Churn Butter Once or Twice

So. We are currently between Wave of Visiting Family 1.0 and Wave of Visiting Family 2.0, which means I have a teensy tiny smidgeon of time to recount some other things that we did during our blogging hiatus.

Next up: Amish Paradise!

I cashed in on my birthday present--a weekend trip to rural Pennsylvania--so we could enjoy the fall leaves and delicious country foods.

Typical Amish children and their typical transportation method? 

That's more like it.

David found his perfect chair. I'm sure he'll grow into it.

And I . . . was tired. But still having a great time.

We wandered about the countryside, made friends with the delightful (and partially toothless) gentleman at the visitors' center, visited a local farm, and meandered through the Kitchen Kettle Village with most of the older crowd from the entire Eastern seaboard. As far as delicious country foods are concerned, we ate ice cream. Plus popcorn. And blueberry pomegranate jam. And chocolate caramel fudge. Oh, and a pretzel for David.

Because we are so very health conscious (see: food list above), we then made our way to Hershey, PA so we could ride the Hershey's Great American Chocolate Tour. There were singing cows. How could we resist? We also joined up with most of the younger, costumed crowd from the entire Eastern seaboard, since we didn't consider the ramifications of visiting a world dedicated entirely to chocolate the weekend before Halloween. Bad form, Pan.

On the way home, David introduced me to Cracker Barrel. While I will be forever grateful for the bag of Sixlets we procured at their old timey gift shop to help me make it through the long drive home, I don't think the ol' CB will be making a repeat appearance in my life any time soon. Thank the stars.

On Food

'Tis the week of Thanksgiving, and the arrival of the holiday means that 3.5 denizens of our westerly inclined family will be deposited in our local airports. We shall all unite and feast. As for me and my house, we are ecstatic. In preparation for the arrival of our weary travelers, I've thought a lot about food.

In general, I cook the way I live. I gather as much information as I can from as many trusted sources as I can, and I make semi-educated guesses about what strategies and ingredients might work together. Then I try out my cobbled together strategy. Sometimes it works, sometimes it's an epic failure. Either way, I've learned a valuable lesson for next time. What I lack in intuition or past instruction I make up for in sheer mental exertion. I slowly--and sometimes expensively or painfully--gain my own experiences. The process makes my brain tired, but hey. Food. It's worth it.

The last seven months of married life have afforded me the opportunity to make several dishes that come directly from my family's collective memory: Grandmother's ebelskeivers, Julie O's decadent football cake, Laurie M's chocolate chip cookies and caramel brownies, the list goes on. Making my family's favorites lets me cook in a whole different way. The nature of my trial-and-error changes; instead, I know a person I love has been successful in the past, and that love and success permeates my efforts--regardless of the final result.  It's a beautiful, reassuring shortcut to a kind of culinary enlightenment.

But . . . there are no shortcuts this week. Pie is a realm my family lore never really explored, and I'm assigned to bring two of them. I personally baked my first totally from scratch pie years ago in a cooking class at BYU. I baked my second totally from scratch pie last year for Thanksgiving, and it was barely a muted success. I baked my third totally from scratch pie like a month ago, which was again barely a muted success. (David may claim otherwise, but he's contractually obligated to be nice to me.)

Fourth time's the charm? Let's hope so.

And don't get worried, Thanksgiving participants. If a palatable pie crust eludes me YET AGAIN, I'll bring a bag of chocolate chips and a tub of peanut butter and we'll commiserate together. Then we'll play laser tag, and all will be right with the world.

Return of the Jedi

We live many miles away from the majority of our family members, and a goodly portion of our friends. I love--love!--reading the blog offerings of my favorite people. But I can't very well grouse about the blogs of my loved ones being neglected for long periods of time and then let this little blog lie fallow, now can I? Yes--I definitely can. But I'll try not to so much. Deal? Deal.

So, where were we? Ah yes. Life, and the living thereof.

I could recount the minutiae of our existence of the last 3ish months since my words darkened this corner of the internet. Instead, let me sum up. I work. David works, but in a new job. We go to church. We try to see family and friends as much as we can. I am still mortally afraid of the telephone and large aquatic animals. David is still wonderful--though he manages to survive without a fear of sea beasts, which I find perplexing. We have adventures sometimes, but we also really like the library.  ("Just take a look, it's in a book.")

