There's only one passage from the Bible that I know by heart: Jeremiah 29:11
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
There is even a plague of it in my home. A small blue and gold inscription set within a frame of dark walnut wood. Given to me nearly 10 years ago by a former next door neighbor wise beyond his years. He looked at me, and somehow he knew.
He knew that I was the type of person that if given a novel of my own life, I would indeed skip through everything like a tornado to get to the final pages, hoping for the happy ending.
In my running training, coach would constantly hound us all to keep a training log. The idea is that during those final tapering weeks, as your mileage drastically decreases as your body rests and the day of the marathon grows closer, you can look at this log and see how many miles you ran. You can witness every entry and know you did the work.
It's hard to have a log book for life. You're "doing the work" all the time unknowingly. So I have this plague, this scripture to repeat over and over in my head when I just can seem to see my life as clearly as I'd like. And for me, the times that are the most scary aren't when I can't see anything, it's when I can and do not know what it means.
Eric and I are going to buy a house. Soon. Before the year is out. I know what it looks like. I know that the trees are old and that the front door is elegant. The kitchen is the heart of our home and it's warm. I see it....but I don't know if it exists. I'm nervous that it doesn't. That is when I hear that scripture. When I run it over and over to calm me. God hasn't let me down yet. He showed me in a similar way when Eric was coming. I knew exactly what he looked like. His black hair, his hands, his honor of character.
Now, God is showing me my house. It's beautiful and warm, full of character. It's us. Now I just gotta find it.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Sitting in the shade on a beautiful day in Millennium Park this past week, my friend Kim and I shared a conversation about life and plans, hopes and dreams. Maybe not shared as much as me chatting endlessly into her charismatic ears, only pausing for brief moments to take in life-continuing necessary air. When the dust had settled on all the random thoughts I had, she calmly smiled and stated the obvious....”you gotta grow up sometime.”
She was right. I started today. I am now the proud owner of Le Creuset Cookware.
Le Creuset enamel cast iron cookware was created in Northern France in 1925 and has become the ultimate in chefdom worldwide. Because it’s cast iron, it has excellent heat distribution and retention, so it cooks food slowly and evenly under low heat, allowing the true flavor of the food, and all it’s spices, juices and various combinations achieve their ultimate amazing yummyness.
If a microwaved Lean Cuisine meal is like being awkwardly hit on in a dive bar by a 50-something unemployed loser who still lives in his parent’s basement, a meal cooked in Le Creuset cookware is like being taken on a motorcycle ride through Italy by George Clooney only to be delivered to his candlelit villa and into the lovingly open arms of Ryan Reynolds, Bradley Cooper and David Beckham.
This cookware symbolized refinement. The nemesis of youthful selfishness and quick riskful life choices. Le Creuset is a Fred Astaire dance. Elegant and wise. The greatest parts of adulthood. I was ready.
Like all Le Creuset cast-iron products, it is hand-cast in a one-of-a-kind sand mold and hand-finished at the Le Creuset factory in France - and it’s available in a variety of gorgeous colors. Each piece has a 101 year warranty. It’s the kind of thing family members hand down through generations of future chefs, also longing to grow up and grow beyond the basics of cooking. Because Le Creuset cookware is indeed the most awesome thing you’ll ever have in your kitchen, they are expensive as hell. One piece usually runs about $200 - $250 bucks. But I was experiencing a life trifecta: #1 - My husband Eric was not getting my subtle hints to help me with household chores, thus adding extra burden to my own daily workload. #2 - I had a “Preferred Member 35% OFF” coupon good between June 25th - July 4th. And finally, ultimately, #3 - My birthday was coming up.
Today was my day. I’ve been planning this for the last month. Today was the only day on the coupon that I was free to make the journey an hour out of Chicago to Aurora, IL. I was focused. Nothing else mattered. I dropped Eric off at church, (purposely knowing that God was on my side in this adventure and most likely with me in the car than within the four walls of our traditional Sunday meeting place), and powered my way down the highway through the down pouring thunderstorm to the Aurora Outlet Mall.
Parking in a prime location across from the Le Creuset store, I savored the visit, slowly making my way through the entire outlet, knowing full well where I really wanted to go, but not wanting the experience to end. The ultimate consumer foreplay, I strolled through a maze of shops, half-heartedly trying on sandals that only somewhat pleased me, taking in the smells of various unhealthy foods but never purchasing, and glancing into windows with the fake promise of returning to explore further.
Then finally, the Le Creuset store. An amazing spectrum of color and culinary knowledge. A shrine to the french chefs of the past and the enthusiastic hopes for my cooking future. Donning black aprons of pure french/dutch oven genius, the sales people where incredibly friendly and lovingly encouraging. They were the biggest supporters of my journey to adulthood. I could not fail.
