Well folks, I again have big news.
After plenty of thought and deliberation, many a pros and cons list that weighed heavily on my mind and heart, a long talk with my mom, followed by a long talk with myself, I have made another important decision. One that has again changed the path I am following and the future I am pursuing. I am content and surprisingly relieved with this decision.
I am not moving to Portland or going to the Art Institute.
Now you can say, "I knew it!" or scream "Whyyyyyy?!?!?". To baffle you, confirm your suspicions, or answer your questions, there were two main factors that led me to this decision.
1. Money. There simply just isn't enough of it, is there? At least that's the general consensus of most people I know. And life as a fairly recent post-grad has surely made me value my money. And not just mine, but that of my generous and loving parents, who have already put me through a public, well-known four year university for five years, supported me for nearly my entire life, including those less than financially secure college and post-college years. And now that I have a full time job, with great benefits, a nice place to live, and am starting to build some financial stability, I can't bring myself to throw away such security and independence to go back to school, for a ridiculous amount of money, that I would need from my parents and undoubtedly in loans. And do I really want to be nearly 30, fresh out of college again, with loan payments and starting in the workforce all over again? No, no, and no.
Besides, I truly want my parents to use their hard-earned money for themselves. On vacations and on anything they went without in exchange for supporting their restless and reckless eldest child. Not that my brother was less money, he's just less complicated. I couldn't have been more blessed and I so appreciate all that they have done. But I realized that I didn't want to place this burden upon them or myself.
2. I began to lose heart for "Portland" and all that it meant to leave where I am now and start anew. When I made the initial decision I truly meant it and couldn't wait for the new journey to begin. But, as many of you are aware of, a new journey snuck in and started to lay before me, while I wasn't even paying attention. My heart, for many reasons, is still in the Palouse and I don't think I could leave without regrets. I do love fashion and I haven't given up on a future career in the industry, but I am perfectly content to go about it another way.
Yes, my Mountain Man was a great reason to stay. But when we began our relationship it was understood that I would be moving to Portland in March and we would make it work regardless. But I'll never forget the smile on his face and the way I felt when I told him I was staying.
With all that said, and to echo what I said earlier, I am so happy with my decision. It's interesting how life works. I have always loved Pullman and the Palouse area, so much so that I wanted to move back after I graduated from WSU and left. And even after I did, I wasn't always sure I was where I was supposed to be. Life works in strange ways. I feel as though I went on a journey, with every intention of leaving and having a completely different life, only to find myself doing the opposite. And in that journey I truly did find myself, right where I've always wanted to be.
Just my opinion...but I could never credit random coincidences but give glory to God for so intricately piecing together the puzzle pieces that I would have forever stared at in frustrated incomprehension. It is true, when you hand over control to Him you are inherently blessed with something better than you could ever come up with for yourself. Thank goodness.
The Palouse is a great place to call home. And Portland is a nice place to visit. Like I always say, everything happens for a reason. I could analyze every event, thought, or word in detail to find just how I came to be where I am now. But none of that is necessary. I don't care how it happened, or where I thought I was going. I'm just happy to be where I am now.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
Antlers, Cast Iron, and Eggs. Oh My!
The Mountain Man and I had been dating a mere two weeks when Christmas rolled around. To gift or not to gift was something we had not discussed. Which was why I was quite surprised one evening when, after loading up our plates with a tasty home-cooked meal and sitting down to eat, I noticed a brown paper bag sitting under my Christmas tree.
Mid chew, with a mouth full of pasta, I looked at him and asked, "Wha's tha?" He smiled that perfect crooked smile I love. "You'll just have to go down there and find out."
He had given me my first Christmas gift from him. All wrapped up in a brown grocery bag was cast iron cookware.