We have managed to get away from our regular routine over the last few months, though. First up: the Grand Colonial Triangle Tour.

Our first stop was Jamestown. If you think there is any better music to accompany your approach to the Jamestown complex than the Pocahontas soundtrack, then you are a crazy person. Or you have discerning taste and perhaps weren't raised by a VCR. In any case, the Jamestown museum is basically one of the most bangarang museums at a historical site that mine eyes have ever beheld. The rest of the Triangle couldn't really match it.

Replica Fort

David's new career path?

We soldiered on to Colonial Williamsburg.

Colonial gang members.

And eventually Yorktown, though we don't have any photographic documentation to prove it. Also not pictured: the amount of ice cream we consumed. 'Twas a jolly time.

There you have it, reader. We have officially resumed blogging. Let the peasants rejoice and all that.

Scenes From Our Disaster Zone

Tuesday

The cubicle walls started vibrating at about 2:00 p.m.

My first thought: "Construction is really loud today."

My second thought: "I work in a huge concrete building. No way that's just construction. Earthquake! AWESOME!"

Coworkers popped their heads above the cubicle walls and started to panic. I laughed, because I am from Utah and we are filled with earthquake-related doomsday scenarios from birth. The shaking stopped. A rather panicked voice came over the loudspeaker a few minutes later and instructed us to exit the building. We grabbed our belongings and scurried down the staircase into the sunshine. The day care kids played games on the lawn. An older bloke decided he was so disturbed by the quake that he needed to smoke a cigar . . . right next to the day care kids. (Who keeps a cigar at work? I mean, other than Prohibition-era mobsters?) We mulled about for 45 minutes, then we were told to go home. I cheered.

Saturday

Most news outlets predicted the end of days. David and I ran some errands and half heartedly tried to figure out how to get more prepared than we already are. We strategically parked our cars far away from any large trees. David practically pranced with glee over the prospect of watching a large storm unfurl. A hurricane wasn't quite intense enough for us, so we decided to watch Jurassic Park that evening; tropical storms are much more awesome when raptors are involved.

Public Service Announcement: The effects in Jurassic Park have aged remarkably well. Sam Neill's American accent is still rubbish.

Don't hate me, Sam. You'll always be Merlin to me.

Sunday

We didn't lose power during night. Joy of joys. The storm in our area turned out to be quite mild compared to what other areas received, and David feels a little robbed. There are a few branches scattered across the sidewalks and streets.  Church was canceled, so we made breakfast and enjoyed quiet time at home. David went outside to inspect the carnage--he only spotted one tree partially ripped out of the ground in our entire apartment complex.

It was located directly in front of our two strategically placed cars.

Mmm. Heaven.

Back when we were all stressed and engaged and creating our wedding registries, David mentioned that he didn't care about flatware or stand mixers or tablecloths. Above all else, he wished for a raclette grill. David served his mission in France, where he became enamored with melted cheese poured on top of other tasty foods. It sounded sensible--and wonderful--to me. So I did what any sensible person would do: I gave David a raclette grill in honor of our marriage.

Sometimes I make good decisions.

We had a test run raclette party with just the two of us a while ago, but we've been itching to share the love with the DC-area Knells. On Sunday, we accomplished our mission. And it was divine.

Here's to you, melty cheese. Thank you for joining homemade bread in its effort to negate all possible benefits of avoiding sugar this summer.

(Obviously this is a photo stolen from the internet. I would never sully the magic of raclette with pickles. As if!)

Obituary of Wendy's Concept of Being Young, Vibrant, or at Least Mildly Interesting

Wendy's Concept of Being Young, Vibrant, or at Least Midly Interesting died August 1, 2011 during a routine grocery store purchase. It was tragically killed by Wendy's husband's archnemesis, Meta. Wendy's Concept was a talented bargain shopper, cook, and relisher of the simple joys of life. We rejoice that because Wendy's Concept was embodied by Wendy in word and deed, It will live on in an even brighter and more permanent state! It joins the already-celestialized Wendy's Dashing and Dazzling Physical Appearance and David's Appreciation for Dizzyingly Fascinating and Ultra-Intelligent Wives.

Might as well start using a walker and eating prunes.

After a spectacularly bad day at work yesterday, I rushed home to snag some groceries and make dinner. The best part of my early evening? I got a screaming good deal on chicken, and I was really excited for David to come home so I could tell him about it.


