist? Aren’t they real artists? Those who used to practice but don’t anymore? At what point do you lose the privilege of calling yourself an artist? ...I’m not sure excluding people and having fewer people who identify themselves as artists is a good route towards public support of the arts.

It blew my mind. So you mean, all that creative stuff that I make and do might actually mean that I'm an...artist? 

It was one of those moments that changes absolutely everything. For the first time, I understood art as something other than a thing that I did. Artistry was now something I identified as a characteristic of who I am.

There are implications to realizations like that.

First and foremost, I'd spent years wondering about what my life would look like if I was one of the painters, photographers, or dancers whom I so admired. I'd see works by Edward Burtynsky or Steve McCurry, and I'd wonder what it would feel like to use my insight to connect with people so profoundly with an image. In my mind, those artists were different than me, somehow.

Zabel challenged those of us with artistic tendencies to acknowledge them as part of the package:

“I’m a doctor and I’m an artist.”

“I’m a teacher and I’m an artist.”

“I’m a senator and I’m an artist.”

“I’m a lawyer and I’m an artist."

Was it possible? Would anybody really buy that I was an underpaid, bored copywriter, server and an artist? And if that was the case, what did that mean?


First, it meant that the pet project that had already consumed weeks and weeks of my time was more than just a hobby. It was art.

Second, it meant that the big-time photographers whose works gave me goosebumps weren't actually all that different from me. To be sure, their talents were more cultivated, practiced, refined. They were artists, as they'd always been. But I knew then that I was, too.


A lot has happened in a year. That little project has actually garnered a fair amount of attention, and there are big plans in the works for a tour this year (knock on wood).

And, in a slightly more terrifying twist of fate, some opportunities have arisen that can't be passed up...but I'll have to work as an artist. Full time. For myself. In a studio that I own and operate (in partnership with the amazing Waffle Guy). Gulp.

My studio and gallery will be open for business in the next few weeks. I've got some of the most amazing and creative minds I know planning to work with me on this next "pet project," which will live in a building that had been abandoned for 40 years. My kids hang out there. So does Waffle Guy. My oldest plays with my camera while the middlest investigates the dungeon of a basement for clues about its history. There's even a perfect Daydreamin' Window for the Littlest Waffler.

Everytime we're in that beautiful space, I swear it whispers a "thank you" to us for bringing it back from a forgotten place. And I murmer a "thank you" in return, because I know that the space will take care of my family and friends. You'll hear lots more really soon. In the meantime, you can find us there, trying to figure out where the outlets should go...

The other day, I sat at a desk in my newly acquired studio, my iPod on shuffle. And that's when I heard it:

This little light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine...

Don't forget that you're an artist, too, completely qualified to share your own unique and beautiful perspective with the world. But be careful. There are implications to realizations like that.

How Oscar Mayer Changed My Life

This version of the Oscar Mayer Bologna song became famous before I was born. No matter. It was one of those jingles that embedded itself deep in our culture's collective ear. By the time I was old enough to fully appreciate the flavor of the spongy, pink "meat product," I knew how to spell B-O-L-O-G-N-A.

It's amazing what marketing can do.

This version came out later in my childhood, and I remember it clearly.

Really, the power of a good jingle astonishes me. Not only did this company teach two generations of kids to spell correctly a total phonetic anomaly, but it made us all admit out loud that we wished we were Oscar Mayer Wieners---so that everyone would be in love with us!!!!!

It was a more innocent time in our country's history, and the wing-nuts had not yet learned that they could garner a lot of attention for protesting the promotion of open love affairs between children and processed foods. This is why Waffle Guy and I have an open relationship: he is totally supportive of my propensity for an occasional late-night rendezvous with a bag of kettle chips. But I digress.

It's been a long time since I've considered the powerful influence of the company that produced the original "Meats of Good Taste" in my life, but Oscar Mayer has reappeared in my life.

My Eldest Waffler's school participated yesterday morning in a sandwich-making service project extravaganza yesterday for a touching Minneapolis-based charitable project called "363." Founded by a retired Minneapolis school teacher named Allan Law, the organization is a formal recognition of the fact that we're great at feeding the homeless and hungry among us on Thanksgiving and Christmas. They're there to take care of the other 363 days of each year.

Mr. Law talked to the students a day in his life. He personally picks up sandwiches from the storage facility where they're safely stored, and spends his nights making the rounds. He focuses on hungry kids first, and then visits "safe-bay"sleeping shelters where the lucky among the homeless can sleep on a mat on a floor in a warm room. Mr. Law discussed how those in need appreciate his gift--none among the hungry turn away the sandwiches because they're not in the mood for a sandwich.

