Flavor #5 - Make a Quilt




Make a quilt - Teria Brooking, Ogden UT





February 13, 2010

The Metra glided from stop to stop, a nice change from the clunky CTA. It was Valentine's Day weekend and I was on my way to Arlington Heights to visit my friend, Kara. She had heard about my quilting project and had offered to help me cut out all of my material.

After about an hour of reading and listening to a drunk man, no doubt inspired by the holiday, slur his opinions about love, I arrived in Arlington Heights. Kara met me at the platform and we walked the short distance to her apartment. Hanging out with Kara always makes me feel a tad irresponsible. Kara is 24, has a car, a fully furnished apartment, and shops at Tiffany's. I, on the other hand, am 31, haven't had a car in over five years, live like a gypsy, and make my own jewelry.

Kara had everything set up for our little project. It was hardly surprising that she had quilting equipment. We always tease that Kara is the mother of our group of friends, so out of any of us, she would be the one to have craftsy, grown up, things like a cutting board, template and rotary cutter.

Kara pulled out her rag quilt for some inspiration. A rag quilt simply consists of multiple squares sewn together. Squares of the same fabric as well as a slightly smaller middle layer of batting are sewn together with a large X. The individual sewn squares are then connected to each other with an exaggerated seam purposely showing on one side. After completing the quilt, it is washed to encourage the seams to fray, creating a fun, fuzzy, look.

The first thing we needed to do was to figure out the exact dimensions we wanted. Because Teria and I had originally bought fabric for a different pattern, we had figure out how to use what we had. I had about a 1/4 yard of each material, so it looked as though we could get at least 8 pairs of five inch squares from each. That meant we could either have 3 inch squares with an inch seam, or 4 inch squares with a 1/2 inch seam. I didn't want the frayed seam to overwhelm the actual square, so we settled on the 4 inch square.

I was grateful that Kara knew what she was doing. Little things like knowing which way to cut the material first to get a straight edge, or laying the fabric so that the pattern was cut in the direction of the threading, was extremely helpful. Like my grandmother, I'm a bit of a perfectionist, and I appreciated the care that she took to make sure that the measurements were exact.



Cutting the fabric was a little intimidating at first, especially the longer strips. This kind of mess-up was permanent. You can't just paste the fabric back together. I was more than willing to hold the template in place, and let Kara use her experienced hand with the rotary cutter. She joked that it was years before her mother had let her help cut the fabric. After a while I decided to take a turn. Of course, being left handed, I had to switch the tools around so that she could hold the template and I could cut. Kara had a self-healing board, but I was still afraid of cutting too deep, so often after running the cutter over the fabric, it would still be attached in several places. After a while though, I started to get better feel for the angle of the blade and the feel of it lined up against the template.

Kara and I made up a good team, and the cutting went quickly. It seemed, however, that every time she left me alone, a minute later she'd hear a gasp or a grown signaling that I had made some sort of mistake. Usually the mistakes were a result of me getting impatient. It was a tough lesson that a small movement from my wrist could skew the cut and ruin an entire square, however the fact that the outside of the square would be frayed anyway gave me a little more room to mess up.


We had an excess of some material and not enough of others. The green polk-a-dot fabric, originally intended for the backing, produced 13 squares, while we were only able to get four squares out of the tomato-colored scrap from Grandma. The solid fabric was cut so poorly by the fabric store that I decided to take it back instead of salvaging only 3 squares.

And that's what we did for several hours; cutting fabric, with Olympics playing in the background, pausing every once in a while to watch the men's speedskating or the women's freestyle skiing. The result was 61 nearly perfect squares of fabric.




Better than roses and chocolate any day...even V-Day.







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December 28, 2010

We were supposed to help with my cousin's rehearsal dinner in a couple hours. Once again, we were two women with two babies and too little time.


A couple days before we had gathered for a post Christmas dinner at an Aunt's house. I had spotted a charming rag quilt draped over the back of a chair. I know that rag quilts are usually made from scraps, but I couldn't help but be drawn to comfy feel of the frayed borders. Gratefully, according to Teria, this wouldn't be a huge switch from the pattern we were already pursuing.

So, there we were, back at the fabric store Teria estimated that we needed at least three more fabrics to complete the quilt. The colors that we did have were all very saturated, and she worried that the quilt would be too dark, so it was our mission to pick out some lighter patterns to balance it out more.

We were building on 6 fabrics, so the palette was a little more complicated than before. I was so grateful to have Teria there to help me think outside of what I would normally pick. She discovered a fun star pattern that made me

realize the petals on the fabric from Grandma were actually gold, not green. After sifting through countless amounts of boring beiges I was able to find a lighter version of the plaid that we already had. Finally, to tie it all together, we decided on a solid bluish-green material.


It was a little difficult juggling children and shopping but somehow we triumphed! On the way to Salt Lake City, I looked at my medley of fabrics and marveled that stars, flowers and polk-a-dots could somehow work together. Unfortunately it looked like the new plaid and the old plaid could not be friends, so I decided to abandon the old plaid for the good of the quilt.



I sat back in the seat, determined and delighted. I had my eight fabrics! Now I just had to put the silly thing together.

December 23, 2009

My sister, Teria, pulled into the parking lot. It was two days before Christmas, and about an hour before I had to be on the shuttle destined for Idaho. We both knew that if we didn't shop for fabric before the holiday festivities began, we most likely wouldn't get another chance. Unfortunately, my two nieces, Ivey and Georgia, were blissfully asleep in their car seats. As Teria turned off the engine, we debated what to do. Either one of us could manage one-year-old Ivey, but three-year-old Georgia was too tall and too unconscious to be held for a significant amount of time. I could shop while they all waited in the car, but being that I'm incredibly sentimental and that Teria had suggested this whole quilt idea, I had hoped we could work on it together. Finally, we settled on a plan. Carefully, we laid Georgia in a bed fashioned out of some blankets and a large Toys "R" Us cart. With me manning the cart, and Teria toting Ivey, we entered Joanne's Fabrics.

