The Fountain of Youth

My adorable dad turned 79 last weekend. *Happy (late) birthday, Dad!* The thing is? He looks, feels, and acts like he’s about 60. It seems like he’s stumbled upon the Fountain of Youth, and hasn’t aged a day since I left home 20-something years ago. (Actually I saw him age about ten or fifteen years the year my mom died. But the man is so full of life and resilient he looks younger now than he did then!)

Here are a few things that I think contribute to my dad’s Fountain of Youth:

Mirth: He’s so quick to laugh, has such a ready twinkle in his eye. He embodies joy. This is the guy who even made vacuuming the stairs fun, by telling me to sing Jingle Bells with the vacuum hose stuck to my face, because it looked and sounded so funny. He ranks right up there with Pippi Longstocking at turning work into play!

Caring: One night when I had to work late, he took a stack of papers to grade and accompanied me to the magazine office, so I wouldn’t be there alone, or have to walk to my car by myself in the dark. A simple gesture that meant a lot to me, and I’ve never forgotten.

Friendship: Dad still has the same group of friends he grew up with on Capitol Hill as a kid. When we were growing up, “The Boys” and their wives got together every month. Now they live far away, but I saw them together at a party two years ago, and they were laughing and joking as if they’d just seen each other last week. 

Activity: Every day he’s outside walking, hiking, biking, golfing, playing tennis…you get the picture. These days he’s also very big into The Blue Zone way of life.

Cheerleading: From the time I was a baby, he would pick me up in the air and ask, “Who’s the greatest?” and expect me to answer, “Baby Jana!” It might be a little over the top, but I never doubted my dad’s belief in me or my worth in his eyes.

Creativity: I think painting—and really any creation—brings out and nurtures our inner child. Dad has a PhD in Creativity, and he still paints masterpieces in watercolor. His inner child has been growing at a steady pace, healthy and well-fed for decades.

Learning: My dad is a master teacher—always has been—and I think one of the things that makes him so amazing is his passion for learning. He is always reading, always seeking out new adventures and ideas.

Love: My mom died over 24 years ago…and just in the last couple of years my dad married Sharon, a wonderful addition to our family, with the same penchant for giggling. They are an adorable pair, and I think their love and enjoying life together keeps them young.



This week I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandparents and the incredible legacy and privilege of spending time with them—the laughter, the learning, the joy, the peace and quiet, the music, the FOOD. I’m so grateful my own children have similar story-book-worthy grandparents, and a similar legacy of love, gathering, work, excellence, laughter and service to shape their youth.Thanks, Dad. I love you! You continue to inspire me! xoxo

For more on the beauty of aging, and the joy of making the wiser generation a part of our lives, tune into The Living Room: Honoring Previous Generations. bit.ly/TLRshow34

Hi, Canyon! Did You Miss Me?

Did you miss feeling my perky steps grate into the gravel as they pushed up the trail?

Did you miss hearing my speechless gasps over your dramatic vistas?

Did you miss the way the rhythm of light cascading through trees makes me want to dance?

Did you miss the quiet, intense way I stop to investigate glorious details, up-close and personal?

What about sensing the way the perfect combination of colors sometimes moves me to tears?

Did you miss me, Canyon?
Well, I missed you!
You're one of the biggest parts of coming Home.

Twelve Gifts: Learning through Dreams

The other night I had a dream that I was shooing our two dogs outside because they were tracking leaves in the house. Then I turned around and there was McCloud—our neighbors’ cute Bichon Frise, eating out of our dogs’ bowls, and I shooed him outside too. I can’t feed all the pets in the neighborhood. Just as I closed the screen door I noticed a doe and a stag—the one from the hill behind our house, with a broken antler. I hurriedly shooed them out the door as well, shaking my head in disbelief. Where did all these animals come from? It’s like a zoo in here! Before I even had a chance to get the deer all the way out, I noticed there were sheep coming down the stairs. What the--? As I herded them out as well, I paused for a moment. There was a lamb. The fluffiest white lamb. Such a gentle creature. I picked it up and ran my fingers through its soft, wolly coat, nuzzling it close. And then I paused. It’s not like a zoo in here...it’s like a stable. And I almost didn’t make room for this precious Lamb. 

