Wanderings in DC

Today is a Cloud Niner.  School is done (for the time being), house is done (except for "finishing touches", which will never be done), and, for the first time in way too long, I am out on my own, exploring the nation's capital, just for fun.  I literally feel like a kid in a candy store (except for the really sore feet part).

I rented a condo through Airbnb, and what a win, even though it is in a...shall we say...gentrifying neighborhood (which probably explains the rip-roaring motorcycle parade that goes swashbuckling past my seventh-floor window every few minutes tonight).  My hostess is amazing - she actually drove out and picked me up from the Dulles airport at midnight last night, and hand-delivered me right to my front door.  On top of that, I am a five-minute walk from Union Market, which is where I ate breakfast this morning.

Union Market is a classic urban revitalization project - an old warehouse in a still gritty neighborhood filled with lots of small, local purveyors selling espresso, dosas, raw juices, charcuterie, hearth breads, soup, pastries and the like to young hipster families, single professionals, and a smattering of tourists.  Most everybody is skinny and fashionable, and the cappuccino comes in a real mug, meant to be taken out to one of the rainbow-hued picnic tables and enjoyed with a croissant and a newspaper while the babies run around and chase the pigeons.

 

It's terribly cliched; I feel like I've been to at least one of these spots in every city of respectable size I've visited, but I won't lie.  I absolutely love them, and every time I go, I wish my neighborhood had one.

So, fueled with a slice of quiche lorraine, a kouign amann, (oh my gosh, if you ever see this on the menu-board of an even halfway respectable French bakery, ORDER IT.  You'll thank me.) and a good cup of coffee, I took the Metro down to Arlington National Cemetery.

Sobering, isn't it?  Every one of those white stones (and I didn't photograph but a small fraction of them) represents someone's life.  As I walked the paths between row after row after row, as far as the eye could see, I thought over and over again about all of the human stories that lie buried there.  Were they happy?  Successful in business?  Were they kind and gentle, or were they harsh and angry?  Did they like to fix things?  Make music?  Were their wives and children as beloved as those tombstones would lead one to believe?  Did those wives and children feel beloved while they were still alive, or was a flowery tombstone the first anybody knew about it?

One thing is certain; for every white stone in that ground, somebody ran out of chances.  No matter where they came from, what they did, or what their intentions were, at some moment, their clock stopped, their story came to a close, and they stood in that one place that every man, woman and child who draws breath will stand - before the Great Creator who gave them life in the first place, and who demanded an accounting of every word and every choice that they made.  All one can hope, looking at all of those stones, is that, please, some of those stories included meeting and loving that Creator while there was still yet time, so that the final reunion was a glorious one instead of one filled with terror and eternal judgment.

One other thing is certain - I, as I write this, and you, as you read this, our story hasn't ended yet.  We still have time to get it right - to make absolutely sure that we say what we need to say and do what we need to do, and, most importantly of all... sitting here tonight, with the memory of all of those stones fresh on my mind, I can't stress it enough, most importantly of all, we still have time to look our Heavenly Father in the face, to grab ahold of His mighty hand and never let go, so that when it comes time for our own clocks to stop, we'll be ready to step into eternity and meet Him as a friend.

Anyway, as you can see, the experience definitely got me thinking.  Of course, along with that, it was an absolutely beautiful day and I got to see all sorts of cool stuff from the history books - JFK's grave with the little flame burning, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, complete with its Honor Guard, and the famous statue of the flag-raising at Iwo Jima.

The changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier 

This is officially the first time I have ever seen a crowd of noisy American tourists fall silent.  It was kind of awe-inspiring, to be honest.

I rode over to the Pentagon for the heck of it, while I was on that side of town.  The place is humongous, and very forbidding - there are police officers and warning signs all over the place; I worried that if I snapped any photos, I'd be shot by a sniper hidden somewhere.  The 9-11 Memorial they have set up there is touching, though, and a little sad - some of the little reflecting pools still had flowers in them from the memorial ceremony a few days ago.

At this point, my feet hurt and I was dehydrated, so I decided to poke around in Georgetown and see if I could find some sustenance while I was at it.