The fabric store was a familiar sight. Many of my early theatre costumes had started in such a place. My mother would buy the fabric, and my grandmother, a gifted seamstress and perfectionist, would labor over it until it was perfect. It didn't matter what role I had.


If I was a Bar Wench, you could be sure I was the best-dressed Bar Wench on stage.

Purposefully, we made our way over to the quilting books. I had browsed through different patterns on the internet, but hadn't settled on anything. As I thumbed through the different magazines, I began to feel very ignorant. There was so much that I didn't know, and frankly, didn't have time to learn. Teria had actually made quite a few quilts and could translate some of the jargon, but eventually we decided it would be best to ask the woman at the cutting counter for help.

The elderly woman eyed me over the rim of her glasses and asked how much sewing I did. I replied that I didn't. I half-expected her to roll her eyes, but instead she pondered for a moment, then led us back to the magazine rack. She pointed out a magazine that organized patterns by skill level. It also conveniently listed all of the required dimensions and even made fabric suggestions.

Gratefully, I skimmed through the magazine. While my eyes the coveted the workmanship of the more advanced level, I knew that I needed to be smart about this. This was my first quilt and there was no need to be over-ambitious. Reluctantly, I flipped to the Beginner section. There we found a simple, but fun pattern. By simple, I mean a bunch of squares sewn together. By fun, I mean charming and random fabrics.


So, we finally had a pattern; now came the hard part. Our caravan journeyed over to the fabric section. The quantity and variety of material was a little daunting. Gratefully, I had 2 pieces of fabric that I had inherited from my Grandmother's collection. Using this as our foundation, Teria and I started pulling bolts to add to the palette.

By this time, the girls had awakened from their surprisingly peaceful sleep. Unfortunately, this meant I would soon lose my shopping partner. Georgia was unimpressed by her sleeping quarters and Ivey was already pointing out every Santa item she could see.

While Teria chased her curious children around the store, I continued to sort through paisleys and polka-dots. It fascinated me that some fabrics just seemed to belong together, while others were an assault to the eye. Of course, I was just following my instincts. As far as I knew, my assortment of fabric could turn out to be a complete mess.

Teria had rounded up the girls, signaling it was time to go. I had settled on four fabrics in addition to the two from Grandma. I probably needed three more, but we were cutting it close, and there was a long line. Only in Utah would there be long lines at a fabric store. We ended up having the store hold the fabric, so that we could make it to the shuttle in time.

The shuttle pick-up was at a Flying J. Surprisingly I had some time to run inside and get Teria the cash to purchase my material. She had said fabric was expensive. I currently live in Chicago, the city with the highest income tax in the nation, so I took out $60.00.

When I arrived back at the car, I asked how much she thought it would be. She pondered for awhile, and I braced myself for the news. Finally, she answered, "Probably at least $20."


I love Utah.




*This blog entry, I am grateful for family, and for family traditions. At one point while we were shopping, Ivey came racing around the corner yelling excitedly, "Kackee! Kackee!", her attempt at my name. As I swooped her up in my arms, I felt so tremendously grateful to be an aunt, and to be continuing this quilting tradition with my older sister.





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Flavor #4 - Take an Art Class


Take an art class - Linda Shearer, Idaho Falls, ID






November 22, 2009

My left hand holds the paintbrush, the right hand rests in my pocket. This has become my standard painting pose. Today's class is the last of five, and the first time working with full color. I looked down at my palette, loaded with more variety than ever before. It was nice to see red and yellow. I had missed them.

I faced the still life. Random pieces of plastic fruit and glass bottles stared back at me. I breathed in and scooped some paint onto my brush. Because it was the last day, I refused to worry about anything. Today, I was going to have fun.

I started with the apple. The red on my palette was as cherry as a jolly rancher, so I deepened it with the chromatic black I had created with blue and brown. I applied this as the main color, then layered in oranges, and yellows, even a touch of lavender where the light hit the strongest. Crazily enough, I was pretty successful. Steve came over to inspect my work. Although I'm sure he disapproved that I was ignoring the other shapes, he didn't let on. Instead, he complimented some of the shading, and I restrained my usual self-criticism.

When I was satisfied with the apple, I moved onto the pear. This time I had fun trying on three or four shades of green. It seemed that a lot of the pressure I had put on myself was gone, so I could experiment. And not only did I experiment on the palette, but on the canvas as well. When I applied the wrong color, I just wiped the brush and tried again. This little action may not seem like much, but for me, it was truly a breakthrough! I no longer felt the need to judge myself or achieve results the same way as everyone else. I was figuring it out my way and loving it.

As always, the time passed by like nothing at all. In the last couple minutes of class I tacked a stem onto each, completing my fruit duo. They weren't much to look at, but they were mine, and more importantly, I had fun doing them. For the last time, each of us recycled what was left of our paint and returned our easels to the corner of the room. Because this was the last class, we didn't have the option of leaving the paintings on the drying rack. As I rocked my painting under the hand dryer, I reflected on the last five weeks; the Southpark recaps and the sports talk, the sighs of frustration and the tiny victories. It had been a bumpy ride, but surprisingly I wasn't discouraged.

Who knows, I might just show up at Lill Street again someday soon.

Life Lesson:

1. Be more afraid of the chances not taken.

On our first day of class, Steve had warned that our biggest hurdle would be the critic in our own minds. He wasn't kidding. If we let it, that critic can prevent us from becoming who we could be. I don't want to wake up one day, an old woman wondering what I've missed out on because of self-doubt and fear. If anything is going to hold me back, it shouldn't be myself.


2. You don't always have to know the outcome.

After class, Steve and I talked about figuring out your process, and allowing that process to change even when you finally have it figured out. I've discovered that I really like to have things figured out. These life lessons at the end of each entry is evidence of this. It's almost as if I need to have learned something, or the class isn't worth it. But more and more, it seems that you have to just let go and see where life takes you, and if you don't end up where you thought you would, that's okay. Even now, as I'm writing this blog, I feel the need to formulate the thought completely and cohesively before................typing. Sometimes I just have to throw words out on the page and let the point of the piece reveal itself as I go.

