Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

Once there was a snowman, snowman, snowman
Once there was a snowman, tall tall tall!
In the sun he melted, melted, melted
In the sun he melted, small small small!

"A thnowman with a cawot nose, Mommy. . . he has a wake!" This is what Jake and Ellie did to pass the time between busy Saturday activities. Ellie is waiting for it to turn into a puddle, which will probably happen tomorrow. Crazy Denver weather!

BTW, Monsters v. Aliens in 3D is worth seeing.

Home Brew

I received the March Martha Stewart magazine about a month ago. It featured recipes for corned beef and cabbage and Irish soda bread. I thought, I'm Irish, I should make an Irish meal for St. Patrick's Day.

Well, I am part Irish--I was a Murphy before I was a Ross. So we had corned beef with cabbage and Irish soda bread for dinner tonight. I'm sure you're wondering what is blog-worthy about such a dinner. After all, you need only throw the corned beef in a crock pot and buy a loaf of good soda bread. Ha ha. Remember that part in the previous paragraph where I was reading the Martha Stewart magazine? Yeah. Crock pot? Fat chance. Crock pot occurred to me only after I had been boiling the corned beef on the stove for over an hour. And, might I add, this was a 5-lb. corned beef brisket that I had cured myself.

That's right. I cured it myself.

I started having second thoughts about the home-curing only after I had put the brisket in the curing solution (two weeks ago). It was only then that it occurred to me that I have never actually liked a single Martha Stewart recipe that I had tried. The curing solution smelled suspiciously like cinnamon. That was the only odor emanating from the brine. That was scary to me. (FYI, we Japanese don't usually dig on cinnamon in general.)

I was very skeptical. Then things got even scarier. Jake is very confident of my culinary skills. He invited his parents, two sisters, and brother-in-law to share in the Irish feast. That is fine, except that I have never made corned beef before, let alone having cured my own meat. I was really just hoping to not poison anyone.

Fortunately, things turned out fine. Corned beef tasted like corned beef. Cabbage tasted like cabbage. Irish soda bread tasted like Irish soda bread (actually, I can't really say this honestly because I don't really know what Irish soda bread tastes like).


Ellie was very helpful. She set the table all by herself. Amazing, I know, considering that she is still 2 years old. Here is her handiwork:


Then she got creative with the tuna. Imagine this on a larger scale, and you can imagine the state of my entire house on any given day.



She really thought she was doing me a favor, bless her heart.

Oh, yeah. She would also like you to know that she poopooed in the potty today and so she got some new Littlest Pet Shop bunnies. We're all quite pleased with her.

All in all, it was a pretty good St. Partick's Day. Don't hate me because I'm Irish.

Don't Eat Here, Eat Here

Friday night was one of those tired evenings where I wasn't going to make dinner, Jake just doesn't make dinner, and, well, yours truly doesn't eat pizza as a general rule. (I do sometimes, but it's a very rare occasion.) So Jake and I, grumpy as you might suspect, went out in search of something to eat. After much debate, we wearily settled on Jasmine, which is a Chinese restaurant in Lone Tree that we often go to when we don't feel like driving downtown and/or spend very much money.



BIG MISTAKE.



But how were we to know that in the few months we hadn't frequented the place it would have taken a happy little nosedive into to realms of the UNIDENTIFIABLE ASIAN-ISH genre? My instinct was to turn around and head for the closest burger joint when I noticed the main sign had been changed to include the words "Asian cuisine" and another computer-printed sign in the window advertised the "grand open" of the sushi bar.



But we doggedly entered the establishment anyway because we hadn't had a problem in the past. As we walked in, I attempted to ignore that sure enough, Jasmine had built a sushi bar within their restaurant. I was also quite annoyed to find that the menu now included Thai selections as well as Japanese dishes. Actually, let's call them "Japanese" dishes. OK--so NOT even similar regions of the VAST continent of Asia, all on the same menu, and not even claiming to be fusion or something ultra modern like that.



We still didn't run, and we really should have.