If I could bottle the essence of this little neighborhood and bring it home with me...

 

Georgetown reminded me a lot of SoHo (and made me miss my little sister).  Historic neighborhood, retrofitted to host every retailer who is anybody at all (recognize any of these guys?).  My developer alter-ego can only salivate at the rents these guys are probably paying. 

 

So I found some sustenance.  Although, in my defense, I bought my slice of jumbleberry pie for tomorrow's breakfast.  And I only bought two macarons.  And I walked a lot today. 

Peanut butter burger and S'Mores milkshake from a place called Ted's Bulletin - what an absolute blast of a place.  I drew the line at the homemade Pop Tarts, although I wanted one really bad...

I also had a chance to wander some fantastic neighborhoods in the DuPont Circle area that served as a reminder that DC does have a few little claims to fame...  It's not everywhere you walk past old brownstones, full of character with charming front stoops and fenced yards, and then you notice a flag out front and a little sign affixed to the side, and it would say something like "Nicaraguan Consulate" or "Embassy of Granada".

Apparently this ambassador doesn't pick up his newspapers very often...

And now I'm resting my tired feet and watching the motorcycles roar by, and tomorrow morning I have an early date with the Capitol (after I eat my jumbleberry pie, of course).  Let the good times roll!

A Dash of the Exotic

I have to be honest, the fourth of July is my least favorite holiday of the year, bar none.  It's so stinking hot that a person seriously has three options when it comes to disposing of the day off:

1) Spend the day somewhere where there is water (i.e. beach, springs, pool).  

Issue: every other human being for miles around had the exact same idea, so think swarms of humanity, hot, sweaty, irritable and barely-clothed, in a tightly confined space.  Ew.

2) Go to a museum. 

Issue:  It's JULY.  Not museum season.  Next.

3)  Travel somewhere north, faaaarrrr north of the Mason-Dixon line, where maybe, just maybe, temperatures hover somewhere below the boiling point.  

Issue: monetary outlays tend to follow the northerly trajectory of the traveler.  Which may or may not be a priority, just saying.

Normally, this most awkward of holidays is made bearable by what has become a bit of a tradition: a gang of best pals, a pool-equipped backyard, mountains of good food (with some best pal's husband-grilled poultry and homemade ice cream, ideally), and dessert and fireworks on blankets in friends' parents' midtown parking lot to wrap up the day.  It's downright not bad, actually, when you think about it.

This year ended up being a tad different, though.  I just could. not. bear. the thought of staying put; I had to get out of Dodge or risk blowing a fuse (well, melting, might be a more appropriate verb).  Atlanta beckoned - while not really far north enough to be ideal, it did offer a few consolations - time with my sister and some dear friends, which is always, always a welcome diversion, slightly lower temperatures, the ever-present opportunity to eat and spend too much, and very necessary, a zip code different from the one I am normally found in.

  

Shopping and exploring-wise, the trip was a bit of a bust (though my wallet disagrees).  Kate and I found a ton of cool places, poking around Midtown, Intown, Inman Park, Five Points and the like, but we had to press our noses longingly against the glass in too many instances - so many shops were closed.  (I complain, but I understand - who wants to work on a holiday? Well, I do, in this case... But I digress.)  It ended up being ok, though - Paris on Ponce was open, and what a fabulous find that was...  We did get some really nice,cool temperatures, and the brother/sister/friend time was pretty wonderful and recharging... And, of course, the eating was terrific and nonstop, starting with a pimiento cheeseburger and Derby pie at the Rookery in Macon, moving to cheddar waffles and homemade donuts at Bantam and Biddy, to (mediocre) pizza and interesting methods of showing affection at Fellini's, to very good Italian (including the best pasta carbonara I've had) at Colletta, to a mouthwateringly delicious shawarma pita at Yalla! in the Krog Street Market, to the Grand Slam juice flight at Arden's Garden, to fresh, homemade cinnamon-swirl brioche (did I mention that my brother in law is an incredible baker?) to....