3. Being uncomfortable isn't always a bad thing.

I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little relieved that it's over. I have a hard time participating in things that I'm not naturally good at. However, I think that uncomfortable state is important in our progress as human beings. We can either turn and run, or grit our teeth and push through the conflict. There were a couple times that I just wanted to give up today, but I pushed through and was able to enjoy some of the fruits, pun intended, of my labor.

So, this blog entry, I am grateful for that little voice inside that fights to be heard even when my fears try to drown it out. Hopefully one day, it will be the stronger voice.

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November 15, 2009

It occurred to me as I nibbled on a blueberry scone, still warm from the cafe downstairs, that I'm not very good at this.

I was laying down the foundation for one of the glass bottles and thinking how unlike glass it appeared. Normally this realization would cause me stress. Today, however, I calmly bobbed my head to Wilco, and scooped some green onto my brush.

Everybody else seemed to be very good at this. I glanced about the room, taking in the variety of style and color. I no longer remembered any of their names. Instead, I knew them by their professions: The nurse, the girl in advertising, the teacher, etc.

The nurse was quite talented. One moment she'd be working an outline, and the next she was transforming each shape into a living object. Of course, somehow we always ended up by each other. This constant reminder of my own inadequacy was always a boost. But even her natural and steady pace barely affected my mood. I think I was finally accepting that I had my own pace and set of struggles to work through.

Bored with the bottle, I moved onto the bowls. This was an attempt to apply Jason's suggestion of adding in the darks and lights as I go, instead of working one one section until it's complete. This is not how I like to do things. Maybe I'm addicted to that sense of accomplishment, but I like to fully finish a project then move onto the next. It's silly, but even my eating habits are evidence of this. I find myself consuming all of my mashed potatoes before moving onto my salad.

Well, my "salad" was now three blue bowls stacked on top of each other. They were metallic, so the light swirled and danced around the edges

in a frosty way. I thought it a shame that I most likely wouldn't have the time to figure out how to achieve that speckled quality because everything I did took so much time, and three hours just wasn't enough.

And that's what I've come to accept. It takes time to uncover your own way of doing things. It takes time to understand the paint. It takes time to transfer what you are seeing to the canvas. It even takes time to figure out which brushes you feel comfortable using.

And that's okay.

Life Lesson:

1. You are on your own schedule.

It's okay if it takes some time to figure things out. It's also okay if sometimes you never figure it out; at least you tried and know where you stand. How many years have I thought that I would be naturally good at painting, but never tried? Well, now I know that it's a lot more difficult than I thought. And that gives me greater appreciation for those whose paintings take my breath away.

2. "Failure is just the opportunity to begin again more intelligently." - Henry Ford.

Each class teaches me something new. Even though I may not recognize it, I am faster and smarter each time I go to the canvas.

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November 8, 2009

Have I mentioned that I medicate with food?

Here I sit in the First Slice Cafe, stuffing my inadequacy with a flourless, peanut butter cookie. A part of me doesn't even want to write. Today we explored the dead palette, and that's just what I produced: lifeless art.

The class started off well enough. Steve chose Radiohead as our musical inspiration. As a fan, I was delighted with this companionship however I realized that often my ears were anticipating my favorite lyrics instead of listening to the instructions.

I loaded my palette with warm colors like burnt sienna, umber, yellow ochre, and the usual black and white, and attempted to find the view I wanted. Once again, I tried to get the set-up perfect, flipping back and forth between the canvas and my viewfinder, and failing to actually make a stroke. I was perfectly aware that this kind of obsessing was what held me back the last class, so I made a conscious effort to restrain myself. I failed. Instead, I labored over every table dimension, and every object's proportions.



The first shape, a clay flower pot gave me a lot of trouble. There was something about the angle that I didn't like, and instead of moving on to another object and coming back later, I continued to punish my painting for another twenty minutes. No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to make it right. The angle of the pot put the table at the wrong angle, which, of course, threw off the shadows and therefore the placement of the other objects!


In frustration I mentally turned on Thom Yorke's mournfully sweet crooning. It was the song, "How to Disappear Completely"'s fault that I couldn't concentrate!

I took a step back. I was lashing out at one of my favorite bands. Clearly I needed a break. Steve came and peered over my shoulder. He suggested I stop working the part that was giving me trouble and move on to another shape. Even though I could care less about any of the shapes by that point, I took his advice.

Surprisingly, when I let go and moved onto the rest of the shapes, the choke-hold I had on my creativity released. I actually enjoyed creating the bottles and what little time I had to shade them in.




As I sit here now, I realize that the pressure I feel to have a complete picture at the end of the session, or to at least be at the same point as everyone else, is taking all of the joy out of it.
My expectations are hindering my ability to explore and take risks.


I judge myself before I even try.

Life Lesson:

1. Get something on paper!

I spend too much time with the set-up that I have very little time to see what I'm capable of. I get so caught up in the details that I do nothing at all. Life's too short for me to go through the motions of living while I'm trying to get a handle on things that will never be handled. I need to look the entire picture, discern what needs to take place next, and then layer in each step bit by bit.

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November 1, 2009



Steve set up our first still life with random white and grey objects.

We were using the scale that we had explored the lesson before. I filled my palette with black and white and began mixing the gray I would use for the backdrop. There is something very cool about mixing paint, a sort of instant fulfillment, as the colors absorb each other and turn into something new. Appreciatively, I glided the brush over the canvas; up and down, side to side, trying to make it as streak-free as possible. This part was soothing, easy. The hard part would be the filling it with objects.

About that...How exactly do you fill the canvas with objects? If I was going to attempt to recreate the scene before me, I would need some sort of measuring system.

If the rest of the classes teach me nothing else, this next little discovery is worth it.

