Down the Block

This past weekend was ideal for fancy breakfasts, am I right? We had All Schools Day and Mother's Day all in one weekend. Surely you had out-of-town guests (like I did) or at least had a little lady in your house who deserves to eat something completely delicious for breakfast. Or, let her sleep in and feed her brunch. But it's too late (unless you're planning ahead for next year) now, unless you just want to make something delicious to eat. In which case, this might be of some assistance to you.

After the (incredible) French Toast experience from last week, I had it in my brains to make one that is not particularly sweet. The main reason for that being that I don't like starting my day with sweets. It just sets the stage for a jelly bean lunch and chocolate pudding dinner. Plus, something like this would make a supremely delicious brunch or brinner. So, let me tell you what I came up with. But not without first saying that this is a work in progress. I have ideas.

Here's what we need:
A loaf of bread from the day-old rack of the fancy section of the grocery store. Mine is an asiago, semolina loaf. It's super chewy and really salty and absolutely perfect for this.
2 eggs
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
2 T plain Greek yogurt
1 T skim milk
1 T parsley
ground black pepper and salt
1 T butter

Cut the bread into 3/4" slices (or whatever you want--I went with what I would describe as "medium thick"). In a seprarate bowl, combine the yogurt, garlic, eggs, parsley, and salt and pepper and whip it all up. If you feel like it needs it, thin it down with a titch of milk. This was the first time that I'd ever made french toast with Greek yogurt and, just in case you're wondering, I'm not totally certain what it is that prompted me to use it. I've never seen a recipe that calls for it--I just knew that I wanted a batter-type consistency and not something super runny that would sog up my bread. This helped it to cling to the outsides a little more and I really like how it all worked out. 

Melt the butter in a skillet, dredge the bread in the batter as usual and then cook over medium heat. It's important not to use high-heat with such a thick slice of bread because when the outside is done, the inside will still be a raw egg, soggy mess. So, patience is key. Also the longer that it's allowed to cook, the more it puffs up in the middle and becomes delicious. So take your time. When the underside gets brown and crisp, flip it. For me, it took about 3 or 4 minutes per side. You'll know when it's cooked through when you press on it and it doesn't feel soggy inside. It'll feel, rather, airy but still full. Because it's full of so many delicious things.

I put a little butter on mine and it was delicious. Then I got a little bit carried away and warmed through some artichokes and mushrooms to put on top with some parmesean. But, frankly, it was better without all of the extras.

In my mind, I'm making another with cilantro and spices and pico de gallo and another one with bruschetta toppings and balsamic vinegar. This is not the end of savory French toast. Not in my house anyway.

In her book Grace Eventually, Anne Lamott tells a story about a time that she went shopping with her best friend, Pammy. On this particular trip, Anne was trying on clothes and was looking for a dress to impress her new boyfriend. "I said to her, 'Do you think this makes my hips look big?' and she said to me, so calmly, 'Annie, you don't have that kind of time.'" Two weeks after this shopping trip, Pammy lost her long-fought battle with breast cancer. I've read another retelling of this story in her book Bird by Bird and several interviews--clearly Pammy's words stuck with her friend. They're sticking with me, today.

We could probably file this particular blog post under "random" or "hopefully inspirational" and I don't like to write those kinds of things--I barely even like to read them. I like to laugh and so I like to write and read those things that make that happen. But, frankly, I've sat down to write several times today and all I can really think is, "you don't have that kind of time."

I'd love to sit here and tell you funny stories or tell you about a local place where you can do fun things but the fact is, My Community, that neither of us will really be able to enjoy any of these things if we don't accept the fact that we don't have time to be worrying about our hips. Or our tummies. Or whether or not our hair looks dry.

Did you know that if you go to the bandshell in the park and stand in the very back, you can hear the cars that drive three or four blocks away? It feels like a miracle of science, a little bit. And in the right light, the light that shines through the leaves in a tree on a breezy day makes it look like there's glitter everywhere. But you don't notice those things if your brain is preoccupied with whether or not your dress exposes back fat. And one day our time will run out and exactly no one will care about your back fat--not because suddenly everyone will only think of non-trivial matters but because no one ever cared about your back fat. Because they were busy thinking about the skin under their own chin that you have never, ever noticed. Am I making my point?

What consumes most of your free thought? What do you find yourself saying about yourself most often? Is it worth it? Here's the hard-to-swallow-pill: you really do get to decide what you're doing with your mind. And if you'd rather focus on what your hips look like and less on the fact that they have carried you for, literally, thousands of miles, then I guess that's your choice but you just missed a shooting star.

With much anticipation, Bruno's Wood Fired Pizzeria is opening this week on Main Street. I was sad to see Amic's go but am totally pumped that something just as awesome is stepping in and that this little restaurant space spent exactly no time in vacancy.