Well, what brings me to the point of this post.  What turned out to be an extremely pleasant and restful weekend was capped off most appropriately by a dinner experience that was, in a word, PURE AWESOME.  Kate and I were out shopping Sunday when Andrew texted to say he'd found a spot that had found its way onto Craziest Restaurants in America...  Needless to say, the answer was yes.  So we pull up to this little nondescript place on Peachtree Road.  We walk through the door, out of the heat and sun and traffic noise of Buckhead and into, literally, another world.  The place is dark, thanks to the fact that literally every surface, windows included, is covered with yard upon yard upon mile of fabric - riotously colored and luxuriantly textured fabric.  It's quiet, except for the exotic music playing over the sound system, music that brings camelherders silhouetted against the sunset to mind...  It smells amazing, because, duh, this is a Moroccan restaurant and have you ever eaten Moroccan food?  The place was just opening for the night and the chef/owner was in the vestibule hanging with the front of house staff.  We got to chatting; he ended up showing me his wall of fame, resplendent with photos of him with everybody from Jimmy Carter to Arnold Schwarzenegger, and sharing his philosophies on food and travel - how they realign the soul and open the cells in the body to new and wonderful growth (ideas that I share in a slightly less...spiritual sense).  But then, he was off to man his station in the kitchen, and we were whisked to a plush sofa and armchairs surrounding a round, low table.  We were given menus and advised to choose the full, five-course "experience", which we of course did...  This began with our waiter bringing a stack of towels and a silver basin and teapot.  We were instructed to place our towels over our left shoulder and our hands over the basin.  Our waiter then proceeded to pour warm water from the teapot over our hands, in a sort of group hand-washing.  (I won't lie, this was so cool.  It felt really cultural to this wannabe world-traveler who hasn't gotten near as far in her world-traveling as she would like.)  

We started with harrira, a Moroccan lentil soup, accompanied by harissa (a spicy pepper paste), whole wheat bread and fekkas, or Moroccan crackers.  A flight of about five different salads followed in short order; they were described so quickly I couldn't catch what they all were (and it was too dark to see them clearly), but the tastebuds investigated and approved.  Fava bean hummus and pickled vegetables in particular were standout.  Next on the agenda was b'stella, a signature dish consisting of phyllo pastry stuffed with ground Cornish hen, almonds and egg, redolent of cinnamon.  We chased this with a shredded carrot palate cleanser - I couldn't place the flavor profile, but it was intense and exotic and made me think of roses.

All of this led to the main course - Chicken Paprika, Roasted Lamb Shank, and Lamb with Sweet and Spicy Plums (the 42 spices in the description sold me), accompanied by a platter of some of the most delicious rice I've ever eaten.  The flavors were signature Middle-Eastern...explosively savory and liberally spiced.  Intense and complex, this is food that grips you by the throat and insists that you sit up and pay attention.  One can't help but admire the sheer skill required to coax that cacophony of flavors into a beautiful tapestry of taste.

This grand symphony was followed by another handwashing, and then our waiter brought us sweet, hot mint tea and a platter of fresh fruit and rosewater-scented pastries, all of which we enjoyed to the accompaniment of swirling colored lights, exotic music and a belly dancer.  (I type that with a straight face. But, seriously, imagine.  That was a lot of culture for three relatively straight-laced Midwesterners.  The reality is we kind of cracked up.)

All tongue-in-cheek aside, though, I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  The staff was so warm and welcoming, the food was delicious, and the surroundings were beautifully out of the ordinary - I would gladly go back, and I would recommend the place without hesitation, at least to the more adventurous and open-minded of my acquaintance.

So, acquaintances, if you count yourselves among the adventurous and open-minded, run, don't walk, to Imperial Fez.  Feel free to bring me your leftovers.

Summer Evening Jam Session

When I got home tonight, I pretty much just wanted to go to bed.  Instead, my sister and I drove over to Rooney's Front Porch Farm, a local U-Pick berry farm about 30 minutes or so from home, and spent about an hour picking blueberries.  It was one of those summer nights that remind me that maybe summer isn't so bad after all... It rained this afternoon, so the air was fresh and (almost) cool, the sun was low, the berries were abundant, and as we picked and chatted, the singularly satisfying rumble of the farmer's John Deere in the distance blended with the herd of sheep in the field next door.  It was, just, really, really nice.