Steve showed us a simple way to gauge the size of each object. Holding paintbrush vertically, arm fully extended, mark the height of the smallest object (the Styrofoam ball) on the stick with your thumb. Once you've established the size of that object, you can create the dimension of the other objects in proportion to the first. For example, the tall bottle was about 3 1/2 Styrofoam balls. As I was measuring the distance from the ball to the bottle (about 1 1/4 balls), it suddenly occurred to me why I've seen so many artists hold out their paintbrush and squint with one eye.

After lightly outlining the height and width of each object, and their relation to each other, it was time to translate what I saw onto the canvas. Looking through my view finder, I saw 2 jars, a ball, and a bottle. Shyly I attempted one of the jars. After about twenty minutes, I took a step back. It looked like a jar! ...If a jar looks like a gray blob, that is. I furrowed my brow. This was more difficult than I thought. Uninspired, I moved on to the bottle. After a few strokes, I could feel myself getting overwhelmed. I looked around me for some sort of comfort. That was a mistake. I was clearly far behind everyone else.


I brushed aside my envy, and tried to focus.
Jason had said we needed to break things down into larger shapes, then layer in the detail.
Exhaling loudly, I turned to face the bottle once again. i broke down the bottle into 2 rectangles and a triangle.

And I tried to just focus on that. Instead of being overwhelmed by the object as a whole, I built it shape by shape; and sure enough, slowly these rectangles and triangle translated into the outline of tall, narrow, bottle!

Of course, it's not enough to have just an outline. Looking at the object as a whole, the colors dissolved into one another, but if I blurred my vision, I could see the bottle peel off into more shapes, like one of those Paint by Number kits. So, I treated it like a Paint by Number kit and filled each shape with various shades of gray, until my outline became three-dimensional.


Life Lesson:

1. The "big picture" is made up of dozens of other pictures.

The gray Styrofoam ball was three shades of gray, not one. You can't expect to apply one color and have it turn out the way you would like. Life is the same way. Most large goals peal off into many smaller other goals. I was going to have to be patient and realize that my first attempt at painting might not be as easy as I thought

2. Not trying is the same as failing.

The jar looked like a gray blob because I didn't want to fail. I think that sometimes I convince myself that maybe I'm not failing quite as much if I don't commit completely. I don't want to be at the end of my life, with a half-finished legacy because I didn't use my time wisely or became so fixated on doing things right the first time that I didn't take any risks. Life is messy and oftentimes you won't get things right the first time, but if you're going to make a mistake, make it loud and obvious, instead of tiptoeing around the issue.

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October 25, 2009



The building looked like an old factory. I paid the cab driver, gathered my things, and stepped out into a mixture of excitement and dread. Three stories of red brick and brightly colored banners loomed before me. Besides the method of transportation and the absence of a Care Bears lunch pail, this was not unlike my first day of Kindergarten; same nervousness, same insecurities. Why, at the age of thirty-one, did I still feel like a five-year-old? I shook off my anxiety, faked a smile, and marched up the steps of Lill Street Art Center.

Beginning Painting was on the third floor. I wandered into a
simple room with a high ceiling and paint-speckled floor. The space was light and open with easels, supplies, lining the walls. A small group of us, all women, timidly set up chairs to wait for our instructor.

Steve Amos looked like an artist. Beside the obvious giveaways, like the paint on his pants, he carried that artsy vibe I had come to recognize in my 20 or so years as a performer. He offered a quick "Good morning!" coupled with some commentary on his morning dose of coffee, then bustled about the room, gathering brushes, canvas and paint.

Once he had things set up to his liking, he grabbed the roster. As he checked off each of our names he requested a brief introduction; where are you from, what is your line of work, why are you taking Beginning Painting? As he went down the list, it seemed everyone had some form of prior experience or had a job that could utilize painting somehow. I was the only one there on a whim.

For our first lesson, we would be creating 2 gradient scales. Steve whipped up a quick example. The first scale was a smooth transition from black to white, the second scale followed the pattern of the first, but separated the shades into 7 rectangles. He made it seem easy enough. Each of us dolloped black and white acrylic paint onto our palettes, and went off to claim an easel.

From the beginning, I wanted everything to be perfect. The tape was carefully laid, the columns delicately measured. The inner rectangles were so impeccably designed that you'd never guess the point was to fill them with paint! I scooped some black onto my brush and took a breath.


It started off well enough. I could feel myself falling
in love with the texture of the paint and the soothing act of swishing from side to side. It was such a relaxing thing to have my eyes and hands work together with very little interference from my mind. As I mixed the paint and the brush make contact with the canvas little flashes of Bob Ross and his "happy little trees" teased the edges of my mind. Then, things started to go down hill.

I took a step back from my painting. Somehow I
had lighter streaks amongst my darker shades.This inconsistency in the color broke up the intended transitional quality that we were striving for. Hastily, I started slapping the canvas with darker strokes. FYI, Acrylic paint is only open for so long. Once it gets tacky you can't work with it any more. Attempting to paint over it before it was dry just ended up making it worse.



I would love to say that I fully redeemed myself with my second scale, but I was taught not to lie.
It was the end of class, and I had little to show for it. A little deflated, I took my brushes and cup of murky gray water to the sink. As I combed over the bristles, and watched the stream of black and white swirl down the drain, I reflected on the day.

Steve had said that we would fail many times. I have issues with failing.

I decided to feed my disappointment at the art center's First Slice Cafe. I munched on my organic omellette, and pondered the day. Now that I was outside of the situation, my mind had the chance to teach me a few things. One of my problems was that I wasn't working out the different colors on the palette. Instead, I was attempting to work it out on the canvas and that was leading to an inconsistency with the color. I couldn't see this before because my brain was so clogged with thoughts of inadequacy and fear of failing.

I acknowledged with a grimace the parallels between my approach to painting, and my life.
Maybe I would be five forever.

Then, my 31 year old self stepped in and reminded me that I had never taken an art class before. So what if my scale wasn't that great. So what if I'm behind everyone else? This is what learning is all about! And if my approach to painting immitates my approach to life, maybe I can learn more than just how to paint plastic fruit.

