Celebrity Endorsements, Storm Statistics and Confessions

We reside in a cozy house situated neatly on the eastern shore of a lake in the southernmost reaches of the far-north city of Minneapolis. If you're familiar with Minneapolis, you know that it's a funky, cool, progressive, beautiful city with a funny accent, an abundance of flannel-clad hipsters, and a lot of quirk. If you're not familiar with Minneapolis, I owe it to you to disclose that in our lexicon of local celebrities, you'll find a couple of television meteorologists.

It's really strange, I know. But they're not there because we don't have anyone actually cool to admire. On the contrary, we've spawned a number of rather iconic individuals, like Bob Dylan and Judy Garland and the Coen Brothers. No one's asking Prince to be the keynote speaker at their gala events, though, and it's not just 'cause he's really flippin' strange. We'd just rather spend our time with that guy or gal from [insert your favorite channel here].

I have a theory about this. 

The climate here has the potential to be vicious in its extremes, and we mere mortals are entirely at its mercy. Except that there are these weather dudes and dudettes who somehow just sorta know what's coming next...with a huge emphasis on the "sorta." It's like they have a static-filled line in to whatever higher power decides it's time for baseball-sized hail. And if they really have face-time or whatever with the weather deities, then maybe they have some clout, see? Maybe they could chat us up with Thor, and convince him to, you know, blow the snow into Richfield instead? It's like climatological social networking. Or junior high.

If you don't live here, you might not understand why your Minnesota friends make such a big $%&@ deal about the weather. To us, it's obvious: It snowed yesterday. Like, a lot. Now I have to figure out where to park my car until Monday night. Except that it's buried in a four-foot drift. But plows can't get down the streets because they're not plowed. And they can't tow cars off of the streets so that plows can get through because it's too deep to get the tow trucks in until they plow. 

The net-net is that if you're from Minneapolis, everyone you know just spent seven hours shoveling little Habitrail paths for themselves, just so they could move their cars to the even side of the street. It sucks. And that is why we talk about the weather.

When I was a kid, I aspired to be a local celebrity meteorologist. I envisioned myself pointing effortlessly at a Chroma-key, gesturing naturally as I described this week's incoming low-pressure system in an informative-yet-engaging manner. I imagined our at-home viewers chortling aloud at my playful on-air banter with the anchors, their guffaws causing them to nearly choke on the frozen pizza they were noshing from their perch on the couch. In this fantasy, I singlehandedly forecasted the weather with unparalleled 80% accuracy. I wanted it all.

When I was 12, I was given the opportunity to spend an afternoon "shadowing" the iconic Paul Douglas, the Twin Cities genius who brilliantly pioneered--get this--outdoor weather broadcasts. He was the rock-star of the weather world, with a crisply starched shirt, receding hairline, and buttery-smooth voice. My mom took me shopping for a new pink silk shirt to wear to the KARE-11 studio, and I was sweating so hard from nervousness that I completely pitted out by the time my mother dropped me off. So deep was my awe for Mr. Douglas that I couldn't speak a word the whole time I was there. I just sat in his office, on a stool, staring. I must have seemed terribly creepy to him, dripping with perspiration and mute. 

I don't know if it's nostalgic exaggeration, or if my memory is accurate, but it seems to me that it was much, much snowier here in Minneapolis when I was a kid. Mr. Douglas pointed out in his Friday blog that remembering snow from our childhood is inaccurate, as we were likely much shorter then. And he has a point.

Whether it's "wear layers" or "bring an umbrella",  those damned TV weather people always have a point. Seriously. How do they do it?

This winter, we've been treated to the kind of snow I remember from my childhood. The kind that does things like this:

This weekend, my parents got snowed in at our house, so the extended Waffle-Clan spent the weekend baking Christmas cookies, playing with dogs, and shoveling. But that's not the only gift given me by this blizzard.

Though I never have lived my dream of becoming a charismatic major-market television weather personality, this weekend also gave me an opportunity to report on the storm from my perspective. 

Here are some neighborhood storm statistics:

Neighborhood Snow Total: Around 18 inches, according to Paul Douglas

Number of People Snowed In At Our House: 6

Number of People Snowed Out Of Our House: 1 (Sorry, Waffle Guy. We missed you.)