Consequently, it is now time for us to mourn the loss of

WENDY'S (PROBABLY DELUDED) CONCEPT OF BEING YOUNG, VIBRANT, OR AT LEAST MILDLY INTERESTING

It will be missed.

Baking like a toasted cheeser.

Ahem. Who knew that marriage would turn me into an even less prolific blogger than I was when I was engaged? Eh . . . I probably suspected it all along. I blame the heat. No, really. Weather like this makes me feel like moving to Alaska is a good idea. That's a big step for me, given that one of Alaska's chief tourist attractions is its hideous whale population.

Still, we soldier on.

We scheme for the future and daydream about living in a state that doesn't roast its occupants' flesh--or bank accounts. (Any ideas, blogosphere?) We toy with various career paths. We make strides to feeling more at home in our new ward: David is shaping up to be the best 11-year-old Scout leader the universe has ever seen (I am not biased), and I'm trying to get acclimated to serving as RS Secretary. We deeply enjoy being near family and celebrating July birthdays and holidays. We read books. We marvel at our very own ClearPlay, generously bequeathed to us by David's crazy awesome parents. We host visiting friends and luxuriate in their company. David teaches with the missionaries and I bake too much bread to compensate for the summer's lack of slurpees and ice cream. (Counter productive.) I continue my now abusive relationship with Netflix--thanks for the price hike, guys. 

But above all, we look forward to the cooler, blissful days of the fall.

What do the simple folk do?

I'm sitting here trying to figure out whether leading the 11-year-old scouts requires taking the cub scout or boy scout online training (listen to me speaking in the present tense like I'm totally writing on a blog), and I overhear Wendy telling her dad on the phone that we have nothing interesting to blog about. So--bam!!--this is me writing my inaugural blog post on what we, David and Wendy now-married newlyweds Knell, do.

• We rejoice that Wendy now has a bone fide middle name. Her maiden name, however, got switched to NMN.
• We visit with family. We love having Wendy's siblings Will and Brooke (and sons) and my parents around. Tomorrow the three of us families, joined by my siblings Christopher and Kaile, are gathering at my parents to kick back, eat watermelon, and watch fireworks. We've been to Will and Brooke's pool twice (and our own pool no times), once accompanied by the grand ol' Preston. We love our families.
• Several weeks ago, before a tremendous meal with Wendy's bosom friend, and my mission compatriot, Ruth, we took a tour of the Library of Congress. It was a spiritual experience. I think Wendy said she cried her first time there. When art reaches toward divinity in full-postured nobleness, I either feel like I'm flying or like my body in liquid form is seeping into the cracks between the floor tiles. We love having art and the gospel in common. We're so in love. Swoon.
• We go to Cafe Rio. Because Wendy loves Cafe Rio. And I love Wendy. And Cafe Rio loves loyal Utahn consumers of their mild sauce.
• We buy frames, kitchen and coffee tables, and chairs and glory in our real-home stage of life.
• I drink Pero, and Wendy eats hummus. We make disparaging comments about said awesome and disgusting food items respectively.
• We watch lots of Doctor Who. Wendy is secretly tickled that her eternal roommate is gaining a love for the Doctor, Bollywood music, art museums, DC in general, Wendy's friends, and tomatoes.

Thus it is. Wendy's awesome. I exist. We're in love.

We hope you have a good Independence Day, or early Nov 5th, or what you will.

Two Months?

Tomorrow marks our two-month anniversary, but I don't quite believe it. If we had been married for a full two months, I would definitely have written more thank you notes by now. My stack of stationary is curiously blank, so I can only conclude that we just got married yesterday.

Marriage--the whole one day of it--is lovely. I think I am something of a cruel wife, though. Let us consider the evidence:

• Just when we were getting into a groove trying out different flavors and combinations on our new ice cream maker, I decided to forgo desserts and sweets for the summer. Sorry, David.
• During a particularly difficult work week for the both of us, I used some break time during my work from home day to try out the glorious miracle of a Kitchen Aid that is now perched on our counter, constantly gleaming its celestial, red gleam. So I baked some bread--for the first time ever in my life. I was buzzing with successful homemaker pride, so I shot off a picture and text to D: "Don't you wish you were home today?" Sorry, David.

 

Ok, I am not really sorry about the bread. It was delicious.

As Requested

Remember that one time when we got married? Oh yeah. I remember that. Here's proof:





Our photographer, Tara Butler, did a grand job.  She posted a few tidbits on her blog, too.

