Country Living

Travis and I took a road trip up north this past weekend.

[Please note Paul Simon playing via my playlist, as all good road trips must start, and end, with Paul Simon.]

Our destination. . . Cambria.

There is something so special about this little coastal town.  

Main Street

 Moonstone Beach

Linn's Gourmet Goods and. . .

 her phenomenal Olallieberry pie

 But what really made the trip worthwhile,

was our long drive inland along this meandering country road. 

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It made me wish for country living. 

  A simple life. 

Where you are one with the land,

and the animals on it.

Days are spent in the warm sun. 

Hands in the soil.  Hearts in the sky.    

 

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You feed the chickens and gather

 their eggs in faded-from-sun jeans. 

Late afternoons are spent in the shade,

drinking sun-brewed iced tea out of repurposed jam jars,

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while tall grass on the hillside wave with spring flowers, 

 and Guinness and Raja run in a vast field,

 the sound of wind ringing in my ears. 

Happy Earth Day!

My First Communion

My parents were so proud of me that day.  As any Catholic parent would be.  I was in second grade.  And this was a big deal.  I remember my ivory dress, knee length with scallops along the edges.  Puff sleeves.  True late 80s style.

Here’s my first communion picture. 

I like how I am looking up as though I have seen an Angel of God.

It's quite comical actually. With 4 kids running around, and I the youngest, my Mom didn’t end up getting my communion photos taken until I was in 4^th grade.  I wore the same dress. Tighter this time.  And me, a bit older looking. The flowers upon my head now dry and brittle.   My other sibling’s first communion pictures were framed and mounted on the wall in the living room.  Three in a row.  I think missing the fourth created guilt my mom could bear no longer. Even though it was two years later, she finally had them taken. I was framed and lined up with the others, and she could be at peace again.

But I digress. Back to the Sacrament at hand. 

Our whole class practiced the week before. Walking in single file to the altar where Father Filel (if you were lucky) presented you with the host, The Body of Christ.  Your duty was to stick your tongue out and say Amen. 

Not like this. 

Note: I was not this bad.

More like this. 

Note: I was not this good.

We practiced by eating an unblessed wafer.  It looked just liked the blessed one to me.  It tasted pretty bad.  But I grimaced and swallowed. . . the first time.  The second time, the blessed time, the time of importance, the REAL first time. . .  I had somewhat of a different experience.



Sacrament

I spit Christ out at the first taste of Him. 

He was bland and wadding to the roof of my mouth.

In my white dress and crown of flowers,

I dropped Him in my hand and stuck him under the pew,

Like a ball of gum that lost its flavor.

[Poem by: Aimee Mandala, © 2005]

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I guess both my first communion and my first communion picture were equally flawed.



Featured Poem of the Month

This is my friend Jessica. We've been friends for 24 years.


She has always been there for me.  For anything.  Always.  Even though she moved up to San Francisco over 10 years ago.  Our friendship has never skipped a beat.

This is Jessica with her husband, Ross. They got married last July.

With the wedding planning under way, Jessica asked me to do something that both excited and frightened me at the same time.  To write something to read at her wedding.  

I was honored.  

So I had to get over my fears and man-up, so to speak.  

I wanted to write something that was special and unique to their relationship.  The challenge was that I lived over 300 miles away, and had only met her fiance a handful of times. I didn't want it to be generic or cliche, the typical  "love is sweet, love is kind..."  kind of poem. 

I wanted it to hit straight to the heart. I wanted to make the bride and groom think,Yes, that's us.  That is our love, our life.  

Here is a little back story:  Ross is an avid cyclist and participates on a cycling team called Metromint.  Jessica is a devoted girlfriend, now wife, who would attend his races in the wee chilly hours of the weekend morning.  She is also a law librarian, and an ardent reader.  

The subject matter was to be a surprise for the groom.  

Surprise!! 

So with the help of numerous phone calls to Jessica for relationship research. . .

I found a truth that was worth sharing. 

[design by: Gaelyn Jenkins]

The reading started a little something like this: 

"Love and marriage is about commitment, not only to each other, but to each other's hobbies.  This is a poem I wrote for Jessica and Ross in honor of just that."  

At the Road Race

For Ross & Jessica 

(07.31.10)

Cold and patient.

She waits

for him

to line up

at the start.

She tells him to stretch

but he never does—

there is no stretch

like Hatebreed,

his favorite warm up band.

He steals a quick kiss,

clicks in

and glides away

into the peloton,

a kaleidoscope

of color—

spandex, rubber and metal.

Although the cyclists were many,

There was really only one.

Mile forty-five.

She waits

in the feed zone

water in one hand

and a good book

in the other—

she has ways to help

the time pass . . .

Waiting

for the moment

when he bends

around that corner

peeks above that hill,

burning at the crest,

his first wind waning.