So, Today's Life Lesson is:

Opportunity has an expiration date.

Jason talked about the paint being open, meaning that the time to manipulate and mix the paint was temporary. I too need to be open to opportunities that come my way and take advantage of them before the moment passes me by.


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Flavor #3 - Visit Amish Country




Visit Amish Country - Dave Coffman, Idaho Falls ID






Corn. Lots of it. I gazed out the window, sorting through my kaleidoscope of feelings. This day hadn't been quite what I expected...if I even knew what that was. What was it that I was hoping for, and did I really expect to accomplish it in one day?

We had left at eight that morning. Pretty early for a Saturday, at least for me. As Neal, Kara, Frank and I all piled into Neal's car, we joked that the Amish had probably been up for hours. We left our city of sky-scrapers behind us and headed east towards the most rural parts of Indiana. Two hours of beautiful autumn, quirky conversation, and an episode of "Parks and Recreation" later, we entered the town of Nappanee, IN, population 7,000. Neal fiddled with his iPod, and moments later I heard the familiar tune of Weird Al Yankovic's "Amish Paradise". I smiled. This is why I liked Neal. I could always count on him to make each occasion memorable.

Downtown Nappanee was about a couple blocks long and a couple blocks wide. A charming sign at the entrance encouraged us, or maybe even warned us, to "Embrace the Pace." As we drove down the narrow one-lane streets, we eyed each resident with great expectation. "She's riding a bike; do you think she's one?" "He has a beard and no mustache; he must be one!" We played this tacky guessing game the two minutes to our first destination, Amish Acres.

Amish Acres looked much like any small-town Halloween festival. There was a fire warming a large kettle in the middle of the square and the surrounding cottages were lined with scarecrows and pumpkins.

The first thing that caught our eye was "The Ring Game." The game consisted of a wooden pole, a metal ring attached to about four feet of wire, and a hook. The object is to stand a couple feet from the pole, suspending the ring in the air and dropping it at the right height so that it will swing forward, ricochet off the pole, and catch the hook. Sounds relatively simple, right?

Frank was the first to try. After 8 attempts, he lost interest. It was my turn. I stood back, my hand level with my nose, and released. The ring hit the hook with a playful clink and bounced off. I tried again, this time raising it a little higher; same result. Neal walked up in the middle of my fourth attempt and asked what we were doing. Just as I was about to explain, the ring hit the hook with a clank. To my surprise and child-like joy, I had done it! Well of course I had made it look very easy, so Neal had to try it as well. He stepped up to the plate and failed a glorious four times! This made the victory so much more delicious!

The four of us moved on to explore the rest of the village. The main shop was full of touristy items like bonnets and black felt hats. I picked up a doll clothed in the traditional Amish dress. Disappointment was slowly creeping its way into my mind. I had envisioned a local market with Amish neighbors selling hand-crafted items and fresh produce from their gardens. These cheese and fudge shops, while charming, seemed to be "Acres" away from what I was looking for.

Eventually we made our way to Kuhn's Cider and Grist Mill. We must have been between sessions because, aside from a few bees, it was uninhabited. Neal played bartender and poured us each a shot of apple cider. We chuckled as we sipped the sweet nectar, but I could feel that all of us were becoming less and less enthusiastic. In a last effort to soak up "The Amish way,
we attended the Apple Butter exhibition. We gathered around the steaming caldron while a man explained the long process of boiling apples into a smooth spread. At the end of the demonstration, we were offered a small taste. As I sampled this heavenly concoction, I took inventory of this heritage center. It was a charming representation of the Amish culture. For $12.95 you could take a tour of an old Amish home and a carriage ride; for a little more, you could see a play of how the Amish came to be. For the typical tourist, this would be more than enough, but for me, it felt ...incomplete.

A little deflated and smelling of campfire, we headed back to the car. I guess what I really wanted was to interact with an Amish person and catch a glimpse of what it felt like to be in their world. Without sounding like a contradiction, I was searching for the modern Amish experience, and it wasn't here. We were cruising the surrounding countryside, debating on what town we should visit next, when we spotted it: Our first Amish carriage! Now I hope I don't sound disrespectful, but it was almost as if I had stumbled upon Santa's workshop and discovered that he wasn't a fairy tale after all! It was an odd joy to see this illustration of a lifestyle so different than my own. The others in the car seemed to share my excitement. A little further down the road, there were two Amish men working in the yard while their children played under a clothesline of simple, dark-colored garments, flapping in the breeze. So far our experience had failed to meet our expectations, but this little glimpse of these peculiar people renewed our enthusiasm...and curiosity. So it was a farewell embrace to the Nappanee pace, and on to the rest of Amish Country.

We didn't have to look very hard in Shipshewana. On our way into town, we must have passed at least five carriages clopping along in their very own lane. The carriages were hard to miss with their boxy black exterior and reflective orange triangles on the back. Our metal mound of sparks and and vapors zoomed past them one by one. I shook my head. In my commuting world where I often gripe at the pace of the CTA, it was hard to imagine traveling everywhere by bike or buggy. However, I tapped myself, unlike driving in Chicago, I they probably never have incidents of carriage tailing.

We decided to stop and eat at the Blue Gate, a popular family-style restaurant nestled in the middle of Riegsecker Marketplace. The restaurant was like one large dining room, no booths or creative lighting to give you a sense of privacy. We perused the menu. The crew teased me as I searched through the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, for the most authentic Amish meal. After much debate, I settled on a noodle dish. The fact that it had "Amish" in it's title didn't hurt. While waited for our food we checked our cell phones and chatted about trivial things. I stole little glances about the room at the other tourists, some sitting close enough to touch, who like me, were trying to get in on the Amish experience. Our bonnet-wearing waitress, a very warm and hospitable woman, arrived with the food. My dish looked an awful lot like mashed potatoes bathed in chicken noodle soup. The presentation was anything but pretentious. As I alternated between slurping and chewing, I couldn't help but grin at the contrast between my old-fashioned meal and our group's discussion on laser hair-removal.