Due to circumstances that I did not question (because you never look a gift horse in the mouth when that horse is offering pizza), my friends and I managed to snag a table on Sunday night. Let me be one of the first to tell you, McPherson, that you will absolutely not be disappointed. I mean there's pizza, sure, and pizza is never bad. But then there's whatever this is--something that should have a different name but it doesn't. It's just better food, alright?

My boyfriend and I shared the BBQ chicken pizza and it was filling enough that even after offering a slice to a friend, we still had a piece left over. So, depending on how hungry you are you can split a pizza between two or three. It was delicious. Amongst the group, though, it looks like the "Drunk Italian" fared, unsuprisingly, most popular but I can't wait to go back and munch on the Artichoke Pizza (pesto sauce, roasted artichokes and peppers, sun dried tomatoes and fresh mozzarella--according to the  menu online www.brunoswoodfiredpizzeria.com). Your crust isn't perfectly round. The pieces are not going to be exactly perfectly sized. This is no cookie cutter establishment. It's a guy throwing your dough by hand and it comes out a little rough and hand made. That is a very good thing.

Fun facts (derived from Bruno's website as well as through rumors between friends): Apparently this stove that produces these delicious wood fired pizzas cooks at a whopping 900 degrees.
Impressive 900 degree oven came all the way over from Italy and now rests comfortably in the front window of 204 N. Main.
Bruno is not the owner of this establishment--it's his 100 lb chocolate lab.

So this is my official endorsement. Go, McPherson! Go forth and get your pizza fix from local (imported) ovens.

(Photo credit: Adam Mercado)

For reasons that currently elude me, I agreed to move to South Dakota one month after my college graduation. My best friend, Jamie, had gone on before me and found a house that was perfect for the three of us. "Us" being myself, Jamie and London, the Boston terrier. This was my first time living with a K-9 in the house and I liked it much more than I had anticipated. She forced me to keep my living space clean, lest it be strewn about the residence. I like that kind of accountability.

We had awesome neighbors. To the left, a house full of college students. Mostly men. All South Dakota natives and all lovers of fire and Natural Light beer. Some, lovers of firearms. Across the street lived Smoker Joe and his wife/ girlfriend/ live-in-lover, Smoker Jane. Smoker Jane disappeared for a few weeks over the summer and we feared a separation. She eventually came back, though. That made us feel better. Smoker Joe seemed nice enough from what we could tell. But all that we could tell was that they both worked 9-5 jobs and likely voted for Barack Obama (unless they had false lawn signage).

Behind us lived a man who eventually found rock bottom one night during a stand-off in which he informed police that he had an arsenal of ammunition and was prepared to kill himself if his wife refused to move back in.
Jamie and I stood crouched behind the safety of a bush, drinking milkshakes as the SWAT Team invaded the home of an armed man not 50 feet from where we stood. I was willing to die for this experience. Spoiler alert: I lived to tell the tale.
Later, it was confirmed that the most dangerous weapon in the house was a steak knife. I felt sad for that man for weeks after he was sent to a hospital and his kids moved back to the swing set in the back yard.

the man who lived upstairs was terribly kind with a profound stutter and a love of pizza that was regularly delivered to us. The girl who lived in the basement used to have a pretty volatile friends-with-benefits relationship  with the previous tenant of our apartment. After I moved, she friended me on Facebook and told me that an attractive gentleman with certain unprintable qualities had taken over my room. I believe her.

I went to a private, religious college so when I moved frat-house adjacent, I was shocked and amused by so much public imbibing. There was the time that, while I was washing the dishes, I watched the neighbor remove his storm-trooper helmet every time he needed to take a hit from his (assumingly perfectly legal) cigarette while a clarinet-playing friend serenaded us all.
There was another time that his housemate knocked on my bedroom window at 4:00 am to ask if "Jeff" was awake. It took more than one, "wrong house, Buddy." to convince him that Jeff didn't live there. And then there was the last time--when, during a lovely evening of quilting and listening to the radio that one severely inebriated young man walked into my living room and introduced himself. he had bottles of hard-liquor and beer in every available pocket. It only occurred to him that he may be in the wrong house when he caught a glimpse of Jamie (who worked overnights at the jail and was dressed for work). To an unintoxicated eye, she didn't look exactly like a cop. But it didn't take long for him to high-tail it out of there. We started locking our door 100% of the time after that. Mostly for everyone else's sake more than our own.

Have a roommate who looks like a lady cop, is what I'm saying.