(I forgot to take pics while I was out there, so hopefully the owners don't mind if I "borrow" these... Frankly, it's even prettier than it looks.)

By the time I got home with my just-picked, sun-warmed blueberries, peace and contentment had made tremendous progress edging out exhausted frustration.  I felt the long-dormant stirrings of culinary inspiration, so I headed out to Publix for some sugar and pectin.  Lo and behold, I had the tremendous good fortune to run into a dear friend, one who happens to grow the best tomatoes pretty much ever, and who happened to have some in his car.  Joe, you retain your title as king of the tomato-growers; sprinkled with a little Maldon sea salt and freshly ground pepper, they formed a dinner fit for royalty.  

Thus fortified, I got to work.  When it comes to strawberries, I'm a big fan of the fresh quality of freezer jam, but for some reason, I don't feel like it works quite the same for blueberries.  When I do blueberry jam, I tend to like the more traditional, cooked variety.  I'm also not normally a fan of quirky flavor additions. (When you fly solo, it can take awhile to work your way through a batch of jam, and what starts out as a fun novelty can start to get old.)  Tonight, though, I had the itch to do something a little different.  I kept coming back to lavender; I love the stuff anyway, and somehow, it felt like blueberries and lavender might be a good fit.  I found a recipe at seriouseats.com, and spent some time comparing ratios and measurements like a good nerd, just to be sure it was legit. (To be honest, I rarely go online for recipes, and when I do, it's to a very small handful of sites that I trust, Allrecipes.com not included.)

This recipe called for steeping lavender buds in boiling water to create a sort of "tea", and then combining that with crushed blueberries and the peel and juice of a lemon.  Then you boil that with some pectin, a little butter and a shocking amount of sugar, and ladle the bubbling mass of deep purple goodness into hot jars.  A few minutes in a hot-water bath and now I have six jewel-like jars lined up on my kitchen counter, and as I write, every so often, I hear a loud "POP", telling me that another jar lid has bonded with its mate.  

The flavor?  Incredible.  The lavender and lemon lend a surprising lightness and delicateness that would make this jam right at home at a proper English tea.

Meanwhile, I'm imagining whipping up a simple polenta olive oil cake, splitting it down the middle and slathering it with this jam, and then topping it with a dollop of soft, freshly-whipped cream and a smattering of fresh tarragon.  Or maybe it'll accompany shortbread, hot from the oven.  It will definitely be a part of my new favorite breakfast - warm rice pudding or porridge topped with a spoonful of homemade jam and a sprinkling of toasted nuts.

Better yet, all of the above.

Turned out to be a nice night!

Do Your Bit

I have something I'd like to get off of my chest.

The other day, a friend of mine said something that really stuck with me.  We were chatting about work, and, in the course of conversation, she made a comment comparing my drive and determination with her own.  In so many words, what I heard her say was, "I could never measure up to what you do; therefore I am inferior to you".  I will speak honestly, this exchange deeply grieved me.

Please don't get me wrong; I am very grateful for the blessing of a wonderful career.  The work I do is incredibly rewarding, full of opportunities and challenges and the benefits that come along with them.  On the face of things, it might even look pretty glamorous.

Here's the thing, though.  It just so happens that the skills and qualities and personality traits and life experiences that make up the package that is Carrie suit me for the work that I do.  I didn't wire myself up to be good at building spreadsheets and drafting emails and reading legal documents; it just kind of happened that way.  In fact, the only things about myself that I am a little proud of are my integrity and my work ethic, and those are things that I learned at the knee of my dad, so I can't even really take credit for those.  I just can't ever quite shake I Corinthians 4:7, which says "For who maketh thee to differ from another?  And what hast thou that thou didst not receive? Now if thou didst receive it, why dost thou glory, as if thou hadst not received it?"  Cuts a person down to size, doesn't it?

Now, on the flip side, let's talk about some of the things that I admire.  I have a brother-in-law and a friend who can make, literally, anything.  Their innate understanding of how things work never ceases to blow my mind.  What would cost me hours of struggle and misery to install or build or fix is but a few minutes of minimal effort in their hands.