Outside the restaurant was an Amish man offering carriage tours around town. This carriage had three rows of seats, kind of like an Amish limo. We asked him if we could take a look, and to our surprise he raised the door panels and invited us inside. The interior was roomier than I expected. Kara and I sat down on the bench covered in royal blue crushed velvet. It was surprisingly comfortable. I wondered if all carriages were this way or if they designed it especially for the tourists' spoiled bottoms. For a moment I tried to imagine what it would be like to travel from place to place with no extra leg room and very little light.




Family road trips would be tricky.







We explored some of the Riegsecker shops and stopped at the local Yoder Department Store before taking off for our final destination: The Das Dutchman Essenhaus bakery in Middlebury. On the way out of town, we passed a couple farmsteads. On one side of the road there was a farmer driving a tractor, and on the other side there was an Amish farmer driving a horse-drawn plow. It was an odd feeling; almost as if the past and the present were running parallel before our eyes.

We were at the bakery within 15 minutes. One nice thing about these towns; they're so close to each other. The bakery was full of cheeses, spices, and many other fun things to eat. I picked up a couple jars of Apple Butter and treated my patient and good-humored friends to something sweet. At Frank's recommendation, Kara and Neal each indulged in a fancy cookie sandwich called, "Whoopie Pie." Of course, this name spurred jokes about "Making whoopie," most of the ride home. Frank and I each decided upon a slice of pie from the Essenhaus' proud assortment of 21 flavors. His choice, Coconut Cream. My choice, their popular, Raspberry Cream.

It had been an interesting day, and now we were headed home. Maybe I had been a little naive in thinking that I could just insert myself into this way of life. The whole point of the Amish culture, down to the buttons on their pants, is to be humble and set apart. And maybe the Amish tourism that I resisted so much, isn't such a bad thing. While obviously surface, it allows people to get a taste of the Amish lifestyle without interfering with these peaceful people. The elderly woman loading up her tricycle-like transportation outside the Yoder department store, wasn't there for our amusement and observation. She was living the life she had lived for the past 80 some odd years; a life that she believes God wants her to live.

For these people, a nearness to God requires a sacrifice that most of us have trouble comprehending. I think as time goes on I get more and more comfortable with the sacrifices my beliefs require, but as I type these words on my beautiful iMac, drinking a hot chocolate that I warmed in a microwave, I'm a little relieved that those sacrifices don't include electricity. If they did, would I have the faith to give up a lot of the modern conveniences that I have?

We live in such a media-crazed world and I admit having been a slave to Youtube and Facebook on more than one occasion. It doesn't seem too peculiar to want to block out some of that noise to focus on being a better person and connecting spiritually.

As we once again approached our city of steel towers, I pondered that it might be good for me to unplug for awhile. I made a little promise to myself to follow the Amish example and take a break from the "noisy media". Feeling a little better about my Amish experience, I tuned back in to the car conversation. The evening was still young and Frank and Kara were suggesting we see a movie...a movie I really wanted to see.

I bit my lip. This didn't quite fit in with my brilliant new plan. After debating for about 5 seconds, I shrugged a laugh.

I could stay plugged in for one more night...


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Flavor #2 - Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure


Raise money for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure - Robert Burke, Sarasota FL

In memory of Lois May Shearer
December 12, 1919 - May 21, 2001





Lori and I had both decided to walk the Komen for the Cure. Anyone who knows me, knows that I love to turn things into "events", so I had suggested that we have a slumber party and travel together in the morning. Lori and I didn't often hang out, but we ran in the same church circle, so I knew a few things about her:

I knew she was a law student
I knew that she had a great sense of humor
I knew that she had an affection for Disney
I also knew that her mother had lost her life to kidney cancer.


Lori's studio apartment was colorful and charming; much more successful than my clumsy attempt at decorating. One of the first things I noticed was collection of pictures on her wall, especially a portrait hanging in the center: Lori's mother. She could have been Lori's twin; same eyes, same smile, and as Lori pointed out, same forehead. Lori was serving an LDS mission in Africa when her mother passed. When she returned home, many relatives and close friends often expressed, most with tears in their eyes, how much she looked like her. I wondered if Lori ever felt some of that same sadness when she looked in the mirror and saw those pieces of her mother staring back.

The evening was casual and comfortable. We helped ourselves to a dose of Project Runway and Soft-Serve from the McDonald's around the corner, before bedding down for the night. As I drifted off to sleep on Lori's couch, I flashed on the pictures of my grandma that my dad had recently emailed me for my donation web-site. I smiled as I recalled how much he too had pieces of my grandmother in him.

The next morning came early. Lori and I got ready in less than twenty minutes and were out the door by 7:oo. It was a crisp and clear day; perfect for walking. On the bus, everyone was quietly settling into the morning. We coasted from stop to stop, picking up several passengers wearing our same t-shirts. Lori and I munched on our Powerbar breakfasts and gazed out the window. As we neared Grant Park, we noticed several hundred more of the same white tees walking south on Michigan Avenue. Knowing smiles flashed around the bus. We were all headed to the same place.

The scene at Grant park could have been a county fair...but PINKER! A Bandshell near the entrance blared an upbeat tune as thousands of participants milled around the sponsor tents. Lori played my guide. We weaved through the crowds of people to a table at the opposite corner of the field. There I filled out a pink "In Memory of" sign to pin on my back. Moments later a familiar Melissa Etheridge song signaled the start of the "Parade of Pink." A crowd gathered around the bandshell as women of various ages, wearing pink t-shirts, climbed the risers in front of the stage. The audience cheered as the announcer introduced the survivors ranging from 6 months to 20 years and more. Then as the music swelled, these beautiful women raised their hands and waved in unison to the chorus:

"I run for hope, I run to feel
I run for the truth,
For all that is real
I run for your mother,
your sister, your wife
I run for you and me my friend,
I run for life."