It was in the older part of town. Many referred to it as "the ghetto" but I didn't think that was a fair characterization of our neighborhood. One guy did knock on my door after 9:00 pm holding a dirty, five-gallon bucket that was housing a green, plastic flashlight and one fun-size, Pay Day candy bar and offered to sell it to me for three dollars--for charity. When I politely declined, he asked to use my phone. I told him that I didn't have one and that's the only time I felt even remotely worried--because that was not a lie. But let's not allow that one experience to color the whole neighborhood, yeah? I had four locks on the door. It was fine.
I think the neighborhood was fine but eclectic to be sure. The sort of place that you'd find for sale at the back of a dollar store in a mall that's going out of business. Kitchy. Our neighbors had lived there for fifteen years but their neighbors rotated out every few weeks. One gentleman up the block pulled a television to the end of his driveway with a "For Sale, Best Offer" sign. When a weekend of rain eroded the cardboard sign, he replaced it. That was the tenacious and hard-working type of place that we called home. For one year. Also the Chinese place was half a block away and it was insanely cheap--they packaged your to-go food in tinfoil trays instead of styrofoam. I liked that.
I was never worried about my safety in that house because only a fool would rob this place when the people next door were clearly the ones with satellite TV. And I can't constantly be on my guard against all of the bizzaros of the world--that's no way to live, people. That's not to say that we didn't have the perfect hide-a-body cliff/ ravine combo in the back yard because we totally did. But we had a pretty hard working mole and only the ignorant would traipse through our back yard. It was a broken ankle just waiting to happen.
If you're looking for a way to keep invaders at a distance, think about getting a mole is what I'm saying.

Notable Life Occurance in My First Apartment:
I graduated from college (mostly).
I told a boy that I liked him and he said that he liked me, too.
Alyssa got engaged.
I bought toilet paper for its intended purpose--first time.
Discovered that there is a difference between name brand and store brand peanut butter.
 

Here's some news, I'm going to be moving, soon. I've been thinking about it and processing everything that goes along with that (Do I need this table?? Will I have room for this bookshelf??). Thinking about that makes me think about all of the other places that I've lived. And I think that I want to tell you about it. I've had some fun living situations--here's one. I'll tell you more later, as well.

During my five years at college, I lived in seven different rooms spread across four different dorms and sixteen roommates/ suite mates/ house mates. I was an expert at communal bathrooms. But something happened my senior year. My friend, Alyssa, had a brilliant plan to get an apartment together. Honestly, I agreed under the impression that this wouldn't actually work out. But it did! And one day I found myself packing everything that I owned into a tiny room with a ceiling so peaked that there was twelve-square feet in which an average sized person could stand upright. No exaggeration.

It was born a one-bedroom house with an attic. By the time we'd colonized there (with two other house mates and a backyard mole). The attic had been "converted" into "two bedrooms". We also converted the back porch into an illegal bedroom where our friend Gina "didn't live". Honestly, that was the coziest room in the house and on exceptionally weathered nights, Gina would let me sleep back there with her as I didn't have heat upstairs.

It was a small house and with four girls living inside, it was bursting at the seams. We were all full time students, some had parents who helped with rent. But I was working exactly ten hours a week as a switchboard operator for my college and a few more hours tutoring English students. That is to say that after rent and utilities, peanut butter and a fresh loaf of bread was a treat, to be sure. On more than one occasion, Alyssa and I bought a meal at McDonalds (a fine place to sit and study for an entire afternoon if you don't mind the smell) with change that we would dig from coin purses or between the seats.

That that's how I graduated college without having developed a drinking problem--is what I'm saying.

Once upon a time, I was cleaning my un-ventilated bathroom and unknowingly combined those two chemicals that you're never supposed to mix. Ammonia and bleach, is it? Don't get me wrong--my bathroom was CLEAN but I got terribly sick. I had to open every window in my house and spend the rest of the day on a friend's sofa.

Ever since that experience, I've been trying to keep my cleaning process as natural as possible. Mostly that means making sure that I've always got a bottle of vinegar in stock and at the ready but also lots of other things, too. Essential oils, vodka, lemons, sugar. Did you know that you can slice a lemon in half, dip it into sugar and then scrub away the mildew in your bathtub? You do, now.

*chuckles* Here I go making myself look like I love to clean. I assure you--that's not even remotely the case. Can I get confessional, here? I hate to clean. I love to have a spotless living space but if I were in a better financial situation, I would consider a maid service a worthy expense. I'm not lazy--I just hate to clean. There's a difference. You want me to bake twelve loaves of bread--alright? Just don't ask me to sweep up the mess.