Then, there's my dear, dear friend Tunie and her daughter and daughter-in-law.  I'm continually amazed at their ability to create things.  Put a brush or a crayon or a set of needles in any one of their hands, and whatever materializes will be beautiful.  Not only that, but all three are capable of accurately portraying the world around them, of drawing a pig that actually looks like a pig - a skill that utterly and completely eludes me.

I know a couple of people who never seem to get lost.  It's like they have little built-in navigation systems somewhere inside them, and can figure out exactly when to turn, where to park, and how to find the entrance, all without a bit of stress.  I have to admit, I envy them a little bit.

Then, there's my sister Katie and my friend Justin.  I don't think either one of them has ever met a stranger.  Whenever I'm with either one of them and I watch them interact with their surroundings, I'm utterly blown away at the ease with which they breach the protective walls that we human beings construct around us.  They both constantly inspire me to conquer my introverted tendencies, to reach out and touch and connect with others.

And finally, if I were to make a list of five of the people that I look up to and admire the most, that I watch and listen to and think, "I would like to be just like that person", I know just who those five would be.  All five of them are stay-at-home (or mostly stay-at-home) moms.  None have ever had fancy schooling or high-falutin jobs.  Often, they tend to be overshadowed, sidelined, ignored, in favor of the flashier, the wittier, the "smarter".  And yet, I have watched these women over the years - watched them care for their husbands and raise their children, open their hearts and their homes to whoever happened to cross their paths, raise their hands and their faces to their Creator in moments of worship, tirelessly give of themselves over and over and over again.  I have watched and I have been filled with love and admiration and a longing for just that kind of servant's heart.

I guess, what I'm trying to say in this long and rambling post is, it really doesn't matter what your little niche happens to be.  If you're a Fortune 500 CEO, run that company like a pro.  If you're a kindergarten teacher, teach to the very best of your abilities.  If you cut hair, show the world what an awesome hairdresser looks like.  If you sell things, throw those shoulders back and sell, sell, sell.  If you clean houses, make those houses positively sparkle.  If you're a high-schooler, nail those grades and ditch that awkward. (Okay, maybe there are limits...)  Anyway, whatever you are, be a darn good one.  And never, ever, ever hang your head in shame.  You may not realize it, but rest assured, if you're giving it your all, your talents are making a difference.

The Apostle Paul summed it up very nicely (and far more succinctly than I) when he said, "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord". (Col 3:24)

AMEN and AMEN.

Ahhhh, I feel so much better!

Thank you for your patience!

To all... as you may have noticed, the blogger is on hiatus for a bit - I've been focused on juggling a hectic work schedule, a really brutal semester and now building a house (and possibly moving at the same time).  I shall return soon, sane, refreshed and with lots to say, I hope!

Thank you for your patience and for making it fun to write.

Carrie
xoxo

Where to Stay When You Visit Glacier National Park

I had to shoot up to Whitefish, Montana this week for business.  I didn't intend to blog about it, because, trust me, it would make for boring reading material, but my lodgings stole my heart, so here I am.

My good friend Becki had mentioned to me at some point that she had an aunt who owned a bed & breakfast in Whitefish.  Becki is one of the coolest people I know, and I figure there's a good chance coolness runs in families, so I stored the info in my long-term memory for future contingencies like this one.  Sure enough, when it came time to hunt up somewhere to stay for a couple of days, against the advice of my colleagues, I turned down a room in one of the only four-star resorts in the entire state of Montana and chose instead to stay with Aunt Julie and Uncle Dick.

I made the right choice.

I arrived about 11 PM after a long flight.  Note: Delta Airlines' Orlando to Salt Lake City route bears more than a passing resemblance to Disney's Big Red Boat, in terms of clientele. Both directions.  Worthy of consideration when purchasing tickets.  Unless, of course, one prefers to spend four hours in the air accompanied by a nonstop chorus of pint-sized howls and yowls.  Although, in the interests of full disclosure, all of the travel-weariness vanished in an instant when I stepped off of that plane in Kalispell, only to be slapped in the face with a rush of bracing, ice-cold air and the unmistakable, heavenly fragrance of wood smoke.