Forty minutes later, I walked toward my car with a 5-quart Braiser (in Dijon Yellow) a 4.25-quart french round (in Caribbean Blue) and a 6.75-quart french oval (in Cherry Red) Julie, Julia & now Leslie. Delighted in my achievement, empowered by my growth, and excited for the future Leslie, the girl who is now a cultured woman. Would home-ownership, motherhood and a strong understanding of financial investing be just around the corner?
Packing my prizes into the trunk, one part of the life trifecta still frustrated me. The inevitable bi-monthly chat I again must have with my beloved husband Eric over needing him to help more with household chores. Grrr.
Then, last part of my life trifecta would ultimately exonerate and save me. My birthday was coming up. Shutting the trunk of my car and taking in a relaxing deep breath of 95% summer humidity, I walked into the COACH store and bought myself a purse. An expensive one.
Happy Birthday to me. I’ll grow up more later.
She was right. I started today. I am now the proud owner of Le Creuset Cookware.
Le Creuset enamel cast iron cookware was created in Northern France in 1925 and has become the ultimate in chefdom worldwide. Because it’s cast iron, it has excellent heat distribution and retention, so it cooks food slowly and evenly under low heat, allowing the true flavor of the food, and all it’s spices, juices and various combinations achieve their ultimate amazing yummyness.
If a microwaved Lean Cuisine meal is like being awkwardly hit on in a dive bar by a 50-something unemployed loser who still lives in his parent’s basement, a meal cooked in Le Creuset cookware is like being taken on a motorcycle ride through Italy by George Clooney only to be delivered to his candlelit villa and into the lovingly open arms of Ryan Reynolds, Bradley Cooper and David Beckham.
This cookware symbolized refinement. The nemesis of youthful selfishness and quick riskful life choices. Le Creuset is a Fred Astaire dance. Elegant and wise. The greatest parts of adulthood. I was ready.
Like all Le Creuset cast-iron products, it is hand-cast in a one-of-a-kind sand mold and hand-finished at the Le Creuset factory in France - and it’s available in a variety of gorgeous colors. Each piece has a 101 year warranty. It’s the kind of thing family members hand down through generations of future chefs, also longing to grow up and grow beyond the basics of cooking. Because Le Creuset cookware is indeed the most awesome thing you’ll ever have in your kitchen, they are expensive as hell. One piece usually runs about $200 - $250 bucks. But I was experiencing a life trifecta: #1 - My husband Eric was not getting my subtle hints to help me with household chores, thus adding extra burden to my own daily workload. #2 - I had a “Preferred Member 35% OFF” coupon good between June 25th - July 4th. And finally, ultimately, #3 - My birthday was coming up.
Today was my day. I’ve been planning this for the last month. Today was the only day on the coupon that I was free to make the journey an hour out of Chicago to Aurora, IL. I was focused. Nothing else mattered. I dropped Eric off at church, (purposely knowing that God was on my side in this adventure and most likely with me in the car than within the four walls of our traditional Sunday meeting place), and powered my way down the highway through the down pouring thunderstorm to the Aurora Outlet Mall.
Parking in a prime location across from the Le Creuset store, I savored the visit, slowly making my way through the entire outlet, knowing full well where I really wanted to go, but not wanting the experience to end. The ultimate consumer foreplay, I strolled through a maze of shops, half-heartedly trying on sandals that only somewhat pleased me, taking in the smells of various unhealthy foods but never purchasing, and glancing into windows with the fake promise of returning to explore further.
Then finally, the Le Creuset store. An amazing spectrum of color and culinary knowledge. A shrine to the french chefs of the past and the enthusiastic hopes for my cooking future. Donning black aprons of pure french/dutch oven genius, the sales people where incredibly friendly and lovingly encouraging. They were the biggest supporters of my journey to adulthood. I could not fail.
Forty minutes later, I walked toward my car with a 5-quart Braiser (in Dijon Yellow) a 4.25-quart french round (in Caribbean Blue) and a 6.75-quart french oval (in Cherry Red) Julie, Julia & now Leslie. Delighted in my achievement, empowered by my growth, and excited for the future Leslie, the girl who is now a cultured woman. Would home-ownership, motherhood and a strong understanding of financial investing be just around the corner?
Packing my prizes into the trunk, one part of the life trifecta still frustrated me. The inevitable bi-monthly chat I again must have with my beloved husband Eric over needing him to help more with household chores. Grrr.
Then, last part of my life trifecta would ultimately exonerate and save me. My birthday was coming up. Shutting the trunk of my car and taking in a relaxing deep breath of 95% summer humidity, I walked into the COACH store and bought myself a purse. An expensive one.
Happy Birthday to me. I’ll grow up more later.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Okay, so the Chicago Blackhawks won the 2010 Stanley Cup, and although I grew up from age "it's a girl" till now being an overall Chicago teams fan, I will admit that I have only paid attention to the Blackhawks in the last two years. Here's why I think I deserve a bit more credit than being called a "bandwagon fan".