This dream was a gift, in the form of a wake up call.

Rather than throwing the Baby out with the bathwater, rushing through mundane chores with an air of frustration, I will stop and cherish every soul that crosses my threshold, nurture those in my neighborhood and other surroundings, and revel in their goodness and grace. Especially the broken ones. 

I will gladly place a manger out for all to eat here, whether it's a healthy snack or a holiday buffet. I will enjoy the cooking and cleaning and preparation involved in making my stable presentable. I will open my doors.

I will pause and take quiet moments to love and adore the Lamb of God, even amidst the chaos.

I will make room. 

An Hour in Five Stages

Stage 1: DENIAL. I think to myself I SHOULD BE FEELING SOMETHING but I am completely numb. The Beatles are in the CD player and I sing along at the top of my lungs, “Paperback writer (writer, writer)” and even throw in the guitar lick...buhbuduheeee buhduh bombomduh... 

Comic relief: Around the point of the mountain I pass this car that is going WAY TOO SLOW in the center lane. Attempting to pass, I speak into an imaginary microphone, entertaining no one but myself: “Hello, officer? I’d like to report a CORPSE driving in the center lane on I-15...”  Then (I SWEAR I am not making this up!) I pass the alleged corpse-car only to discover that the driver does in fact appear to be dead (or at least asleep): Head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth wide open. AAHHHH! I try to keep a wide berth between me and the corpse-car, and continue to keep one eye on him in the rearview mirror, expecting him at any moment to crash right into the median. “Bang, bang, Johnny’s silver hammer comes down on his head...Bang, bang, Johnny’s silver hammer made sure he was dead....” (Miraculously, the corpse continues on autopilot, making all the curves and remaining in the center lane. Hmmm.) 

Stage 2: ANGER. I exit the freeway in plenty of time, giving me a straight shot to Huntsman Cancer Institute, and twelve minutes to park and go inside. Then everything starts going out of control, multiplying so rapidly I let it get the best of me. The directions on the iPhone map are wrong, and I spend twenty frustrating minutes cruising around a spaghetti-ish network of long driveways and one-way circles that makes Los Angeles at rush hour look like child’s play. “Help! I need somebody. He-ehelp me, help me-ee!”  I could feel my blood pressure rising with every wrong turn, until I was no longer singing along, but shouting, spitting out the lyrics like nails out of a gun. How did the music that was helping me feel fun-loving and free-wheeling just moments ago suddenly have me tied up in vicious knots? I turned off the stereo by slamming it down with my fist. Yes I did. Take that, Ringo! 

Stage 3: BARGAINING. I don’t know why arriving a few minutes late has sent me into such a tailspin, but I can feel myself starting to panic, wondering if they’ll even be able to see me if I’m 20 minutes late, if I made this drive for nothing, and will have to do it all again, and if it will take me another two months to get an appointment. I have crazy conversations in my head, making my plea. Finally, in desperation, I pull up to a construction worker and ask how to get to the hospital entrance. So simple. Why didn’t I do this right at the beginning? 

“Help me if you can I’m feeling dow-ow-own. And I do appreciate you comin’ rou-ou-ound. Help me get my feet back on the grou-ou-ound.”  (Yeah, I turned it off, but it’s still playing softly in my head.)

Stage 4: DEPRESSION. I feel completely defeated as I enter the parking lot. The attendant is informative and kind, yet I feel a black hole in my heart as I look for a space to park and make my way through the looming glass doors. I am here but I am still lost. And I know it. I push elevator buttons, put one foot in front of the other, but my world is gray.

Stage 5: ACCEPTANCE. No one says a word or even raises an eyebrow about my late arrival. I am ushered into a back room before I even have a chance to take a seat in the waiting area. My genetic counselor and her grad-student assistant are the perfect combination of competent and compassionate. It is surreal to hear myself reciting details about my family history with utter calm, like reading numbers off a report: My mother found a lump at age 47. She was diagnosed at age 49. She died of breast cancer at age 53. Her sister battled breast cancer three times over several decades and finally passed away at age 83. More questions: Yes. No. I don’t know. 