Hands shot up all over the crowd, and for a moment, all of us waved to the music together. Overwhelming admiration coursed through me as I gazed at these brave women, some without a strand of hair, smiling and cheering us just as loudly as we cheered them. I was surprised to see how young many of them were. Then it hit me that my grandma was actually younger than me the first time she was diagnosed. I turned to Lori who I could see was just as emotional as me. I gave her a quick squeeze. As we both wiped the tears from our eyes, she said, "C'mon, let's go get some free stuff."

Turns out that Lori and I didn't need that Powerbar. Even if there hadn't been least 100 crates of fruit in the middle of the field, the Yoplait and Sara Lee portions would have satisfied. We travelled from tent to tent collecting all sorts of free samples from chapstick to bandanas, stowing everything in the pink back packs we received. Was all of the free stuff necessary? No. Was it an added bonus? Yes!

It wasn't long before it was time to line up. The walk was a sight to see. People were decked out in everything from pink boas to pink hair. A radio announcer greeted us at the starting line, calling out the names of each team as they passed. The teams were made up of a variety of colors and...colorful names, my personal favorites being, "Save My Jugs" and "Team for Tattas".

We followed the steady stream of color, north on Michigan Ave where a portion of the street had been blocked off. A satisfied grin spread across my face. I always feel a little rebellious walking down the middle of the street. My eyes darted back and forth at the variety of participants. There was a man holding his wife's hand, sporting a t-shirt that boasted, "Real Men Wear Pink!" A young girl in front of me had a tag that read, "I walk in Celebration of My Mom," and the tag of the girl walking with her read, "I walk in Celebration of Jodi's mom." Several participants who were either too young or too elderly to walk, were being pushed in strollers and wheelchairs by their loved-ones. I was surrounded by thousands of people walking in honor of someone that had been affected by this disease.

So why was I walking? Was it because I wanted to feel good about myself? Was it because of my 31 quota? Was I trying to prove something? To others? To myself?


The sign on my back said, "I walk in memory of Grandma Lois May," but what did that truly mean?


The walk turned east on Balbo and continued north on Columbus down into the darkened lower levels of Randolph. Lori and I chatted about life, about family and memories of what used to be. She told me that she walked the Susan G. Komen because although there isn't a walk for Kidney Cancer, she would like to make a difference. I must admit, that part of me felt a little like a poser. You see, I'm not one of those people who is always striving to make the world a better place. Sure, I give up my seat on the train from time to time, but a lot of my daily focus is spent on....well...me. Not that I don't care about others, and not that I don't care about this cause. But I suppose I felt that my reasons for walking were a little selfish.

You see, my grandmother didn't always get back all of the love that she gave me. There were many times I could have called, or visited, but was too caught up in my own life. In focusing on myself I feel like I missed out on the years I could have really gotten to know her, and I'm sad about that.

So, I guess I walked to tell her that I haven't forgotten her. I walked to say that I'm sorry she had to leave sooner than she wanted to. I walked to tell her that I miss her; the moments we shared and the moments that we should have shared. To put it simply, I walked to tell her that I love her.

As Lori and I crossed the finish line, the emotional and physical exhaustion showed in our faces. I smiled at this quirky blonde with newfound affection. The walk was only a little over an hour, and yet I feel like I know so much more about her:

I know she loves the sunshine
I know she looks great in pink!
I know she is excited to find someone who will make her birthday happy again
I know that she has to put on strength and optimism everyday to survive in a world without her mother.

I gazed at all of the tired but hopeful smiles surrounding us. In a way I suppose we're all survivors trying to cope with the trials life has handed us. That day, we coped by uniting in a walk of hope; the hope that one more woman will get a needed mammogram, that one less family will be left without a mother or grandmother, that each dollar raised brings us closer to a cure.

Some say it's not realistic to hope for a cure, some say it isn't about a cure, but about people living better, longer, even with an unmerciful disease. For me it was about love, and I hope that love can somehow make a difference.


*This blog entry, I feel very blessed to have such wonderful friends and family. I raised far beyond my goal of $1,212 and I would like to thank the people below for their overwelming generosity. I couldn't have done it without you!

Robert Burke
Joy Crenshaw
Edward Gloor
Robert Graczyk
Pepi Hooczko
Betty Lindsey
Kate McFerrin
Robert McGuire
Jon Moran
Blair Robertson
Heather Rucci
Dale and Linda Shearer
Lindsey Shearer
Noah Watkins
North Shore 3rd Singles

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Flavor #1 - Take time to go down to the lake shore.




"Take the time to go down to the lake shore. Breathe in, close your eyes. Feel the air. Then take a minute to write down all of your blessings" Tiffany Fortna, Chicago IL




After a quick photo of my colorful cone and the transfer of the other cone to a very obliging ten-year-old, I started my trek to the lake.

It was a beautiful day! The sun was out, the humidity was low, and the cool breeze was saturated with the smell of flower blossoms. I breathed in deeply and scanned the scene around me. The neighborhood was alive with people taking advantage this rare and rainless day. I was charmed by several elated and over-stimulated dogs dragging their owners behind them. A few kids...and adults stole envious glances at my cone. The ice cream was already starting to melt, and my tongue was kept busy ensuring it didn't spill overboard.

Now, there are some food/flavor combinations that defy all rationale. French fries dipped in a Wendy's Frosty: one of the best combinations ever! Of course, there are a few who have disagreed with me, but I've met plenty more who share my Wendy's whim. Why does a fried potato taste good with chocolate dairy? I couldn't tell you. It just seems there are several flavors that for one reason or another are destined to form a long and lasting relationship.

Mint Chip and Tropical Ice do not fall into this category.

As my tongue skimmed over these polar opposites, it recoiled in confusion and disgust. Any positive qualities seemed to cancel each other out immediately. It became very clear to me that some flavors, like people, should never ever be more than friends. Still, I felt it was my duty to lick on. It occurred to me that all of my favorite flavors were on top and all I had to look forward to were the less-interesting, more vanilla (Pun intended) flavors.