But I digress.  I arrived about 11 PM and was greeted by Uncle Dick, who showed me to my spacious room on the ground floor.  As I told my hosts, I tend to pack a little heavier when I plan to stay at B&B's - my experience has taught me that one never quite knows what one will find - the spectrum ranges from four-star luxury to quite...rustic, shall we say.  I needn't have bothered, this time.  Aunt Julie thought of everything, from necessities like hair dryer, clothes iron and toiletries, to luxuries like bathrobe, jetted tub, mini fridge and even a gas-powered fireplace.  Of course, the little crystal dish of pecan-stuffed dates and homemade truffles waiting by my bedside table won my heart immediately.

I slept like a baby, and rose the next morning to the sounds and smells of breakfast.  Oh, and what a breakfast that was.  (Keep in mind, being mid-January is Glacier's off-season, I was the inn's only guest for my entire stay.)  I sipped coffee (my choice of heavy cream or half-and-half) at a lovely table set with fresh flowers, cloth napkins and a carafe of ice water with lemons and fresh mint, overlooking a snowy winter wonderland.  Aunt Julie started breakfast with a tasty apple crumble topped with lemony cream (Life is short!  Eat dessert first!) and then, once I'd had time to enjoy that, placed a plate overflowing with scrambled egg-stuffed poblano pepper, fresh hashbrowns, sliced avocado, and all of the trimmings in front of me.  Every bite was delicious, and I was disappointed that I couldn't finish it all (which is saying something, coming from this piglet).

Granted, breakfast was interrupted at one point when I looked up and happened to notice some "lawn ornaments" that I hadn't noticed a few minutes before.  "Oh," Aunt Julie said, "they're here for their breakfast, too", so I of course had to pause and watch while she went outside and handed out morning victuals to a small herd of deer and a flock of turkeys.  May I point out that this is not an everyday occurrence where I live?

After a long day spent taking care of business, it was such a relief to pull up to the house, its lights glowing welcome, sip on the cup of coffee Uncle Dick brewed up for me, and sit chatting with my hosts around the dining room table.  My line of work can be emotionally exhausting at times, with its giant-sized egos and high-stakes interactions, (although, to be fair, the Montana guys aren't as bad as some, and one of them is downright lovable - do you suppose their environment has anything to do with that?) and after a day spent in a constant state of mental high-alert, spending time with real, down-to-earth, goodhearted folks is a downright luxury.  Of course, the smoked salmon dip and crackers awaiting me in my room didn't hurt either.

The next morning, Aunt Julie served me homemade quinoa crepes filled with fresh fruit and topped with whipped coconut creme.  And this time, I got to feed the animals!  (This was a huge treat for this comparatively citified country-girl-at-heart.)

Needless to say, my eight-year-old nephew was very impressed with this photo.

After a quick tour of the house, it was time to load up and head back towards the airport and home.

To say that I enjoyed my stay would be an understatement.  Not only were my accommodations the very picture of comfort, it was such a treat to spend time with a gentle, soft-spoken lady who simply exudes hospitality and the love of Jesus.  It isn't often that one has a chance to stay in a place where one feels less like a guest and more like a family member, and I treasured that experience.

I did get a grand tour of the afore-mentioned four-star resort, and for those who like their lodgings to come with front desks and lobbies, I would recommend it.  The family that owns and runs it knows their stuff, and, from what I can see, they run a high-class operation.  I doubt, though, that their accommodations come with homemade bedside treats, that their breakfasts are accompanied by heartfelt conversations about life and our Lord, and that their guests are given a warm hug goodbye.

For those who, like me, consider these things some of the very finest things in life, my suggestion would be to stay at Julie's Country Manor.

Oh, and why would a person bother visiting this neck of the woods anyway, one might ask?  Well, we had a couple of extra hours mid-afternoon, and my incredibly gracious business associate offered to drive me out to the park (Glacier, that is).  This is what I saw.  Of course, the pictures don't even begin to do justice to the real thing.  So, yeah.