I realize I have passed through the five stages of grief in the hour it took me to arrive at this place, just footsteps away from the room where my mother took her final breaths. I think I may also have been grieving my own mortality as I approached that place and draw closer to that age, seeking clues to my what own future holds. I received no concrete answers, but every ounce of knowledge I acquire empowers me. I journey home, fast-forwarding through Fool On A Hill and Yesterday, ultimately landing on Across the Universe. Which takes me home.


Note of clarification: I was just in for genetic counseling and DNA testing. I have no signs of breast cancer, other than my marked family history. I do want to remind everyone that October is breast cancer awareness month. 


This post is inspired by  Just Write, an exercise in free writing. {Please see the details here.}  Not sure if I'm following all the rules, or if there even ARE any rules to a free-write, but at least it keeps me writing!

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night....

It is a dark and stormy night.

The kids are out trick-or-treating with rain streaming off the sides of their umbrellas.

Mr. Cool is dressed like M.C. Hammer (of course) and refuses to don a coat. It might cramp his style. I ask myself, Would marching around like that in the rain even be WORTH it, for a fun-size Snickers? I doubt it. There’s only one letter’s difference between T-R-E-A-T and T-H-R-E-A-T, I muse.

I recline on the sofa with an Agatha Christie novel. Perfect! Although my front door waits, brightly lit, for any spooks brave enough to climb up our driveway in the rain, the bell hasn’t yet rung. The house is deathly still.

* * * * *

It was a dark and stormy night.

But then the rain dried up, the kids were warm, the house was full of laughter and shrieks. Jeff put up the decorations I forgot. We gave out all our candy to a record number of trick-or-treaters. Our kids came home happily laden with copious amounts of sugar. They also brought home dozens of friends to play games and watch movies afterward. Who would have guessed?

See how quickly even the darkest night and dreariest storm can turn itself around?
—A life lesson, to be sure.

Happy Halloween!

Give Us This Day...

Snow?! ?



It's the first snowfall of the season, and this morning we woke up to a yard that seemed magically transformed into a winter wonderland. As soon as the weather outside turns colder, I turn to warmth on the inside — homemade soup, fresh-baked bread, and similar creature comforts.

Creamy Chicken and Wild Rice soup, Tomato-Corn Chowder, Potato Leek.
Southwestern Winter Chili with ground turkey, black beans, red peppers and butternut squash. The colors, the flavors, the warmth...fill me in a way summer never can.

To accompany all that soupy goodness, my friend Eowyn's delicious bread recipe has become a staple in our home. Branching out over the past few weeks, I've experimented several times with a version of this amazing no-knead bread. And already this week (yes, it's Wednesday) I've baked this delectable classic white bread not once, but three times.

Scrounging for another favorite recipe yesterday, I stumbled across a favorite quote -- about both bread AND snow:

"When we eat the good bread, we are eating months of sunlight, weeks of rain and snow from the sky, richness out of the earth....It all becomes a part of us. We should be great—each of us radiant, full of music and full of stories. Able to run the way clouds do, able to dance like the snow and the rain. But nobody takes time to think that he eats all these things and that sun, rain, snow are all a part of himself."

—from Dobry by Monica Shannon

And once again I'm reminded why I love baking and eating such goodness every day. Happy winter, everybody! Here's hoping the goodness of true warmth...food, family, friends and faith...brightens your days and lifts your spirits, warming you from the inside until the very last frost melts away.

Back By Popular Demand...

I'm still frantically writing the last 2,500 words of my novel (tomorrow's the last day), but several of you asked me to re-post my December resolutions in November. So here they are, just in the nick of time. As I read over them now I realize I so needed this reminder. Thank you for requesting the repeat. And I'll be back on December 1 with Twelve (more) Gifts.

Turning Those Rants into Resolutions

This year I resolve to:

STAY HOME NEXT DECEMBER.
I resolve to "just say no" to the alluring drug of every holiday obligation: office parties, piano recitals, school programs, art fairs, and anything else that pulls me away from my family during the evening. Instead, I want to spend December singing carols, reading stories, sharing scriptures, and feeling peace...at home.