That being said, I clean my kitchen floor about once every three months. I know, it's despicable. But, anyway, today I decided to take care of the situation. I whipped up a batch of Heavy Duty Floor Cleaner, grabbed a scrub brush and Cinderella'd the heck out of that floor (and the baseboards).j

Heavy Duty Floor Cleaner
1 bucket (or sink full) of hot water
3 tablespoons dish soap
1/2 c. vodka
1/2 c. vinegar

It's important to rinse the floors after using this recipe but that wasn't a problem for me. I scrubbed under the cupboards and along the corners and any trouble spots and then I made a fresh batch, mopped as usual, and finished up with a rise of very hot water. My floor is cleaner than I've ever seen it and neither my cat nor I have to deal with a chemical induced migraine.

What ordinary things to you use to clean up around the house?

It's been two months that I've been blogging here at the Sentinel. Isn't that just the sweetest? So on this, the last blogging day of the month, I will bring you my favorite things of March 2012.

The Patio. This really was a great idea. Find one slab of concrete, add chairs and bam you have something pretty awesome on your hands. Of course, my friends went all out and added lighting and music and a grill and a handful of generosity to take it from appealing to undeniable.

March Madness. I have to be honest with you when I say that until this month I couldn't give two rips about basketball. And, if I think about it, I probably still really don't care about it but I care about people who care about it. We found ourselves in an Old Chicago one night and happened to catch the second half of the KU/  Purdue game and something just came over me. My friend Adam was getting excited, clapping this echoing applause that almost hurts to listen to, and trying to stand up--but the table kept him pinned down. That's when I started to pay attention--and I got excited too! It was close! It was anyone's game! Then, I couldn't wait to watch them play North Carolina State and now I keep thinking about tomorrow's game. I think I might be hooked on KU basketball. I can not stress enough how strange this is for me.

This lamp.

March has opened doors to a lot of personal opportunities for me and while I'm not willing or able to go into much detail here, I will tell you that I'm walking through some new doors.

John Green. I've been reading The Fault in Our Stars. I won't talk about it except to say that he has me completely enraptured in words and phrases. "I fell in love like you fall asleep. Slowly--and then all at once."

What have you loved, lately?

The hottest night spot in McPherson has only been open for a few weeks. It is easily overlooked and nondescript but the atmosphere is completely inviting and unique to your own sensibilities. We're calling it The Patio but you might call it the front porch or the back yard or the front lawn. If you haven't got any of those things--certainly you have a friend who does. And certainly it wouldn't take all that much to get your friend to agree to open his or her back yard to nights of sitting around, talking to one another and grilling hamburgers--if you offer to bring the hamburgers. If you haven't got any friends--take your hamburgers and lawn chair to the public grills at Lakeside Park and make some friends!

Recently, it was discovered that my friends, Kristin and Katie, have an incredible space on their back patio. That, combined with the gorgeous weather that we've been having lately calls for celebration--and fun lighting available at Target for a mere $10. This space, it's obvious already, will be the defining feature of Summer 2012.

If you're anything like me, where two or more are gathered, you are much obliged to bring treats. I have an absolute go-to homemade treat that is completely adaptable and very fast to make and 90% of the time I have all of the ingredients on hand. It's simply a basic biscuit recipe that I adapt based on my needs and desires. If I suddenly have overnight guests--turn them into cinnamon biscuits. If we have a pot of spaghetti but no garlic bread--make them into garlic and parmesan biscuits. It's the perfect recipe. Tonight I made them into a lemony treat.

The Original Recipe:
2 cups flour (I usually like to do half whole wheat and half white but I'm fresh out of whole wheat flour tonight)
1 T. baking powder
1 t. salt
1/4 c. oil
3/4 c. milk

Mix together and drop by rounded spoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 for about 20 minutes or until golden. I used a tablespoon-sized scoop and it made 10.

How I Tweaked it:
Added the zest and juice of one lemon
Added 2 T white sugar
After they were through, I dusted them with powdered sugar and brought them to Patio Night.

How I Have Tweaked it in The Past:
-Add 2 t. ground cinnamon, 1 T. brown sugar and 1 T. milk.
-Add a palm 1/2 full of italian seasoning 1/2 full of parmesan cheese, replace ordinary salt with double garlic salt.
-Double salt and add 2 t. crushed red pepper flakes.

It's the perfect base recipe, takes 25 whole minutes and is truly delicious all of the times.

How will you be spending your summer nights?
What is your go-to gathering treat?

On Tuesday, I wrote about the great thrift stores in the McPherson area and the importance of buying used. I will admit, though, that you're likely not going to find exactly what you're looking for. Don't get me wrong--it's happened before. I've run through a store shouting, "jackpot!!" while falling to my knees before the little side table that currently houses my DVD's. But this is a rare occasion. More often than not, your best bet will be to have a few vague ideas of what you're looking for and working within that.

I think I mentioned on Tuesday that Apt 6 on Elizabeth Street is my most favorite store in McPherson. I got into a conversation with some of the ladies who were working there, today, though and I learned that Apt 6 is in trouble, you guys! They need to find a new place to move to! I guess the building that they are in right now has been purchased and they need to get out of there. It's my understanding that they have no where to go, so anyone feeling generous? We can't let it go! I need this place. You need this place. We need some helps.