Did I forget to mention that cooking is not my strong point and I don't spend much time in the kitchen unless I'm pouring myself a glass of wine or looking for something edible on the nearly bare shelves of my lonely refrigerator? Was this a hint? I eyed him suspiciously. He had an expectant smile on his face. And then I remembered. He swears by cast iron cookware. And that might be an understatement. The first time he cooked for me in my kitchen and pulled a Teflon pan out of the cabinet I thought I was going to have to pick his jaw up off the floor for him. Apparently Teflon is bad for you and can cause cancer. Cast iron cookware now rules in our kitchen, the Teflon pots and pans gather dust on the bottom shelves. Which is what most of my kitchen utensils were doing until my cooking, baking, and frying machine of a Mountain Man showed up.
I wasn't displeased with my gift by any means. I was happy that he was thoughtful enough to get me a gift at all and that he had gotten me something that he knew would be good for me and we would use together. In fact, we do so much cooking together that these new cast iron essentials have become a mainstay on my stove. Cast iron does take some maintenance. To keep them doin' their thing and doin' it well, you need to oil them after they are cleaned. Just pour some oil on the clean and dry pan or pot, let it burn off and then wipe dry. Then put them away. Those first few steps don't always get done, so this happens:
Please excuse the messy stove top. This was taken after quite the messy fried-chicken and apple pie making sesh. Which was done by yours truly. As an early Valentine's Day surprise (and not to conflict with what I already know are his V-day plans for us - he's making me my favorite meal) I made him dinner.
Yes, folks, I cooked. And baked. Check for flying pigs next time you step outside.
My man loves to eat. Which explains all the cooking. A man with as big of a hunger as he has, complete with a very strict sense of frugality, he cooks at home a lot to save money and stay full, which is easier said that done. I meant the part about him staying full. We've had his favorite meal a few times now. It's an easy one. Fried chicken with homemade honey-mustard dipping sauce, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. What a good American. Not to mention he won't even buy hardware tools if they aren't made in America.
I've been playing around in the kitchen a bit lately, mostly when he is there to help me with the ingredients, or rather when I offer to help what he's already started. Nevertheless I knew what I wanted to do. Blow him away by surprising him with dinner. His favorite dinner.
Long story short, and what could quite possibly be a whole other blog post, the cooking and baking went very well. Even with a late start and a short freak-out session. I didn't get pictures, but I did snap one of the half-eaten pie before it's gone.
And every time I open my drawer to reach for a spoon for my Greek non-fat yogurt, that thankfully doesn't get touched by him, I see these...
A hunting knife, which is apparently better than my dull kitchen knives. I've already lost the battle on this one. I may have a future of hunting-like knives in my kitchen, but there are other battles to worry about winning.
Oh, and yes I do have silverware, just not any clean ones at the moment.
Besides the kitchen getting a Mountain Man makeover, the rest of my apartment has some new items.
A nice collection of deer and elk antlers have found their way into my home. Right now that is exactly where they sit. Looking like some kind of trap to caution against anyone that might try and steal my tiny little flat screen TV that fits just right in my tiny little entertainment center. But I've welcomed them, the antlers. I see them as decorations. I'm sure he's thrilled to have his precious "sheds" sitting next to my candles and books and picture frames. In all honestly, I really think he loves it.
Excuse the dust...apparently it shows up more with the flash of a camera. And apparently I need to do some dusting.
But my favorite use by far for the antlers is when they are used as a toy by my grown man of a boyfriend. With an antler nestled into his shoulder, I've walked into the room to see him pointing it at the TV, pretending it's a gun, complete with sound effects and arm movements. It's a priceless picture. I can see him, five years old and doing the same thing. And I can also see him, years from now and doing the same thing with his young son. Isn't that what we love about our men, ladies? That they never truly grow up.
But they are grown up and when they love you it shows. Which is why my Mountain Man took the time to mount my deer antlers onto a plaque. The antlers from my first deer, that I shot at home in Bickleton in the fall of 2010.
We haven't got it up on the wall yet but I'm so appreciative of his hard work and thoughtfulness. He even burned this into the wood:
What a sweetheart. Did I mention I don't mind all the things he's brought into my home since we started dating? I don't at all.