Total Dogs Snowed In At Our House: 4

Total Hours Spent Snowed In: 39

Cookie Recipes Used: 4

Total Cookies Made: Approximately 17 dozen

Total Cookies Stolen By Dogs: Approximately 1 dozen

Snow Angels Made:12

Snow Angels Visible After All the Snow had Fallen: 0

Hours Spent Shoveling: 7

Metric Tons of Snow Shoveled: Infinity

See? I can do it. No sweat.

Welcome, December.

Intently she gazes out the window for hours. Everyone else in the house assumes she is watching passers-by as they walk their own dogs, but I know better. Since we put the tree up, Gracie has been watching for Santa.

I have, too.

This is a vibrant and abundant life with which I'm blessed. I have my family, and opportunity. It's warm in my house, in every way. There is food and music and laughter and love. In here, there's almost nothing I'd change.

But this has been a month of contradictions, and the world isn't always so perfect outside of my doors. There are some things going on right now that terrify me. They're not fair, and they're not nice, and they break my heart. Yet somehow, in this season, I cannot let go of the belief that any second, it could all get better.

I love Christmas because it's so representative of the resilience of the human spirit. I'm stricken by how, on our darkest days, we dress our homes in twinkly light. When it's coldest, we gather close our loved ones to sit by the hearth. We feast, even as the fields are most barren. It's a beautiful sort of defiance.

Christmas, to me, is evidence that in our nature is a refusal to be overcome by darkness and cold. Instead, we seek shelter in the security of our homes and families. We notice the magic around us. We celebrate that which is important and real.

Spring will come soon enough. It always does, and everything becomes new and alive and promising once again. But for the time being, I'm content to sit here with Gracie, watching for miracles.

Waffling on Self-Worth, or the Recovering Perfectionist's Manifesto

They're treacherous beasts, those little voices in our heads. You know, the ones that say things like, "You'll never be good enough to be a professional surfer! And by the way, you'd make a crappy physics professor and an even worse maid! Oh, and while we're at it, you can just forget about being an astronaut, punk. We both know that cardboard spaceship you built when you were seven was the least inspired craft in your neighborhood!"

When those voices get chattering, I tend to forget that I don't necessarily want to be a professional surfer, and I've always hated physics, and that my cardboard spaceship actually kind of rocked in an avant-garde sort of way. Instead, I fixate on the fact that I'm Never. Good. Enough. And it gets in my way.

I'll pick up a new hobby, and quickly abandon it on the basis that it's not going so well. "You'll never be any good at gardening," those little voices will say. "It's been five whole days and your seeds have not yet germinated. Give up now, Plant Killer!!!!!"

And I will. I'll be so afraid that the seedlings won't ever grow that I'll stop watering them. And then they don't grow. And then, as I feared, I discover that the little voices were right. And I believe them more, the next time.

Sometimes the voices aren't little. Sometimes they're real. A rather pesky know-it-all who exists on the perimeter of my life decided last weekend that I'm an unfit dog owner, based on several entirely incorrect assumptions she'd made and never bothered to verify. And so, armed with her sense of self-righteousness, she went on a campaign to stop me from adopting the dog for whom I've been searching for several months. I live in a vibrant, lively home. My children, Guy and I are physically active, financially secure, conscientious people who make decisions carefully and live our lives well. We bring our dogs everywhere we go; we diligently monitor their eating and pooping habits; and we shower them with love, affection, and organic training treats at every opportunity. So why was it that when a voice said, "Kate's not good enough", I stayed up for three nights, wondering if I'd made a mistake? Even when there was indisputable evidence to the contrary, why did I try to make myself believe her?

I have a tendency to believe the worst about myself. I jump on every little bit of evidence that I'm a crappy writer, a bad photographer, an awkward conversationalist. While deep inside I often beam with pride at the compassion and kindness that I've managed to teach my daughters somehow, there's always a question, just below the surface, of whether I've also messed them up. Is it possible, I wonder sometimes, that I'm just too dumb to notice all the millions of things I'm doing wrong?

Sometimes I like the fact that I'm a pretty thoughtful, reflective person. I'm proud, sometimes, that I have a gift for being able to see and understand every side of an issue, and that I'm not bound by a rigidity of spirit. I'm good at learning, and good at changing, and most days, I like that about myself. But then there are the days when I find myself wondering if I'm not nearly as smart as I think. What if it's not that I'm reflective, after all? What if I'm just so slow that I have to dwell on the things that are easy for everyone else?