I'll try not to bore you with the details, so here's a quick synopsis. First and foremost, someone put mushrooms in the kung pao chicken. No, more like "kung pao chicken." The dish came out and both of us leaned in to get a closer look at the mess--but the waitress declared that it was indeed kung pao chicken. I ordered the Singapore noodles. Basically, this is their version of Singapore noodles: dump rice noodles in pan, dump other stuff in pan, and finally, dump in a pile of curry powder and no other seasonings. Stir. That's it. Big sigh here.

Did I mention that I hate bad food?

But I love good food--pretty much up there with how much I love my husband and children. So I think it's fitting that my most beloved husband took me to my favorite restaurant in town on the anniversary of his proposal to me five years ago. That is to say, on Valentine's Day.

We went to Sushi Sasa and I am telling you unequivocally that Chef Wayne Conwell is a genius. He had a special menu for Valentine's day--an 8-course treat:

Duo of Oysters: Japanese Peruvian Ceviche & Ume Kombu Ponzu

Japanese Bruschetta: Hamachi tartare, ankimo and foie gras pate, etc.

Yellowtail & Roasted Beet Salad

Japanese Bluefin Carpaccio

Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt Float

Colorado Lamb Chop, Broiled Black Cod, and Seared Scallop

Premium Nigiri Selection: Salmon, O-toro, Anago, Madai

Chocolate Cake

Everything that could be served raw on this menu that didn't indicate otherwise was. It was wonderful! My one complaint is that someone put mushrooms (shiitake, to be exact) in my carpaccio, but even that was forgivable.

It was a perfect evening--a perfect reminder of all the things I love in life. (My husband, my family, and good food.)

Poop Stinks

We didn't go to the park today. It was a gorgeous, warm day. We didn't need jackets. The kids were in t-shirts--no layers. We didn't go to the park.

This time, it wasn't because I was too lazy or too tired to go. This time, it was because of a tantrum. It was a tantrum like none I have ever seen before. It wasn't the magnitude of the tantrum that amazed me, but the subject matter:

"Mommy put the poopoo back in my butt!"

How do you even begin to reason with that? Here's what happened. We were getting ready to leave for the park when Ellie sauntered into the kitchen and announced that she poopooed. I asked here where. She said in her pants.

Ellie and I have a deal. When she is properly potty trained, she gets to have a party at Chuckie Cheese (bad, I know!) with her friends. Today, I informed her that she also has to make a poopoo in the potty in order to get her party.

Apparently, she got super motivated at that point and decided that she needed to make a poopoo in the potty right then and there. She told me to put the poopoo back in her butt so she could put it in the potty herself. I told her I really couldn't do that, especially since I had just flushed it down the toilet.

We didn't go to the park today.

Did I mention that she was having her tantrum sans clothing below the waist? About 3/4 of the way through, she demanded pants--I think it might have gotten a little bit cold and uncomfortable.

Other poop-related issues:

1. Why does one of my kids always poop just as we're heading out the door?

2. Why does Ellie want to look at poop--especially her own, but not limited to her own?

3. I think my son poops out more than he eats. That bothers me a little bit.

4. I have become indifferent to poop at the same time that I have really really come to hate it. In other words, I don't freak out any more when I inadvertently touch the poop, but I still resent it.

5. Jake still holds his breath when he changes the kids' diapers, but not so much when he takes out the trash.

Of Mice and Men

I was browsing the photos on my computer and came across some choice pics of my brother. I was also thinking about New Year's resolutions and thought about how a year ago, Maki was living with us here in Denver. I also remembered something that occurred to me shortly after Jake and I got married: Maki and Jake have a lot in common. (Just so you know, Maki is a 35-year-old man with Down Syndrome and Jake is my attorney-husband.)

Neither of them can ever find anything. If you send Maki into a room that only has one item, he will not be able to find that item. Jake is pretty much the same. When we were first married and living in different states, he would often call me asking where various items were, such as spaghetti sauce, chicken, and forks, to name a few. Mind you, it was a one-bedroom apartment that I only lived in every other weekend. I recall actually walking Jake through the apartment over the phone to find these items.