Sidenote: The Mountain Man and I do not live together, but we do spend a lot of time at my place, including all the cooking and baking that we love to do together. And the antlers have found their home with me for storage reasons. When the day comes that we do live together there will be plenty more "whaaaat am I gonna do with that thing???" moments. So far it's just food, heavy cookware, and antlers. I'm such a lucky girl.
Mid chew, with a mouth full of pasta, I looked at him and asked, "Wha's tha?" He smiled that perfect crooked smile I love. "You'll just have to go down there and find out."
He had given me my first Christmas gift from him. All wrapped up in a brown grocery bag was cast iron cookware.
Did I forget to mention that cooking is not my strong point and I don't spend much time in the kitchen unless I'm pouring myself a glass of wine or looking for something edible on the nearly bare shelves of my lonely refrigerator? Was this a hint? I eyed him suspiciously. He had an expectant smile on his face. And then I remembered. He swears by cast iron cookware. And that might be an understatement. The first time he cooked for me in my kitchen and pulled a Teflon pan out of the cabinet I thought I was going to have to pick his jaw up off the floor for him. Apparently Teflon is bad for you and can cause cancer. Cast iron cookware now rules in our kitchen, the Teflon pots and pans gather dust on the bottom shelves. Which is what most of my kitchen utensils were doing until my cooking, baking, and frying machine of a Mountain Man showed up.
I wasn't displeased with my gift by any means. I was happy that he was thoughtful enough to get me a gift at all and that he had gotten me something that he knew would be good for me and we would use together. In fact, we do so much cooking together that these new cast iron essentials have become a mainstay on my stove. Cast iron does take some maintenance. To keep them doin' their thing and doin' it well, you need to oil them after they are cleaned. Just pour some oil on the clean and dry pan or pot, let it burn off and then wipe dry. Then put them away. Those first few steps don't always get done, so this happens:
Please excuse the messy stove top. This was taken after quite the messy fried-chicken and apple pie making sesh. Which was done by yours truly. As an early Valentine's Day surprise (and not to conflict with what I already know are his V-day plans for us - he's making me my favorite meal) I made him dinner.
Yes, folks, I cooked. And baked. Check for flying pigs next time you step outside.
My man loves to eat. Which explains all the cooking. A man with as big of a hunger as he has, complete with a very strict sense of frugality, he cooks at home a lot to save money and stay full, which is easier said that done. I meant the part about him staying full. We've had his favorite meal a few times now. It's an easy one. Fried chicken with homemade honey-mustard dipping sauce, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. What a good American. Not to mention he won't even buy hardware tools if they aren't made in America.
I've been playing around in the kitchen a bit lately, mostly when he is there to help me with the ingredients, or rather when I offer to help what he's already started. Nevertheless I knew what I wanted to do. Blow him away by surprising him with dinner. His favorite dinner.
Long story short, and what could quite possibly be a whole other blog post, the cooking and baking went very well. Even with a late start and a short freak-out session. I didn't get pictures, but I did snap one of the half-eaten pie before it's gone.
The picture doesn't do it justice. But that super flaky crust you see is delicious. And those red spots are raisins. Who knew raisins were so good in pie?! Well, I didn't.
Speaking of cooking and baking and all that jazz. You should see my fridge. If only I had a before picture to really get you to grasp the meaning of the after picture...
This is the fullest my fridge has ever been. There are leftovers, milk that hasn't gone bad, fresh fruit and veggies, and ingredients that I have learned work together to make actual meals.
And I'm sure most of you thought it was the woman's job to introduce domestic skills such as cooking and baking to the man. Well, my friends, I have proven this to not always be the case. And don't be fooled, there are definitely signs of a true man partially dwelling in my home....
Hot sauce is the condiment of choice for men. I've never seen someone get so excited in a grocery store when we found this extra large bottle of Frank's RedHot sauce.