As I'm writing this, I'm beating myself up for being narcissistic and self-absorbed, because honestly: Do I really think anyone cares about all the stuff that goes on in my brain?

It's enough to drive a girl crazy.

Tonight, I cried really hard because I turned in some photos a day late. They were late because I was so afraid of turning them in, because I convinced myself that I'm an artistic joke. When I finally sat down to look at my edits, I got so anxious about my worthiness as a human being that I decided to skip dinner with a bunch of people who I really like. Ah, Anxiety. You're a marvelous liar.

I've decided that I've had enough. Because while it may be true that I am a procrastinator and an artistic amateur and that I tend to be a bit neurotic and kind of flighty, I'm also smart and funny and kind. With a good editor, I'm an amazing writer, and with virtually anyone's writing, I'm a pretty good editor. I'm loving and compassionate, and once you've earned my trust, I'm a very loyal friend. I listen without judgment, and for the most part, I choose my words carefully. I love my children, and I show them that at every chance I get. I'm silly and playful and I laugh all the time. I love traveling because I adore learning about people who are different from me. And I like that about myself.

I will no longer fear that I am inadequate. I will live for the things I love, and love the things I live for. I will notice that, despite my fear of the outcome, I had a great time editing those photos. I will transfer the seedlings that are miraculously still sprouting in their starter-packs on my deck, and I will pat myself on the back for trying, every year, to add life to the world in whatever way I can. I will write and think and talk and laugh, and simply stop worrying about the voice of my own anxiety, or the voices of anyone else, for that matter. I will only listen to the voices of those who truly love me, and only listen to my own voice when it comes from a place of love.

I will be proud of the fact that my children know they are loved.

And while we're at it, I'll take a minute to feel some gratitude that I am curled up in my bed, by the love of my life, while our new dog and the Waffle Hound snore contentedly at our feet.

It's a gift, this life I have, and I am done packaging that gift in my own fears. And, despite the nagging little voice that's telling me that people will only think that I'm self-absorbed and small if I write about that, I'm going to challenge myself to defy those fears publicly, just in case I find that I'm not the only one who struggles this way.

I'll write about it here because, well, it's been three months since I've written, only because I have feared that I have nothing real to say.

But you know what? Writing makes me feel alive, even when it's scary. And from here on out, that's what it's about.

A Taste of the Cabin

I opened my email this morning to find proof that someone reads this stuff. 

(Ahem)

A reader requested a recipe. 

Woah.

Waffle Guy's Easy "Brownies"

2 c. Graham Cracker Crumbs

1 8-oz. can Sweetened Condensed Milk

Halfish bag Semisweet Chocolate Chips (Okay, so we used 2/3 of a bag. So?)

A daring spoonful of high-quality vanilla extract

Combine all ingredients until they make a cement-like dough, taking extra care to sample the sweetened condensed milk (you know, for quality control purposes...and stuff...). Mix until your arm is stiff--this shouldn't take long. Bake at 350 or so until the top is ever-so-lightly golden and the edges are a lovely golden brown. Allow to cool for a bit before cutting, or you'll make a mess.

Waffle Guy's Candied Nuts

2/3 c. granulated sugar

3 T. cinnamon

3 T. water

1 1/2 c. of your favorite nuts (the kind you eat, not the kind to whom you're related)

In a preheated pan, combine all ingredients, stirring rapidly and constantly until you truly believe your nuts are destined to be contained in a slimy layer until the end of time, at which point you actually have only 20 seconds left to stir. All of a sudden, the liquid will turn into a grainy, pretty candy layer. Remove pot from heat, adding 1 more tablespoon of water to separate your newly candied nut confections. Stir some more. Lay flat on a cookie sheet to cool, or go street vendor and serve them warm, from a paper cone. Eat until satisfied. Follow with nap on couch with a warm, soft puppy.

There. How's that for precise writing?

Dispatch from the Tundra: In Luck for Tasty European Snacks

In the tiny town of Luck, Wisconsin, on the shores of Big Butternut Lake, lies the cabin where Waffle Guy's family has been retreating for nearly three decades. The Waffle Kids and I have been fortunate to have experienced the cabin on several occasions in the summer, and have enjoyed its offerings tremendously.

With real life doing its best to interfere with travel planning (it's been nearly two months since Waffle Guy and I have left Flyover Country, and we have no current travel dates on the horizon), we've been getting a little stir crazy. Thinking a midwinter cabin adventure might relieve some, uh, cabin fever, we decided to spend New Year's in Luck. Trust us. It made sense at the time.