PREPARE EARLIER FOR NEXT CHRISTMAS
I resolve not to turn into a "wicked stepmother" of fairytale proportions on December 24, suddenly panicking over what's not done and taking it out on those nearest and dearest to me. I will not yell at anyone to help wrap, help assemble, help mail, help deliver, help organize, help clean, help cook, help decorate. I will not yell. Period. I will speak in reverent tones and spread nothing but joy on Christmas Eve. I commit now to a stress-free Christmas Eve, whatever the cost.

FIT IN MY CLOTHES NEXT DECEMBER
I will not allow my burgeoning to-do list to eclipse my morning workout. I will not eat a dozen of my own fresh-baked cookies on-the-run every day because I can't make time for a good lunch. I will not eat a steady stream of chocolate from 8 pm to midnight to help me stay awake. I will simply go to bed. And get up early enough to incorporate a workout into my day. I will take care of myself first.

BE OF GOOD CHEER NEXT DECEMBER
Next year I will not have a cow when we bring up the Christmas china, only to discover that the contractors were not gentle when they moved the crate and the entire set is shattered. I will just be grateful we have food, and plates to eat it on. I will be grateful we had contractors work on our basement instead of doing it ourselves. I will be grateful Christmas is coming, with or without the special plates. I will not let anything so immaterial as a material loss get in the way of my holiday spirit.

DO LESS FLYING BY THE SEAT OF MY PANTS
While I love my innate flexibility and utter spontaneity, leaving too much to the last minute, or worse, to chance, is one of my biggest weaknesses. I will plan more and fret less. I will make a list and check it twice. I will make room for the most important things first.

LIFT A SIGNIFICANT BURDEN NEXT DECEMBER
Sure, we did the "giving tree," the donation to the food bank, the children's book drive, the open house benefiting Mothers Without Borders, and enjoyed participating in all of them. But I want to feel like we made a sacrifice as a family that made a significant difference. I resolve to set aside money all year long to do one significant act to bless someone else's life.

BLOG ABOUT MORE OF MY FAVORITE GIFTS
That was one of the most meaningful things I did last December, and I already have at least three more posts already written in my head. I'm going to prepare a few early, write a few more as they come to me, and be glad I have that time to reflect, and rejoice in those of you who take time to respond.

I'm actually glad this hit me this way this Christmas, because NOW I'm totally worked up, totally motivated to make changes, totally on board to start making progress NOW.
It feels good to turn those rants into resolutions, and hopefully by next December those rants will become raves. I'd love to hear your rants, and how you plan to turn them into raves this year.

Exceeding Expectations

Color possesses me.
That is the meaning of
this happy hour:
Color and I are one.
I am a painter. —Paul Klee





Last weekend I drove up the canyon on the brink of tears.
This was not sadness, people. I was exulting in all the beauty that surrounded me. Fall colors will do this to me, without warning! Sometimes the intensity just overwhelms me. On top of it all, I was embarking on an adventure: A whole week away, with just me and my paint...and Charles Reid.

The Reids said they haven't been to Jackson Hole for 25 years. (That's a long time.) And I'm so glad they decided to come back. As I sat in the classroom on that first day, I had that same brink-of-tears feeling overcome me. The green dot on my nametag placed me on the front row, and I could hardly believe I was in a studio with Charles Reid, watching him paint, sitting so close I could watch every nuance unfold! Sometimes the entire class would hold its collective breath as we watched him work a few colors together on the paper...and then we'd all let out a collective, simultaneous, deeply satisfied "Hmmmm" or "AAhhhhh" when we saw him turn it into something particularly beautiful.

Charles and his wife, Judy, are the loveliest people. He is quite possibly the world's greatest living watercolorist, and yet was unerringly kind in his critiques, always very encouraging, and looking to find something praiseworthy in every piece. She is a former kindergarten teacher, and ran the workshop with just the right balance of kindness and efficiency needed to keep 18 artists on track.

Here's what I painted this week:
(The first three were done live, from posed models, and the rest are from historical photos in and around Jackson Hole. The last one isn't finished.)























As the workshop came to a close, and I watched Charles paint for what could be the last time, I was again overcome with joy—just the sheer awe of watching him work, doing things so daring we'd never think to attempt them ourselves, and then watching the sensational results that followed: The touch of the master's hand. That afternoon I had the distinct impression that this was a tiny glimmer of what we all must have felt as we watched The Creator shape the earth, spinning the universe into existence with a mere stretch of his hands. We knew we were witnessing something glorious.






