And you must have plenty of eggs to feed a hungry Mountain Man...
And every time I open my drawer to reach for a spoon for my Greek non-fat yogurt, that thankfully doesn't get touched by him, I see these...
A hunting knife, which is apparently better than my dull kitchen knives. I've already lost the battle on this one. I may have a future of hunting-like knives in my kitchen, but there are other battles to worry about winning.
Oh, and yes I do have silverware, just not any clean ones at the moment.
Besides the kitchen getting a Mountain Man makeover, the rest of my apartment has some new items.
A nice collection of deer and elk antlers have found their way into my home. Right now that is exactly where they sit. Looking like some kind of trap to caution against anyone that might try and steal my tiny little flat screen TV that fits just right in my tiny little entertainment center. But I've welcomed them, the antlers. I see them as decorations. I'm sure he's thrilled to have his precious "sheds" sitting next to my candles and books and picture frames. In all honestly, I really think he loves it.
Excuse the dust...apparently it shows up more with the flash of a camera. And apparently I need to do some dusting.
But my favorite use by far for the antlers is when they are used as a toy by my grown man of a boyfriend. With an antler nestled into his shoulder, I've walked into the room to see him pointing it at the TV, pretending it's a gun, complete with sound effects and arm movements. It's a priceless picture. I can see him, five years old and doing the same thing. And I can also see him, years from now and doing the same thing with his young son. Isn't that what we love about our men, ladies? That they never truly grow up.
But they are grown up and when they love you it shows. Which is why my Mountain Man took the time to mount my deer antlers onto a plaque. The antlers from my first deer, that I shot at home in Bickleton in the fall of 2010.
We haven't got it up on the wall yet but I'm so appreciative of his hard work and thoughtfulness. He even burned this into the wood:
What a sweetheart. Did I mention I don't mind all the things he's brought into my home since we started dating? I don't at all.
Sidenote: The Mountain Man and I do not live together, but we do spend a lot of time at my place, including all the cooking and baking that we love to do together. And the antlers have found their home with me for storage reasons. When the day comes that we do live together there will be plenty more "whaaaat am I gonna do with that thing???" moments. So far it's just food, heavy cookware, and antlers. I'm such a lucky girl.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Home Sweet Home
There's nothing like a trek to the mother land to secure your sense of self and renew your spirits. At least that's how I feel every time I return to my hometown. It's not quite a mother land like if I was returning to another country after years of being away, but sometimes such strong feelings for a place, like home, require a dramatic description.
Bickleton, my small and isolated hometown, is full of many things dear to my heart. People, certain places like Pine Creek, the grove of trees below our house where I used to play, and the timber where my dad logged for so many years, my dogs, and a thousand memories of a childhood filled with endless hours spent playing and exploring the expanse of land and trees and creeks that is only offered to us lucky rural dwellers. There is freedom in those open fields and skies, canyons, timber, and waters. Freedom that encourages creativity, strength, and knowledge in a young persons mind.
I get a little nostalgic when I think about my hometown, obviously. I get a little defensive whenever I hear someone put down a small town, speak ignorantly about the people from a small town, or in some other way make assumptions and false statements about anything having to do with rural America. One look at me and you may not think I am from a small town. You may never guess that I graduated in a class of only nine students, or that I come from two prominent families that farmed and ranched in the north eastern area of Klickitat county. You may never know, unless you asked, that I showed steers for nine years as a 4-H member. Or that I played on the varsity volleyball and basketball teams as a seventh grader because the high school numbers were down that year.
Do I look "small town"? From the surprised looks I get when I tell people where I am from, I would guess not. But did I learn significant values such as hard work, respect, humility, and honesty, to name a few, from growing up in a small town? Absolutely. Not that you can't learn these values elsewhere or from a different form of being raised, but I do thank God for the blessing of growing up in a small town.
