I Didn't Write for Two Weeks. Here's Why.

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Do you ever struggle to do the thing you love? Even though you love it?

Me too. I love to write. But sometimes, I just can’t. Even though I love it. This time, I shrugged my shoulders and gave up for awhile.

Besides, the days are long and other enchantments were calling…

Tall gladiolas in the garden beckoning me to marvel at them.

Friends suggesting lunch.

A book’s next chapter wanting to be read in the sun.

Family arriving from far away.

Raspberries still on the cane, asking to be eaten for breakfast.

Granddaughter inviting a snuggle.

For the last two weeks, I found space apart from the thing I love to do, for my soul to breathe, to be with some of the people I love. 

In doing this, I had room to savor, revel, and relish! 

I savored my birthday weekend, with a dinner party prepared by my James Beard-trained sister-in-law, Lauren. Her love language is cooking perfect vegetables, salmon, lamb this time on the Azerbaijani saj, a giant convex metal griddle she hauled 226 miles from Eugene, Oregon, to perform culinary magic on my patio.

I reveled in the simple pleasure of arranging Farmer’s market flowers into six glorious “okays” as five-year-old Capri calls them. Their vibrant colors declared to arriving guests, “It's a party!”

I basked in unhurried conversations with and between my loved ones – elder parents, aunt, son, daughter, daughters-in-law, grandkids, and friends. Stories, announcements, toasts, gifts, laughter, hugs, hands-held, happy tears.

My kind husband, jovial, welcoming, partner-in-memory-making, ever committed to being of service, holding space to ensure every minute was sweet.

I relished my friend Colleen generously sharing a precious bottle of bubbly she made with friends. She explained the happy accident of them choosing the wrong-sized bidule, a plug used when bottling during second fermentation, which now necessitates that she open every bottle with a saber, a Napoleonic-era ritual to release the celebration into our flutes. 

The remaining hint of yeast is fresh and bright. Luxury enjoyed not at a vintner’s French Domaine but in our backyard in Tacoma. Cheers! To Life! Slainte!

A few days later, it’s time for Grandma Camp.

I delighted in hosting this event with Jim for four of our grandkids who could be here, ages 2, 5, 6 and 11.

The day started rough with an angsty teenage kerfuffle with our resident 16-year-old. It happens! The gloom after this was heavier than the cloudy marine layer outside. But eventually, spirits recovered, and clouds blew away, revealing golden sunlight in robin’s egg blue skies.  

Campers arrived, and this year, parents hung out too, rotating to help their nieces and nephews, and, I think, secretly wanting to be campers! Who wouldn’t want camp t-shirts, yard games, and swimming at the local wave pool?

Grandpa showed Roman how to bowl on the walkway. Girls snuggled for a few minutes with Aunty Faith, who lay on Grandma’s bed resting; Skylar and Capri gingerly felt the bulge of her tummy where their next cousin and future camper is growing!

Later, we gathered around the counter to make personal pizzas. Roasted marshmallows on the bar-b-q for s'mores. Sang camp songs and applauded as children performed comedy routines and song-and-dance on the back steps. 

They scattered to play before being herded into their sleeping bags, while adults sipped limoncello in the twilight, reminiscing and sharing stories of their far-flung lives.

We brought all this energy to the beach the next day for the Fourth of July celebration, hosted one last time by my parents.

I watched my grown children and grandchildren discovering crabs in tidepools, floating on the paddleboard, collecting shells, eating hot dogs and burgers.

Wandered with my sister, drinks in hand, out to the water’s edge at low tide, where Minerva happily splashed.

I remember a lifetime of PNW beach holidays…

Toddling in the Puget Sound in a big orange life jacket. Blink.

Waking up in the cabin on Camano Island. Blink.

Digging clams on Hood Canal. Blink.

Celebrating America’s 200th birthday with a 2-day party on Lake Tapps. Blink.

Watching fireworks burst into the sky over Surprise Lake. Blink.

Sailing in the San Juan Islands. Blink.

Jetskiing and playing at the beach on Fox Island. Blink.

This year, my parents, now great-grandparents, are passing the celebratory torch on to the next generation.

I don’t want to think about the next blinks.

So instead, I focus on embracing their happy example, offering tangible love to family and friends, love of people, of place, of celebration, of good food, and of laughter. Identity and belonging. Uplift and connection. Love.

I put on an apron and record the recipe for this Love placing it in my copper recipe box. It sits alongside recipes for Grandma Debi’s Banana Bread, Great Grandma Landstrom’s Swedish Pancakes, and Grandma Gerry’s Apple Pie.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for this delicious recipe for Making Memories for Loved Ones. I’ll keep cookin’ this recipe as long as I can, and pass it along to the next generation, too.