I hope I never lose what I gained this past week. I hope I never see a face or horse or a landscape in the same way after watching Charles Reid paint. I hope all that wonder and expression and confidence and genius will somehow insinuate its way into my own work.


Jeff and the kids joined me in Jackson Hole on Friday morning, and we spent most of the weekend swooning over the grandeur of the Grand Tetons. Followed by a long drive back to reality.

Sigh. Deep Breath. I'm home.

______________________________________________________________
p.s. If you missed Mr. Cool's commercial (it aired between conference sessions) here's a link to view it on vimeo:

It's the Chance of a Lifetime...And I'm Taking It!

When I was just a young girl, my dad brought home this book. Instantly, I was in awe of this amazing painter who could create such beautiful, lifelike portraits with what seemed like just an effortless flick of the brush. I pored over the pages and pages of portraits, speechless with admiration.

Then, more than a decade later, my sister-in-law asked me to do a painting of the romantic spot where they got engaged...a small villa outside Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. A little panicked and rusty, I called my dad to see if I could spend a day in his studio, and he pulled out this book. As I carefully watched the way the artist laid down clean washes of mingled color, organizing complex landscapes into patterns of shapes, I regained my confidence, and created this:

For the past ten years I've been painting seriously, sometimes full-time, and taking week-long (or extended) workshops from some of North America's finest watercolorists, including Ted Nuttall, Joseph Stoddard, Carl Purcell, Linda Kemp, Brenda Swenson, and Jean Grastorf. I've bought their books, and frequently demonstrate their techniques in my classes at UVU. Each of them has been amazingly influential, pulling me out of creative ruts, shaping my approach and leading me to exciting discoveries.

But ever since I opened that first book I mentioned (and deeply for the past ten years) I have held out this dream of studying with the master, Charles Reid. He lives on the east coast, and primarily teaches there—and in Europe. His workshops frequently sell out over a year in advance. But this year he's venturing farther west, and I found a workshop within driving distance. Of course, when I inquired, the workshop was full. But they offered to put me on a waiting list. Okay, whatever.

Then earlier this week, they called me to say they had one opening...and they were offering it to me. I was practically giddy. I immediately called my husband, hoping against all hope that he'd at least be willing to consider the idea. Knowing my lifelong dream, how rarely Charles ventures west and how much I idolize him, he didn't even hesitate. He just said, "I think you should do it." (Bless this man!) My amazing dad offered to teach my classes for me next week. (Thank you, Dad!) And so, I'm off!

I feel like a kid at Christmastime waiting for Santa Claus to come. I am DYING over this opportunity of a lifetime to watch him paint, work directly with him, learn from the master. So all next week I will be in a small resort town near Yellowstone, painting every day from 9:30 to 4:30 with the inimitable Charles Reid.

Yay!

Gone.

• Lazy mornings and lavish midday brunches (Crepes with peaches and whipped cream, anyone?)
• Long unscheduled days, open to all kinds of possibility.
• Lingering conversations, unhindered by the demands of time.
• Vacationing to favorite getaways, until we're worn out from our own self-imposed fun.
• Finding a comfy spot to curl up and bury our nose in a book, and another, and another.
  
• Lounging on the patio and dining al fresco.
• Practicing golf swings with Grandpa.
  
• Walking barefoot on the lawn, with grass tickling our toes.
• Wonderful friends visiting from faraway places.
• Sticky snow cones staining our tongues and dripping down our wrists.
• Leisurely walks on mountain trails to warm springs and gushing waterfalls.
  
• Downtime to think, and ponder, and daydream.
• Fabulous sleepovers with cousins, cousins, and more cousins.
  
• Late-night movies, revisiting old classics and new releases with equal fascination.
• Dad reading novels out loud before bed.

The kids started school yesterday.
Our summer is officially over.
But the magical sun-drenched memories will warm us when the weather chills.

Up, Up and Away...