But back to adapting within the limited selection of a thrift store. Today I found a lamp that fit all of my qualifications. It was tall enough. It was sturdy and it had a removable harp so that I could change out the shade. And it was two whole dollars.

So I went to the hardware store and bought a can of green spray paint. There was a forrest green and a springy green. I was inspired by the rain and went with the more lightly colored one. This was all impulse, I might add. Had I given it much thought, I would have thought it to death and killed it. So green is what I took home. I knew that there were some pretty inexpensive lampshades at Walmart and, again, went with my impulses and tried not to think too much.

So when I got home, I found myself in possession of these three things. A lamp, a can of paint and a lampshade. And I have to tell you--all of these things add up into something delicious. Take a look. Less than $8 and I have a brand new, very cool, pop-of-color desk lamp which is not only something that I am in love with, but I needed and I worked at it. It's mine. There was no other lamp on this assembly line. He is one of a kind and he is mine, all mine.

The McPherson area has the sweetest thrift stores.

When I first moved here, my sister-in-law and I scoured all of them in my search for furniture and things to get my house to looking like a home. I don't own a single piece of brand new furniture. Not one. I love it. My house has a pretty hodge podge sort of look about it but I think the fact that everything is used is what ties it together. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself.

Today was my first day off in a week and I've been needing some desk lamps. I could just go to Walmart and buy new but where's the fun, the adventure, the character? So I went to Save and Share's new location on Main Street. I will be honest, I did not find exactly what I was looking for but I found other things. I found bed sheets that are older than I am (and subsequently, have been washed about six thousand times which makes them extra ultra soft) and some tea cups that made me gasp so loudly that several people turned around to see what on earth had happened to me. Nothing happened. I just fell in love at first sight. With two teacups and matching saucers. I walked out of Save and Share having spent $7.00.

I'm still looking for those lamps, though, and so on Thursday I will go to the thrift store on Elizabeth--the one where all of the proceeds go to the Opera House. I love shopping there. Not only is everything completely cheap, but it's filled with things that I remember from my childhood--from my grandmother's house. Also, all of the bakeware in my entire apartment was procured from this particular thrift store.

Last but not least, if you're willing to drive for a few minutes--go to Lindsborg and visit TACOL. You will not regret this. My absolute favorite throw came from there. It's wool and still had a tag on it when I bought it, so I looked it up on the internet after I got home it and saw that this particular blanket retails for around $80. I got it for $1.50! The books are always buy on sale. Unless you pick up some religious books--those are always free. There are tons and tons of selections of picture frames and dishes. I can't help but buy all of the glass jars that I find and no matter how full my car is when I leave that place, I've never spent more than $10.

I like buying used. It's inexpensive, sure, but it has character--it has a story and it keeps perfectly useful and beautiful things from landing in the garbage heap.

It's because I turned on the air conditioner in my car, last week.

It's because I've accidentally left my sweater at work all week long and never notice until the next day when I get there and it's still hanging up.

It's because my desire to keep the crock pot running all day has been replaced by the desire to chop cucumber slices and plums.

It's because that gorgeous pom pom tree is stinking up my whole house on account of the fact that...

Every openable window in my hundred-year-old apartment is open.

It's because the other night, my friends and I went to Willie's house and grilled hamburgers and stayed outdoors until it was the darkness and not the chill or bug bites that drove us indoors.

It's because I've already started my Summer 2012 bucket list.

It's because Wednesday night we walked around town and stood at the corner of Elizabeth and Oak and pointed out how we were a comfortable walking distance from so many very good friends in every direction. It felt like we were standing in the center of something deep.

Because yesterday I started building my herb garden.

It's because there are smooches under street lights rather than mistletoe.

How do you know that Spring has finally sprung?

Sunday was that kind of drizzly, sleepy, daylight savings kind of day. The kind of day where you don't totally change out of your pajamas but find a way to modify what you're wearing into something semi-public appropriate. Ryan and I went to lunch together and then retired to our own homes to do whatever terribly boring, solitary things we wanted. I chose to spend an entire afternoon getting two sink fulls of dishes done and browse the internet while sipping tea and espressos. It was a bake-something kind of day, too, so I put this bread in the oven and then sat on my couch and watched the wedding scene from Rachel Getting Married four times over.

Some friends were coming over whenever they wanted to. It's like time didn't exist, yesterday. That was so nice. When they got here, I whipped up Chicken Korma and rice and we sat around listening to Bon Iver and Master P.

It was an excellent way to the end of my very long weekend. How was your weekend?