And then, for 20 wonderful minutes, the kids turned into a fantastically animated assembly line, carefully placing American cheese and slices of Oscar Mayer Turkey Bologna on enriched white bread, bagging them up, and sending them on their way.

Last year, Mr. Law distributed half a million sandwiches to the hungry and homeless in Minneapolis. In a city so clean, pretty and affluent, it can be hard to imagine that there is need so great. There is.

The 363 Web site estimates that it takes 6 people half an hour to assemble 150 sandwiches. There's a link to order supplies directly from Coborn's Delivers  on 363's page.

After talking to my Wafflers, we've decided that we'll take one day per month, and make sandwiches. On that night, we'll have bologna and cheese, to help us remember how lucky we are to have the choices that we have.

I no longer wish I was a wiener, Oscar Mayer or otherwise. Still, despite all my food snobbery, I'm starting to see bologna in a whole new light.

Resolved.

She spent the whole party playing with stacking cups, a gift given her by Waffle Guy's mother. Slowly, she'd build a tower. Then faster. Tall, thin towers, and shorter, broad towers. Towers sorted by color, and multi-hued towers. Always, her towers would fall, but she was undisturbed. Lost in play, she picked up her treasures, and lovingly built the biggest, most colorful creation she could muster. 

We've just changed our calendars, and pop-culture columnists from all media are making their predictions about Who to Watch, Where to Be Seen, What to Wear, and How to Wear It for 2011. Tech experts are doing the requisite four-minute morning-news segments about this year's must-have gadgets. Personal bloggers and self-help gurus are listing resolutions and setting intentions and writing about theme words for the New Year.

There are lots of rules about new years, apparently. Lots of advice.

Set resolutions that are attainable, we're told. Try cutting out soda instead of deciding to lose 50 pounds. That way, they say, you're less likely to get frustrated and give up.

Or don't set resolutions at all. Set intentions. Just deciding to change is the key to changing, they say.

They also say you can pick a theme word. Choose an easy-to-embrace mantra, and repeat it with all your might. This way, they say, you're not focused on the things you're doing wrong in life. You're likely to notice what's right if you can wrap it all up into one simple word.

They say lots of things, and I listen. I'm not sure why. I have yet to see the science that tells me that big goals are worse or less attainable than little ones. And while I've intended to be a chocolate-guzzling comedienne-supermodel with a recording contract and my own Florida Key for some time now, I'm beginning to realize it's just not going to happen for me. And somehow, I can't possibly find just one word that describes the incredible, complex and nuanced thing I wish for my life to become.

It's possible that I'm missing some glorious point. Maybe I'm not emotionally or spiritually evolved enough. Nevertheless, I really don't care what I'm supposed to want or who I'm supposed to watch or how I'm supposed to do things in 2011. In the past, I've paid attention to all those things at one time or another. And do you know what it's done for me?

I don't.

I try to keep it positive here, but I have a bone to pick with American culture as I begin the next year of my life. When, exactly, did we become so bombarded with messages about what we're supposed to do that we forgot who we want to be? 


I mean, try it. Ask yourself who you want to be. Answer. And then ask yourself how your answer would be different if you had never seen a magazine, or a newspaper, or a blog, or a movie. Scratch every answer that can be measured in pounds or inches or dollars or promotions or possessions.

What if your answer wasn't at all influenced by what your mother taught you, or what Oprah said, or whoever wrote whatever in that column you read? What if your answer came from inside you?

My favorite people all seem to be driven by a common force; a beautiful inability to listen to all of the messages that they're given about how they're supposed to live their lives. Instead, they watch. They notice the things that are true. And they choose for themselves how to build the lives they want.

What if you're already doing everything you need to do? What if you already know what you need to know to live your best life? What if no one else needs to tell you?


I'm not actually sure what I want from my life, much less my year, but I know that I don't want to distill my life down to an easy, formulaic strategy that ends with me being a size 2 Stepford. Why do I have to do or have or be anything specific at all this year? What if we all simply lived, really lived, our lives? What if we loved every minute for exactly what it was, and loved our family and friends for exactly who they were? What if we just let life count for what it is?

It's not that goals are bad. It's just that, with the hype of each new year, it seems we forget more and more what constitutes a goal that is important and worthy. When we're 95 years old and breathing our last breaths, will these resolutions and words and intentions and gizmos really have helped to fill our years with life?

Some, maybe. But not most. Trouble is, it's hard to tell the difference.

And that's why I aspire to be more like my Littlest Waffler. Just to notice the perfect, bright building blocks of this life, and to stack them as well as I can.

This year, I'm resolutely refusing to buy in to the ballyhoo. I'd rather just love what I already have.