Last weekend my sweet and brave husband took all three of the kids up to Salt Lake for an overnighter, leaving me here...and free to paint! I hardly knew what to do with so much unscheduled and uninterrupted time! Once I got over the light-headed giddiness, I was able to make a strong beginning on a project I've been waiting to start for a long time. It was so exhilarating...even if I was up until the wee hours. Time flew by because I was loving what I was doing, and completely lost in the flow of it all. Literally.

All this week I'm spending my days (and one night as well) up in Salt Lake at a watercolor workshop. Today was fabulous! The teacher is nationally renowned, I've admire his work for a long time, and his demonstration turned my world upside-down and inside-out. His process is so very different from the results. It was astonishing to see how very slowly, meticulously and painstakingly he created this loose, splashy, spontaneous-looking painting. (I'm sure there's a metaphor for life in there somewhere, but I'm a bit too tired to attempt to verbalize it.) :)

So you won't be hearing from me much (if at all) this week...but I'll be back before you know it. (Hopefully with a mind-bending psychological thriller of an SOS story!) Until then...

Here's a great quote from the workshop today, which is also a good metaphor for life:

"Artistic expression is a spirit, not a method, a pursuit, not a settled goal, an instinct, not a body of rules."- Foreword, Group of 7 Exhibition of Paintings, exhibition catalog, Art Gallery of Toronto, 1922.

I also like this one:

"The creative process is in fact, a surrender to this great life force and intelligence that has shaped us all. It is the spirit of the great creator moving through us. If we let this happen, without fear and resistance, we can act spontaneously letting this energy flow through us and direct us. This is the spirit that informs our creativity and allows us to express it in our own unique way." --Marsha Stonehouse

Can you see why I love it so much?

My Warm, Fuzzy World

Most people don't know this about me: I wear glasses. Really, I should say "I have glasses". Because I don't actually wear mine, except to drive. And sometimes to watch movies. I am near-sighted. But not enough so to impair my daily functioning. (Actually, "functioning" is debatable and highly subjective. But the bottom line is, I CAN see.)

I can say that with full confidence in contrast to my husband, who is also near-sighted but CANNOT SEE without his glasses. I remember feeling rather shy and sheepish when we went swimming together on one of our first dates, hoping he wouldn't notice all my figure flaws. Then I realized he had to take his glasses off to swim. Yippee! He had no idea how my thighs were really shaped. I was safe!

I'll admit sometimes I can't see quite enough.
I squint like crazy at restaurants where I have to order from a menu on the wall. I don't recognize friends from a distance. (I almost didn't recognize my own MOTHER-IN-LAW from across a large gallery in a museum a couple of weeks ago!)

But usually I can see just enough.
I can't see the dirt in my house, unless I get down on all fours. I can't see the flyaway ends in my hair unless I pull one right into my face. I can't see the blemishes in my skin unless I practically kiss the mirror. And I kind of like it that way. The good news? is that I can't see YOUR flaws either...don't notice the dirt and the dust, the blemishes or the frizz. Everyone is pretty much beautiful to my artist's eye.

I choose to live in a world that I can see, but not too sharply. It's all just a little soft around the edges. Like an impressionist painting. And I like to think that translates into a softness of attitude too. Choosing to overlook certain details around the edges and looking harder for the ESSENCE of those around me. Catching fleeting impressions. Seeing more by seeing less.

It's the way I paint. And it's the way I live.

Actually Meeting Amazing Grace

Check it out, folks — hot off the press. The clients (who have become friends over the past few years) delivered my personal designer’s copy over the weekend. And I have to admit it always feels great to see something move from the drawing board and the computer screen to tangible form, on shelves, in stores. An actual product.

I asked to read the manuscript before I created the cover art so I could really capture the feel of the book. And it was a fascinating experience. As I slowly read through the book, it moved from being a chore to being fed.

Meeting Amazing Grace is intended to be a self-help book dealing with family relationships, and specifically in-laws, but it’s written as a novel (which in my mind makes it a lot more palatable -- I have a hard time actually finishing anything non-fiction). There’s even a surprise twist at the end that gave me chills!

But in this sweet little story they manage to weave all kinds of real-life relationship scenarios...with clear-cut, concise advice. While I’m the first to admit this isn’t Literature with a capital L, they’ve managed to make the material wonderfully accessible. And as I read I began to realize lots of changes, large and small, that I can make in the way I deal with my own in-laws (who are wonderful, by the way). The point here is that ANY relationship can be improved by these ideas.