Cocoa Bread:
2 c. all purpose flour
1 c. whole wheat flour
1/2 c. cocoa powder
1/2 T. cinnamon
1 c. white sugar
1 T. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/4 t. salt
1 3/4 c. water
3 T. mayonnaise

1. Whisk all of the wet ingredients as well as the sugar in one bowl.
2. Whisk together all of the dry ingredients in another bowl.
3. Stir the dry ingredients into the wet ones until no lumps remain.
4. Pour batter into a greased loaf pan. Melt 2 T. of butter and pour it over the top and then bake for an hour at 325 degrees.

Meanwhile, I wondered how I could make it just a little bit more special with minimal effort.

Strawberry Butter:

Add a few spoonfuls of strawberry preserves (if you have it on hand, I recommend finally busting open that jar of strawberry preserves that your grandpa canned at Christmas time) to one stick of softened butter. You could whip it if you want it to be perfectly smooth but my desire to only clean a fork rather than plug in power tools won in this instance. Plus, Sunday was all about that handmade feeling.

And because I know no one will think to ask but everyone will want to know: yes--this does make delicious toast at breakfast time.

This post first appeared on my personal blog, The Human Condition, on Monday. Visit libbymparker.blogspot.com.

My name is Libby Marie. That's my name. I've had it my whole life. Nicknames have never really stuck. Sometimes, I'll sign a note with "Lib." Sometimes my close friends or family call me that or Libsy and I like that a lot because it is affectionate.

I have complained endlessly about other things that I am called. Working in customer service, I am subject to all sorts of monikers from the people with whom I come in contact on a regular basis. I get called all sorts of things, "darlin'," "honey," "sugar," "sweet heart," and most horribly, "good girl." I really, really, don't know who started this--I've never heard a person call another person "good girl" unless one of those persons just learned how to use the big girl potty. At any rate, that's not the subject that I came here to talk about (but while we're on the subject--most people are wearing name badges, please take note of them because people feel better when you call them by name).

I mumble. I know that. So, when I meet new people or when they ask my name, I tend to over enunciate. Mostly because if you say it too fast, "Libby" sounds a little bit like the way my college roommate, Mandy, used to sneeze. There was a time in elementary school where many kids had never heard of such a uniquely awesome name and so the normal response to, "My name is Libby" was generally a look of confusion followed by, "Why would your parents name you Libya?" They didn't.

These days, the general response is, "but what's you're real name?" It's Libby. That's my real name. Then they sing the old Libby's canned food jingle (which I have never heard except from people who think they're the first ones to sing it to me).

I have met one other person who's name was Libby Just Libby. I was working at Main Street Deli at the time. I took her name and when she said, "Libby," I looked up and everything was in slow motion. "My name is Libby! I've never met another one. Wait--is your name something like Elizabeth or Liberty or Olivia or something like that?"
"No. It's just Libby."
"Me, too!" And I probably looked just way too excited because I am not very good at hiding my facial expressions and she started to back away from me. I freaked her out. That much is for sure.

I always wonder what it's like to have the same name as everyone else. I wonder what it's like to be my sister. Her name is Sarah--along with 1/4 of the women born in the mid to late 80's.

What's it like to have your name?

On Saturday, my friends and I went to the Annual Kiwanis  Pancake Feed. Let me take this opportunity to explain that this is not the type of thing that I ever do. Community events have never been my thing. But the more I realize how cool my community is, the more I like getting out of my house.
Paying $3.00 and standing in line for twenty minutes for pancakes at 9:00 am doesn't sound like tons of fun but standing near my people for any amount of time for any reason is worth getting up for.

A few highlights: have you ever seen people make pancakes and eggs for a crowd of 2,000? Well, the scrambled eggs is a four-man job and I'm sure that the role of Pancake Flipper is a coveted one requiring hours of rigorous training and possibly an understudy. They have it down to a science. There are no warming trays from which a measly pancake is plucked. No, no. They are all fresh from the griddle, right on to your styrofoam plate.
And, you guys, he doesn't say, "Here's your pancake." He says, "How many do you want?" You could ask for six pancakes and get six pancakes!

So, we grabbed our plates and looked for enough seats for our group--high school cafeteria style--and finally sat down amidst people that we did not know. We made witty and mostly polite banter while others milled around refilling coffee and cleaning up dirty plates.
The Kiwanis Pancake Feed is a well oiled and reliable machine. From now on, when something goes according to plan, I'm going to call it "Pulling a Kiwanis Pancake Feed." It will catch on. No doubt.