Here's another one. They both love music and they both love to sing. One of them is completely tone deaf and the other is only slightly better. I won't tell you which is which. Here's Jake rockin' out in Tokyo.
Here is Maki rockin' out on stage. He is also an incredible dancer. Backstreet Boys have nothing on my brother.

They both make me laugh. Good thing I have a sense of humor. Since my birthday last month, I keep thinking of a date Jake and I went on when we were in law school. Here's how the conversation went:

Jake: You're the oldest girl that I've ever gone out with.

Me: Uh....I'm younger than you are.

Jake: Yeah, but you're still kind of old for me.

After 4 1/2 years of marriage, the comedy has not died.

My brother is just as graceful. When I was in college and sporting half blonde-half brunette hair, he called me a skunk. When I was single, his favorite thing to do was ask about former boyfriends in front of my new boyfriend. Also, you should ask Jake about the first time he stayed at my parents' house before we were married. It involves a shower and an event that I will always deny happened.

I came across this picture and nearly fell over laughing. This is Maki with chocolate fondue all over his face and a Curious George bandaid on his hand. My sister had given me a fondue set for my birthday and we were trying it out. Maki got a little bit overzealous, and in his attempt to stab a strawberry onto the metal skewer, he stabbed right through the strawberry and skewered his palm. After we cleaned him up and bandaged his hand, this is what he had to say:

"I'm Jesus. See, my hand!"

Thanks, guys, for making me laugh!

On Partridges and Pear Trees

In a previous posting, I think I mentioned being a bit irked at the crazy commercial-ness of Christmas in Japan. I tend to make a point of having our Christmas cards say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays." (I've told Jake on occasion that P.C. is for...uh...wimps.) I suppose that my point is that I don't know about everyone else, but I'm celebrating Christmas, which is to say, I am celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ.

To really get to the point, I'm trying to say that since my last million blogs have been the 12 blogs of Christmas, at least one of them ought to be about Jesus Christ, right? Well, here goes:

A couple of years ago, my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The news was a major shock to the whole family because less than a year previous, we had been assured that her cancer was in remission and that all her surgeries and subsequent treatments had been successful. I prayed and pleaded with God to make her well, to give us a miracle, or let this news be a mistake. With each test and doctor visit, however, the news became more and more grim. The average survival for what my mom had was only six months. If she underwent more chemotherapy, she might survive from six months to maybe two years.

Eventually, my pleading for a miracle to make my mom well turned into requests for help in setting her affairs in order. We had to sell her house, finalize her divorce, and finally, find adequate health insurance to cover her treatment in Colorado. All three were daunting tasks, and none of them was smooth sailing. The house sale hit every snag imaginable, her divorce turned ugly, and it seemed that no matter where I turned, I couldn't find the information I needed for the health insurance. Sometime during this tumultuous period, Jake and I were asked to give talks in sacrament meeting. The topic: The Power of Patience. Oh, the irony. I don't know if Cliff Eley knew what was going on with us when he assigned the topic, but the timing couldn't have been better.

About seven months later, within about a week's time, the house sale closed, the judge signed the divorce decree, and my mom's new insurance card arrived in the mail. I took a breath of relief and immediately turned my thoughts toward figuring out funeral costs, cemetery plots, and hospice care. It was at that time that my sister came for a visit and I had her take our mom to her chemotherapy. I just needed a break. When they returned, my sister explained to me that the doctor had reviewed all of Mom's latest lab work, x-rays, and such and found that he could find no trace of her cancer. Mom was quickly planning how she was going to get off all of her medications and return to a normal life. I think that at the time, I congratulated her and didn't say or think much else.

As I was returning from dropping my sister off at the airport, it struck me that my mom had survived. It took another month or so to realize also that I had gotten everything for which I had asked. I had received the miracle for which I had pleaded several months before, not to mention all the help along the way to accomplish my list of 3.

Maybe this story doesn't convince you, the reader, of the existence of God or Jesus Christ, but for me, it was an affirmation that Heavenly Father not only exists, but listens and loves us. He sent his Son to ensure that we would have a way to return to Him. Jesus Christ came to Earth as an infant, grew up just like you and me, and then paved the way for us to return home someday. This is why I'm celebrating Christmas.

Merry Christmas!