He glazes over the

dirge of blank faces, an army

poised with hydrates,

goo and Gatorade. 

He searches for her,

both left and right

then finally,

relief —

his eyes

meeting her eyes.

Although the faces were many

there was really only one.

She reaches out

to him

and he to her

and in a split second

they connect—

it’s a relay of sorts,

bottle to hand,

hand to bottle.

He holds it close

at first

then draws it in,

sweat poised at his brow.

He glides away

and she cheers to him,

but he cannot hear her

the wind breaking

against his helmet—

he knows what she said.

Although the cheers were many,

there was really only one.

Newly recharged

both mind and body,

she of him

and he of her.

He picks up speed,

his rhythm in cadence

with the pulse

of her heart.

Next stop,

the finish line.

This time she’s

armed with a kiss,

waiting for when

he will stop—

click out

and hydrate

both water and love,

body and lips.

Although the emotions were many

there was really only one.

Poem By: Aimee Mandala, © 2010

July 31st, 2010

©2010 by Bryan Derballa

Fran McMahon's Irish Bread

 

If you know me, you know I am Irish.

 This is my Grandma. 

And this is her recipe.  Although I never had the opportunity to make it with her, or even watch her make it, it is something I hold quite sacred.  She lived in Connecticut, and I in California.  I didn't find this recipe until many years after her passing, while I was perusing our family website, http://mcauliffefamily.org/.

I printed it, bought the ingredients, and made a batch of my own. 

My father loves it.  It is a nice thing to be able to give him.  Something physical, that he can hold in his hands and put in his mouth, as a reminder of his mother.  And yet, it is coming from me, his daughter... my hands folding the cool dough, separating the raisins, and omitting the caraway seeds by my own accord. 

Fran McMahon’s Irish Soda Bread

3 cups of flour

1 tablespoon of baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

½ cup sugar

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 eggs

4 tablespoons melted butter/margarine

1 ^¼  cup buttermilk (fat free)

1 cup raisins

1 tablespoon caraway seeds

1.       Mix dry ingredients in a large bowl, making sure the raisins are not all stuck together.

2.       2 whip eggs in separate bowl.

3.       Add buttermilk, then butter.

4.       Make a well in the middle of the dry ingredients and pour the egg mixture into it.

5.       Mix together by hand until well blended.

6.       Spoon into greased loaf pan.

7.       Bake at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes

8.       Bainim!! (Enjoy!)



Selective Smelling

04.01.11

Travis cannot smell just anything.  In fact, most things he lacks the ability to smell.  Or distinguish.  I am the one who has to check if the milk is old.

Or the broccoli is bad.  Or If the dog peed on the dog bed, again. 

But when there is something in the oven. . .

a baked chicken,

some chocolate chip cookies,

a fresh loaf of Irish soda bread . . .

he knows when it is ready. 

His internal clock, or timer, if you will, tells him so. 

He just takes one sniff, his nose tilted up, and says “It’s ready.” 

More often than not, I walk over to the oven and sure enough, there is only 15 seconds left on the timer.  He was right. . . again.  He takes pride in such a gift. As he should. No burnt cookies around these parts.  Not with a nose like that! 

The trash, however. . . well a dead animal could be decaying in there and he wouldn’t know it. 

Note: This is not my trashcan. I recycle. And I'm not a pig.

Glad we have my sense of smell for that.

The Beginning

04.01.11

This is my first time. Blogging that is.  I decided I wanted to try it. What the heck.  Share some of my insides with you reading on the outside.  These are my treasures.  Moments in time.  Memories.  Things I like.  People I love.  Here is a place I can document it. Keep it filed. Somewhere neat and tidy. 

I live in Lakewood, California with my sweet, handsome husband, Travis.  He is my hero.  Smart and sweet and thinks of me as often as I think of him (all the time).  I know. I’ll stop now.  But he is really wonderful.  OK.  Stopping.  We’ve been together since our junior year in high school. 

This is before it all began. Before the first date. First kiss. But we were already smitten.

It’ll be 12 years this June.

Older. But still smitten.

 Married for almost 3. 

September 25, 2008

  

And living together in this house for 5.

Our humble abode after much hard work landscaping.

You can see a glimpse of Travis' '67 Ford Fairlane in the driveway.

We are proud parents of two sweet chocolate labs.

Guinness.

Guinness is a very happy puppy.

 And Raja.

She is a sweet girl. When she is not being bad.

They are brother and sister.  Something the books tell you to NEVER do.  Two puppies.  At the same time.  Of the same litter. But we didn’t listen.  I mean, look at them, they are so cute together.

Guinness and Raja at 23 months and roughly 75lbs.

Boy we were brave. 

I spend a lot of my time inspired by what’s around me.  Family.  Friends.  Pretty things. Food. Words.  Here is where I plan to share it.  One moment at a time.