Last post of February. It's been a good month, Sentinel, thanks for letting me blog for you. Do you still like me? Cool. Then I'll just keep writing things down.

photo credit: lollipops-and-roses.blogspot.com

Three Favorite Things About February 2012:

1. I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb. I started reading this 800+ page book at the end of January and I was hooked in no time. The thing is that it just takes so much time to read it. Time that I don't really have a lot of except for bed time or lunch breaks at work. So, it took a lot of late nights and an entire month. It was worth it. It was a beautiful story. I like the way that Wally Lamb just knows how to write about people. He writes just like life where there are no villains and there are no heros. There are just people.

2. Getting a taste of spring. Everyone in this part of the world knows that we've had what is described as a "mild" winter. What that translates to is that we have had a disappointing winter with two or three snows and none of it lasting more than a night. I just feel like it shouldn't rain in February. The upside to this is that it feels like Spring gets to be twice as long. When the sun is still just barely up when I get out of work at 8:00 pm, then I know we're in the home stretch. It hasn't been a terrible winter but I still can't wait for it to be over. I still can't wait to have open windows and take walks at night and get by with wearing heavy cardigans outside instead of a woolen coat.  This spring I'm going to start my very first herb garden. I generally kill anything that isn't able to beg me for food and water so we'll see how well this goes.

3. I got to see McPherson's own I Heard A Lion play a few shows. This is an activity that makes my heart dance because (I can't believe that) these guys are my friends and they really enjoy what they're doing. It's a truly satisfying thing to see people that you love doing something that they love and doing it really well. The other night they were playing a show in Wichita. I stood near the very front--off to the side of the stage. Near the end, I looked out and everyone was dancing. In their barstools but still. I looked backstage to the band that was getting ready to follow them and instead of getting things set up, they were jamming and staring. And it made me feel things. It made me feel like I was connected to all of these people that I didn't know. It made me want to say, "my friends made this with their brains and their hands." And, "you can hear this twice a week if you just take a walk in my hometown on the right night."

I met Katie and Justin like this:
Barely over a year ago, I was getting fairly tired of how my life felt. It seemed very closed and limited. I knew I needed friends but there were two problems: I love my house and I would prefer to never leave it. And also, I didn't know how to make friends.  Let me interrupt right here to explain something--to get anywhere in this post, we're going to all have to agree to stop pretending like Facebook hasn't dramatically revolutionized social interaction. Done? Cool.

My friend Ryan would post clever things on Facebook and this girl would comment--things that were either far too hilarious or my thoughts exactly. It didn't take long for me to decide that she and I should be friends. And that's the story of how I friended my first perfect stranger on Facebook. It should be noted that I had to talk myself into it over the course of several weeks.

I quickly learned that we had tons of friends in common (how we hadn't run into one another sooner, I'll never know) and that she was close friends with a guy that I worked with--someone that I knew was way too cool for me to be friends with but I wanted it anyway. For weeks and weeks, we communicated in "likes" and clever comments but never in person.

At some point Ryan decided that we all needed to hang out in the real world and, surprisingly, we all agreed to pile into a Toyota and drive to the Cosomosphere. We spent a day getting to know each other, driving home in a spontaneous blizzard and not regretting a minute of it. Katie and Justin and Ryan and I all meshed very well on the internet and I'd be lying if I said that I wondered if there would be much else to us. But our friendship all fell in very naturally and to my benefit to say the least. It's through knowing these people that I've been able to meet and befriend so many other very, very cool and graceful people and experience adventures.

The thing I think about friendships between grownups that's terribly special is the fact that they're not based on convenience. In fact it's sometimes quite the opposite. I'm not friends with Katie and Justin and Ryan (and everyone else--I am lucky to know so many delightful personalities that if I listed them all, you would be either terribly jealous or flattered) because we have classes together and need to get along. I'm friends with them because I like them. The more difficult thing to accept is that they hang out with me because they like me (what?!). But they do and I will not correct their delusions. It's only with astounding gratitude that I ever think about my friends (all of you--you know who you are).

So here's what I've learned about wanting to change your life:
1. Say "yes".
2. Don't forget to be grateful.

Since becoming an adult (though I am loath to admit that it ever happened) and moving away from my comfort zone of college friends, I've found that we're all a little embarrassed to admit a certain fact. More and more often, I was hearing from my friends who lived very far away from me, "I don't have any friends and I don't know how to make any."

It's an embarrassing thing to admit, really, because Making Friends 101 was a 15 minute course in the first week of kindergarten. We should have all taken better notes. But making friends in school is easy because you're forced into it. You walk into your classroom and think to yourself, I'm going to spend the next eleven years with these people so we might as well make the best of it right off the bat. "Would anyone care to trade a Hostess cupcake?!" You probably didn't think about that but in reality, it's what happened. Well… its what happened if you went to a tiny school like I did. My graduating class had only a few kids difference between who was in cap and gown and who was present at Kindergarten round-up.