• I am from a hockey family. At the age of eleven, I was the first ever girl to play hockey in the city of Dubuque, IA. My story was in the Telegraph Herald newspaper and interviewed for a local cable access show. I got a Playmaker that year and made the travel team.
• Both of my brothers played college hockey (University of Iowa, University of Northern Iowa, and Iowa State University.)
• A show of our devotion? Our family owns the license plate HOCKEY for the state of Iowa since 1983. We ain't giving it up either.
• Throughout my childhood, my dad flooded my backyard from November till March, using snow for boards, attached floodlights to the 2nd story deck for playing at night, and created a warming house out of the basement garage with a walkout to the ice.
Mostly, I think I deserve extra "Blackhawks Credit" because I know what it feels like to skate hard and stop strong, blasting a fine mist of snow in the air. I know the feeling of the puck smacking against my stick from a perfect pass down ice. I know what the inside of a glove smells like, and the sound of the snap connecting to my socks.
I can close my eyes and feel the burn of the tug and pull of tightening my skates, and the intense focus I used when applying tape the curve of my stick. I was that kid, with red cheeks and sweaty hair matted down inside a helmet. I remember when ITECs came out, and when Cooper released long pants. I was the first girl to play hockey, and half the boys hated me out there on the ice, and the other half used me as the first example of girls and the early stages of sexual confusion.
When I watch a game, I'm there. That fast paced play, that snap of the puck to the stick. I'm back. I belong. I'm remembered. Now I may be rocking the sexy skirt and black boots, but that part of me that is a high dreaming sweaty kid hockey player is still there. Part of me is still smacking my brother along the iced-over snow drifts of our backyard ice rink in Dubuque.
A player is a million times better than a watcher. Watching is fair-weather, a sidelines neat and clean and nice smelling observer. A player is smelly and sweating and willing to get smacked into the boards and fights to get that puck in the net. The player is forgiven. You don't have to watch every game, be part of every battle, cause you're a member of giant the war.
I don't play hockey anymore, haven't since I was 13. Don't own skates and haven't seen the inside of a rink for years. Now I like pretty things, and have no desire to be any colder than I possibly need to be. November to March will find me wrapped in a warm quilt and desperately looking out my window for signs of spring.
But there is this childhood love of hockey, an enormous part of my family history and tradition. Spring and Summer were baseball and fall and winter was hockey. Plain and simple. Now grown up and grown beyond, there is still this sense I can go back and kick some hockey ass whenever I want. Just like a Chicago Blackhawk.
• I am from a hockey family. At the age of eleven, I was the first ever girl to play hockey in the city of Dubuque, IA. My story was in the Telegraph Herald newspaper and interviewed for a local cable access show. I got a Playmaker that year and made the travel team.
• Both of my brothers played college hockey (University of Iowa, University of Northern Iowa, and Iowa State University.)
• A show of our devotion? Our family owns the license plate HOCKEY for the state of Iowa since 1983. We ain't giving it up either.
• Throughout my childhood, my dad flooded my backyard from November till March, using snow for boards, attached floodlights to the 2nd story deck for playing at night, and created a warming house out of the basement garage with a walkout to the ice.
Mostly, I think I deserve extra "Blackhawks Credit" because I know what it feels like to skate hard and stop strong, blasting a fine mist of snow in the air. I know the feeling of the puck smacking against my stick from a perfect pass down ice. I know what the inside of a glove smells like, and the sound of the snap connecting to my socks.
I can close my eyes and feel the burn of the tug and pull of tightening my skates, and the intense focus I used when applying tape the curve of my stick. I was that kid, with red cheeks and sweaty hair matted down inside a helmet. I remember when ITECs came out, and when Cooper released long pants. I was the first girl to play hockey, and half the boys hated me out there on the ice, and the other half used me as the first example of girls and the early stages of sexual confusion.
When I watch a game, I'm there. That fast paced play, that snap of the puck to the stick. I'm back. I belong. I'm remembered. Now I may be rocking the sexy skirt and black boots, but that part of me that is a high dreaming sweaty kid hockey player is still there. Part of me is still smacking my brother along the iced-over snow drifts of our backyard ice rink in Dubuque.
A player is a million times better than a watcher. Watching is fair-weather, a sidelines neat and clean and nice smelling observer. A player is smelly and sweating and willing to get smacked into the boards and fights to get that puck in the net. The player is forgiven. You don't have to watch every game, be part of every battle, cause you're a member of giant the war.
I don't play hockey anymore, haven't since I was 13. Don't own skates and haven't seen the inside of a rink for years. Now I like pretty things, and have no desire to be any colder than I possibly need to be. November to March will find me wrapped in a warm quilt and desperately looking out my window for signs of spring.
But there is this childhood love of hockey, an enormous part of my family history and tradition. Spring and Summer were baseball and fall and winter was hockey. Plain and simple. Now grown up and grown beyond, there is still this sense I can go back and kick some hockey ass whenever I want. Just like a Chicago Blackhawk.
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