As I pondered this sad realization, I passed a woman helping another woman in a wheelchair. I had already passed two other people in wheelchairs within the last couple blocks. I couldn't decide if this was unusual in my neighborhood, or if maybe I was just a little more aware today. I had found out the day before that my childhood friend had passed away after a long battle with Muscular Dystrophy. For a moment I turned inward. It hit me how many things I take for granted on a daily basis. I think that oftentimes we feel entitled to have things go our way. Case in point; my birthday. I was outraged that I had to walk in the rain on the day of my birth! It didn't occur to me to be grateful for the fact that I could walk, or that I had lived to my 31st birthday.
I need to constantly remind myself that life is a gift. All the other stuff that I feel I "deserve" is just the sprinkles on top. Even my ice cream cone, silly as it was, was a luxury.

I looked down. My "luxury" was now a non-appetizing grayish color, and tragically, we had achieved soggy-bottom status. Cone maintenance was now a full time job. Just a block from the lake, I quickened my pace a little.

I love being close to Lake Michigan. It grounds me. Being from the west, I often miss the mountains and outdoorsy things that used to be so accessible, like hiking and camping. I picked a grassy spot with a cluster of trees standing watch overhead. With one last mushy bite, the
cone was gone...thank goodness. After cleaning the sticky sweet off of my fingers, mouth, and a little off the tip of my nose, I closed my eyes.


The breeze brushed my face and combed through my hair. On my stomach I could feel the grass prick the tops of my feet and the earth's dampness latch onto my clothes. I felt rooted into the ground, and for a moment, apart of these creations so much older than I. I realized that it had been sometime since I had been out here. This free dose of serenity was 5 blocks from my house, and yet rarely did I find the time to fit it into my schedule. How many times do ruts like that prevent us from taking advantage of what's around us? We try the same flavors over and over again because we've found what we're most comfortable with. A new experience could disappoint, or require more effort than our daily humdrum.

That's why I chose Tiffany's suggestion as my first flavor. It's pretty much the point of this whole 31 Flavors idea. To continually take notice of life, to be grateful for all the opportunities life has to offer and to let fewer of them pass me by. When life seems gray and unappealing, to look closer and recognize the bitter and sweet that make up this adventure. Yes, some of those experiences will leave a bad taste in my mouth, but I could also fall in love with something I never expected. More and more I get the feeling that it's worth the risk.


Mint Chip and Tropical Ice; atrocious. But guess what? Mango and Chocolate; pretty amazing.

*I hope Tiffany doesn't mind if I tweak her suggestion a bit and choose to name a different blessing, each blog entry. Today, I am grateful I was able to be apart of Amy Wilde's life. She handled her burden with humor and grace, and through being her friend, I learned so much about compassion and courage. Though we lost touch over the years, I will miss her greatly.
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Sprinkle #1 - 15 Flavors



Try all 31 flavors at a Baskin Robbins on one cone - James Lloyd, Pocatello ID




At first this idea seemed a little silly to me...clever, but silly. Even if I could actually convince some poor employee to humor me, could I really fit that many flavors onto one cone?

Gratefully the Chicago weather was behaving itself so it was the perfect day for ice cream. With a smirk and a shake of my head, I set out to attain perhaps the unattainable. My Baskin Robbins of choice was one that I pass every day on the way to work, the one that inspired this whole 31 craziness in the first place. I had never stepped foot inside, and truthfully until now my impression of the place consisted of booted cars and the suspicious loitering phenomenon on the corner.

I ignored the Dunkin Doughnuts division and headed directly to the freezer to check out the selection. To my surprise and confusion, this 31 Flavors DID NOT HAVE 31 FLAVORS!?! Instead there were about 20 flavors, which my nut allergy narrowed even more. Am I the only one surprised by this? Well, after picking up the pieces of my childhood naivete, I concluded that 15 flavors would have to do.

Now came the hardest part, actually getting one of the employees to play along. A shy and slightly English-challenged employee approached me. When I didn't just point at a flavor, he suggested I talk to his co-worker. I think he could tell that doughnut holes and Bismarks would be less complicated than dealing with me. A sweet elderly woman took his place, but within seconds of my prepared speech, had the same reaction. I was beginning to doubt my ability to pull this off, when "Eva" came to my rescue. In the most professional tone I could muster, I explained my mission. To my relief, Eva nodded in understanding. She started filling a large waffle cone with the flavors I selected, however she was adamant about using the full kiddie scoop and by "kiddie scoop" six, the cone was overflowing. My hope started to fade. Eva didn't seem to fully grasp the delicacy of the situation.

No, you don't understand, I'm a quirky thirty-one-year-old, doing a silly project and in order for it to be symbolic and super cool, I need ALL of the flavors on 1 cone!
I was in the middle of stating the above in a less crazy way, when her manager came up. My speech took on another layer of desperation. I heard myself say something about being a professional writer who needed this for a special project. I may or may not have said that it would be read by thousands... Maybe he actually believed me, or didn't really care, but after agreeing to pay whatever he felt like charging me, he nodded to Eva. Eva began again, this time scooping about a tablespoon of each of the following flavors:

  1. Gold Medal Ribbon
  2. World Class Chocolate
  3. Orange Sherbet
  4. Mint Chocolate Chip
  5. French Vanilla
  6. Chocolate Almond
  7. Vanilla
  8. Rocky Road
  9. Mango Tango
  10. Chocolate Chip
  11. World Class Chocolate
  12. Tropical Ice
  13. Chocolate
  14. Pistachio
  15. Cookie Dough
As Eva scooped the last mini scoop I couldn't help but giggle a bit. I was pretty amused by this point, and looking up I was touched to see that her smile mirrored my own.

After thanking Eva one last time, I juggled my two very full and melting cones out the door. I had completed my first mission! As silly as it may seem, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment and optimism about the months ahead.

$12.64 (About 84 cents per scoop) seemed a small price to pay for such satisfaction.

About this blog:

The Mission:
Try 31 new things before my 32nd birthday
The Deadline: June 11, 2010



32nd Birthday!

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