The book gets its title from one of the main characters, Grandma Grace, who is truly amazing. But of course the intended double meaning is there, because as you read–and think about what they're teaching–you can’t help but come face-to-face with that other grace as well.

It’s kinda cool to know the authors personally, and realize they live these principles day in and day out. Their lives reflect this kind of healing and joy. (In fact the wife’s name IS Joy.) Their previous book, I Don't Have to Make Everything All Better, is a bestseller addressing everyone's need for emotional validation, and is packed with wise counsel. We've probably gifted it half a dozen times.

So whether or not you find your in-laws insufferable, the next time you're browsing through the bookstore...take a second look at Meeting Amazing Grace and think "Hey, I know the artist who did this cover." (And then open it up and start reading.)

Haiku Friday: The Taste of Summer

I'm trying my hand at a new adventure today: Haiku
I can certainly accomplish something that brief today, right?
So here's what I had for lunch today, all romantically zen-ified in 5-7-5:

chilled cucumber soup
summer tickles my palate
with green gazpacho

– or–

avocado floats
over a cucumber sea
on cilantro boats

And now here's the recipe, so you can taste summer for yourself. And remember: You can never be too rich or too thin...or use too much cilantro!

My friend CB sent me this recipe last summer when I was completely burned-out on cooking and fresh out of ideas. It was an instant hit, and I've made it several times since. But this is the first time I've made it this summer. Jeff was making those unmistakable "What About Bob" moans without even realizing it. This one could even rival the infamous "When Harry Met Sally" O: "I'll have what she's having." (Good choice.)

It's served cold. You cook nothing, even in prep. It's easy, it's delicious. It's healthy. What more could you ask on a summer night? (Don't answer that.)

Green Gazpacho
Yields a scant 6 cups; serves four to six.

1 ½ lb. cucumbers (4 to 5 picklers or 2 ½ large slicers), peeled, seeded, and cut into 1-inch pieces (to yield 3 cups)
1 Tbs. kosher salt; more to taste
1 large yellow pepper
1 medium ripe avocado
1 medium sweet onion, cut into 1-inch pieces (2 cups)
¼ tsp. freshly ground black pepper; more to taste
3 oz. fresh crustless Italian country-style bread, cut into 1-inch cubes (2 cups)
1 tsp. chopped garlic
¼ cup coarsely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
3 Tbs. coarsely chopped fresh cilantro - I use MORE. A good sized handful is about right.
1 Tbs. coarsely chopped fresh basil or mint
2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil; more for garnish
2 Tbs. red-wine vinegar

Put the cucumbers in a colander over a bowl or in the sink and toss with 1 ½ tsp of the salt. Let them sit for 30 minutes to draw out the juices and remove any trace of bitterness. Meanwhile, core and seed the pepper and cut three-quarters of it into 1-inch pieces. Wrap the remaining quarter and refrigerate; you’ll need it later. Cut the avocado in half, peel one half and cut it into 1-inch chunks. Lightly coat the cut surface of the remaining half with oil, wrap it in plastic, and refrigerate for later.
Rinse and drain the cucumber. Put the cucumber, pepper, avocado, onion, the remaining 1 ½ tsp salt, and the pepper in a food processor and purée. Transfer the purée to a large bowl and reassemble the processor. Process the bread, garlic, and herbs until the bread is reduced to crumbs and the herbs are fully chopped. Add the oil and vinegar to the mixture and process briefly to thoroughly combine. Add the bread mixture and 1 cup water to the cucumber purée and stir until well blended. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours or overnight. Let come to a cool room temperature before serving.
When ready to serve, peel the reserved avocado half and cut it into ½ -inch dice. Cut the reserved pepper into ¼-inch dice. Stir the soup and assess its consistency. If it seems too thick, add water until it’s thinned to your liking. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Divide the soup among shallow bowls and garnish with the avocado and pepper. (I also like to garnish it with MORE cilantro, the avocado pieces, and quartered grape tomatoes,)

(adapted from Ruth Lively, Fine Cooking Magazine, Summer 2007)