But if you grow up and move away from your most comfortable place (or if your comfortable place changes and morphs away from you)--you can find yourself lonely and in desperate need for friends. Walking out of your house can, sometimes, feel like looking for a place to sit in the lunch room. Not because we're so scared to be alone. I love to be alone. I'm an introvert by nature. But there's a difference between being an introvert and denying much human connection. We need to connect with other people. We have to feel hands on our backs and we need to hear words whispered in our ears. We need to share ourselves and we need to receive others. It's what makes a human into a person.

For my first year and a half in McPherson, I found myself constantly feeling like I didn't have any friends. There were people that I got along with at work or friends of my family members that I got along with and we'd sometimes hang out but I never really felt like we had the friendships that I was used to. Little did I know that I was lucky to have a substantial starting off point.

On Friday, I'll come back with Part 2 including stories and tips for making friends and, in general, blooming where you're planted.

I work at a seven-day-a-week type of job. I only work on five of those seven days but sometimes my days off come at weird times that do not coincide with my friends and family. Sometimes it's a Tuesday here and a Thursday there but my boss does a really good job of making sure that each of us gets a full weekend every month. I really appreciate that.

A few weeks ago, I checked my schedule and noticed this… the most delightful and oftentimes rare gem that is usually reserved for government employees on obscure holidays. This--this Friday, today, is the beginning of my Three Day Weekend. And I'm sick. No, I'm not on death's door or anything but I'm a not as delightful feeling as I would prefer for this holiday. So I'll be spending Friday drinking hot honeys, watching and re-watching Adele Live at Royal Albert Hall and stepping outside for some breaths of fresh air. I'll get better, dangit! Because this half-cold will not get a girl down.

So, I have been planning. How will I spend my time?

It was most important to me that I get to spend some serious time with my sisters. They, along with their respective families, will be moving in opposite directions of the country early in the summer and who knows when we'll all be able to get together again. Also, the longer that I've thought about it--in the last ten years have I ever spent a day with just my sisters? I don't know that I have! So we made plans to meet up in Salina and do very typical girl-type things on Saturday. Pedicures, shopping, maybe a burrito if things get extra out of hand. I'm so excited about it.

Sunday is going to be a lot of fun also. It'll be fun for you, too, if you feel so interested. There is a Numana benefit at the McPherson Community building on February 19th from 2:00-7:00. It's called Music With a Mission and sources say that there will be a fair amount of generosity, food and excellent, local musicians. One of the acts--a group comprised of four of the most wonderful men I've had the pleasure of befriending here in McPherson--I Heard A Lion. You can hear their music here and at the community building this Sunday. If you can't make it on Sunday but still want to listen to them live--they're also playing a show in Wichita this Thursday and I'm sure there will be information all about that on their Facebook page. What I'm saying is: make an effort to feed the hungry and also make an effort to listen to I Heard a Lion. There's no way you could regret either of those activities.

Hey, you. Have a great weekend.

The first time that I realized that Valentine's day did not have to be so much about romance and boy-girl stuff was the year that my Dad came home with three bouquets of roses. One for my mother and one for my little sister and I. My mom's were big, fat, typical roses that you'd expect. My sister and I each got a bunch of tiny, baby sized roses. One of us got pink ones and one of us got white ones. I don't remember who got which but I was elated. I remember, and regret now, that in my snide adolescence I made some remark about how they were so small. I don't know why I did it--that was my favorite part. I don't think that my dad had any way of knowing that tiny gesture completely cured the jealousy that came about around that time of year in school when boys and girls gave one another chocolate or sent each other flowers and I felt particularly left out. He did a significant thing for me.

Today, ten years ago, I was in a hospital room with him. We'd been fed his leukemia diagnosis less than two weeks ago and we were all still trying to choke it down. My mother and I had more or less moved to Wichita to be with him. My little brother and sister were young and still needed some stability so they stayed with our pastor's family and got a lot of distraction and non-cancer related interaction. I don't remember if my dad had made it down to the gift shop or if he'd had my mom pick up a card on his behalf but the one he handed to me was beautiful. It wasn't your typical hearts and doilies and ribbons. It featured a print… maybe the White Rabbit running from the Queen of Hearts? I think that might have been it. It was an exceptionally dark but gorgeous card. I remember being surprised that he'd been able to keep a secret from me in this situation where the three of us spent every waking minute together in a tiny room and he could barely leave the bed. I remember that when he handed me the card, he looked at me and asked, "You know that I could die, right?" And I nodded and said, "Yes. I do know that. But I don't know what that means so I'm not scared." And he said, "Me too."

There was a little token inside. Just one of those little cheap coins with an angel stamped into it. I'd seen them in the gift shop in a basket next to the register. I've lost the card (another story for another day if you're ever in the mood) but to my own surprise I still have that little coin that I carry with me everywhere I go.