All of that being said, I recently went home for a weekend and loved it. It probably had a lot to do with me taking a certain special someone home with me for the first time. That special someone also met my parents for the first time. Yes, it was the man.
They loved him. He loved them. He loves Bickleton.
HALLELUJAH!!!!
Excuse me while I breathe a big sigh of relief. Not that I was worried. I really wasn't at all. But there is something very special about the relationship between the person I want to be with and my family. There is a huge part of my heart reserved for my family and I want the love of my life to have a place in his heart for them too. And also...for my dogs and my hometown and my extended family. Of course.
And I truly do believe he is the man that is capable and willing to love every bit of my life as I do. And yes, people, that deserves a big sigh of relief and a big smile for finally finding someone to share all of that with.
I've never felt more at home in my hometown, surrounded by my family and loved ones, with the man that holds my heart. It was a great weekend indeed.
And now that I've exceeded the mushy-gushyness level allowed per blog post as previously set by my single self, I will end with this thought:
If home is where your heart is, my home dwells in a number of people and places. Bickleton, my true hometown. My crazy, silly, loving family. My truest and best friends. My dog, Sadie, and all family dogs, past and present. My grandparents house and the trees and barns that I spent a childhood playing in. My second hometown, Pullman. And most recently, my Mountain Man.
Home is most definitely a sweet place to be.
Bickleton, my small and isolated hometown, is full of many things dear to my heart. People, certain places like Pine Creek, the grove of trees below our house where I used to play, and the timber where my dad logged for so many years, my dogs, and a thousand memories of a childhood filled with endless hours spent playing and exploring the expanse of land and trees and creeks that is only offered to us lucky rural dwellers. There is freedom in those open fields and skies, canyons, timber, and waters. Freedom that encourages creativity, strength, and knowledge in a young persons mind.
I get a little nostalgic when I think about my hometown, obviously. I get a little defensive whenever I hear someone put down a small town, speak ignorantly about the people from a small town, or in some other way make assumptions and false statements about anything having to do with rural America. One look at me and you may not think I am from a small town. You may never guess that I graduated in a class of only nine students, or that I come from two prominent families that farmed and ranched in the north eastern area of Klickitat county. You may never know, unless you asked, that I showed steers for nine years as a 4-H member. Or that I played on the varsity volleyball and basketball teams as a seventh grader because the high school numbers were down that year.
Do I look "small town"? From the surprised looks I get when I tell people where I am from, I would guess not. But did I learn significant values such as hard work, respect, humility, and honesty, to name a few, from growing up in a small town? Absolutely. Not that you can't learn these values elsewhere or from a different form of being raised, but I do thank God for the blessing of growing up in a small town.
All of that being said, I recently went home for a weekend and loved it. It probably had a lot to do with me taking a certain special someone home with me for the first time. That special someone also met my parents for the first time. Yes, it was the man.
They loved him. He loved them. He loves Bickleton.
HALLELUJAH!!!!
Excuse me while I breathe a big sigh of relief. Not that I was worried. I really wasn't at all. But there is something very special about the relationship between the person I want to be with and my family. There is a huge part of my heart reserved for my family and I want the love of my life to have a place in his heart for them too. And also...for my dogs and my hometown and my extended family. Of course.
And I truly do believe he is the man that is capable and willing to love every bit of my life as I do. And yes, people, that deserves a big sigh of relief and a big smile for finally finding someone to share all of that with.
I've never felt more at home in my hometown, surrounded by my family and loved ones, with the man that holds my heart. It was a great weekend indeed.
And now that I've exceeded the mushy-gushyness level allowed per blog post as previously set by my single self, I will end with this thought:
If home is where your heart is, my home dwells in a number of people and places. Bickleton, my true hometown. My crazy, silly, loving family. My truest and best friends. My dog, Sadie, and all family dogs, past and present. My grandparents house and the trees and barns that I spent a childhood playing in. My second hometown, Pullman. And most recently, my Mountain Man.
Home is most definitely a sweet place to be.
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