So we planned. We packed sleds and snowpants for all. We discussed our best sledding options. We dreamed about crafting snowmen and warming up with hot cocoa by the fireplace. It was all perfect, in our heads. But Mother Nature had some ideas of her own, and we wound up learning that sometimes the best weekend is one with no plans.

Day 1: Waffle Dog enjoys some of the freedoms that cabin life affords her. We play Single Digit Snow Fetch until our arms are too numb to throw the squeaky tennis ball. She romps in the crunchy snow, stopping only to sniff rabbit tracks or dart after a squirrel. Noting that it's gotten quite chilly outside, Waffle Guy suggests that we may want to remain quiet about sledding unless a Waffle Kid mentions it. I agree, although I am disappointed. This is, after all, why God made quality gloves. 

Waffle Guy distracts us all from outdoor fun by teaching the girls to bake his "Easy Brownies", which are not, in fact, brownies at all. Rather, they're what any good Minnesota church lady would call "bars". But they are delicious, and they are addictive, and they are easy, and I find myself concerned that I will be eating a lot on this trip.

Day 2: We awake to find that our bedroom is cold. Really cold. Like, the kind of cold where you can't get out of bed without wrapping yourself in a blankie, burrito style. I would have simply stayed in bed all day, except that Waffle Dog is whining. 

Stumbling out of bed, I open the sliding glass door to let her outside. That's when the magic happens. The outside air is so cold that you can literally see it coming in as it meets the comparatively warm air of our bedroom. A cloud of steam curls in through the doorway in an ominous manner, and Waffle Dog looks at me as if to say, "Hell, no." I cannot force even a dog to go outside.

We look up the local temperature to discover that the air was a whopping -18F. The Guy gazes at me with pleading eyes. Sledding is officially out of the picture. 

In lieu of sled time, we decide to cook. The morning starts with Jungle Animal Pancakes, molded to be shaped like monkeys, elephants and lions. They aren't waffles, but they are pretty darn good with bananas and chocolate chips. 

For lunch, we attack the arsenal of powdered mixes that the Guy has collected from Germany, and so it is that the Waffle Kids learn the lesson of the Frickin'Awesome. See, Waffle Guy and I once stopped at a rest area cafe in Germany because I was starving and whiny. His attempt to silence my grumbling was successful: this particular cafe gave birth to my first frikadelle, a perfect little wad of meat, mixed with bread crumbs, seasoned to onion-y perfection and pan fried in plenty of greasy deliciousness. I renamed the meatloaf/meatball/burger/miracle  the "Frickin'Awesome", and I've been craving it ever since.

We have to doctor the frikadellen a bit to make them kid-friendly, but a slice of cheese and a dallop of Heinz ketchup go a long way, and the Little Waffles were delighted. The Guy and I have ours with delicious brown mustard, and I find myself drifting away to a picnic table on the side of an autobahn, somewhere between Neuschwanstein and God-knows-where. Heaven.

For dinner, Waffle Guy transports me back to Germany yet again for a visit with my old friend currywurst. With delicious sausages he procured from a rural Wisconsin grocer, and a powdered sauce mix he obtained from a grocer in urban Deutschland, we have a proper German greasy-spoon dinner. I might have died from fullness right there, but we aren't done. 

You see, Waffle Guy has been hanging on to a nut-roasting pan, and it is time to candy some nuts. And candy nuts we do: almonds, cashews and pecans all fall victim to cinnamon-sugary snack-tacular joyness. 

I eat gluttonously, and then proceed to lay in bed and plead with the gods to forgive my indiscretions. Secretly, though, I intend to relive that day's menu as soon as possible.

Day 3: It's Sunday, so of course breakfast is waffles. In this case, it's pre-packaged imported Belgian waffles that my Guy found at a grocery store in Luck. They are dry, and they've got nothing on our waffles, but they'll do in a pinch.

We have to return home early to get Thing One to piano lessons. Plus, we have tickets to Disney's Beauty and the Beast at the phenomenal Ordway Center for the Performing Arts.

Before the show, we stop at Cosetta in St. Paul for our quarterly mostaccioli fix, and for poignant punctuation on the weekend's theme: Even in life's coldest moments, my world is full of warmth and flavor. 

My soul is fed. My heart is warmed. And my cheeks are flushed, for the thrill of it all.