We had a perfect day full of sunshine and love. Ahh.

I have, of late . . .

I suppose we should talk about more of our married life than just the long string of altercations I get to have on a near daily basis with UPS/Target/Any Institution That Knew My Former Last Name. So, what have we been up to since we returned from our tropical vacation? A few highlights:

• Increasing our testimonies of IKEA.
• Piecing together the apartment. 
• Slowly introducing David to Doctor Who. This is a delicate process, demanding lots of popcorn and ice cream.
• Cooking. Oh my COOKING! I finally have space, fun tools, someone to cook for, and time! Bliss. I have much to learn, but so far I haven't given us food poisoning. I consider that a wild success.
• Exploring the new neighborhood. Chinese take out place = good. Dive Italian place = not so good.
• Adventuring with the VA Wittwers at the National Cathedral Flower Mart. My particular favorite moment was when the two nephews insisted on riding the carousel with Uncle David. D did a great job of balancing the needs of the two whippersnappers. Ben was prancing with joy at the prospect of riding his horse, and Liam was enthused as well. But by the time they boarded the ride, Liam was a little less than enthusiastic. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.
• Getting acquainted with our new ward.
• Reuniting with some MHS folk. 
• Celebrating Mothers' Day with Scott and Kari.
• Getting blown away by Alfie Boe. Also, figuring out what a Jonas Brother is. 
• Laughing really hard at Preston's adventures. Home slice is the biggest Harry Potter nerd I've ever known--and I have a master's degree in what is essentially All Things Nerd, so that's saying something. The photos of him visiting the coffee shop where good ol' J.K. wrote the first book were basically priceless.
• Trying--largely in vain--to keep up my correspondence and phone calls. Turns out that marriage makes me worse at this than ever . . . and I was pretty bad before.
• Wondering why there aren't more hours in the day.

Lessons from Establishing a Home, Part 176

If you hear any of the following statements from a customer service representative, chances are that you are not in a very delightful situation:

• "Yeah, those packages were sent to Laurel. You don't live there?"
• "I can't replace just that part, but I will sell you a whole new muffler."
• "Your rates are affected by where you live, and unfortunately, rates are higher in that neighborhood."
• "You got married? Congratulations. I'll need four forms of proof to change anything on your account. Yes, fax is the only way. You don't have a fax machine?"
• "We have a tiny problem. Ok, not a problem. A hiccup."
• "Who did you talk to earlier--the girl with dreadlocks or the guy with dreadlocks?"
• "Your wallet isn't here."
• "The water in front of your washing machine couldn't have come from the machine. Your husband probably spilled something and was too embarrassed to tell you." [False.]
• "Take a number. The wait time is at least 2 hours."
• "You don't have a middle name? Why not?"
• "Yeah, I hate it when our drivers do that, too."
• "If you're insured through someone else, your personal belongings are in serious jeopardy."
• "I see that you contacted us several months ago, but your situation still hasn't been adjudicated."
• "We have no way of tracking that."
• "Did you ask your neighbors if they took it? That's probably what happened."
• "You didn't need to wait in line for an hour. The central office didn't actually do what they told you they did."
• "Your front door is at least 1-2 inches too short."

Joy.

Validation

Aaand we're back.

So. A few things have happened in the time between when I was an active blogstress in the old space and when this new, shiny site became active. David and I flew to Utah, got married, honeymooned in Hawaii, moved David into our abode, started attending a new ward, etc. You know, life as usual. No big deal.

In the process, I'm conducting what is likely to be the most significant sociological investigation in this century.

I've often wondered how much of my Utah roots are plainly evident to outsiders. I became hyper aware of my speaking patterns when I took a linguistics course as a freshman. My professor could peg a student's place of origin with a withering accuracy, and suddenly all my provincial glottal stops became a marker for my desert upbringing. The horror!

Though I was never ashamed of my birth place, I did wonder whether my verbal tics would ever keep me from being a spy. Or a national news anchor. Or a BBC radio jockey. 

My roots became much more of a novelty after I moved out of my home state. Coworkers and classmates struggled to know that Utah is a real place. Bizarrely, fellow ward members of the time who were well aware of Utah's idiosyncrasies could rarely identify my origins. I was a blank slate. A cultural nonentity. A lone reed. One thing gave me away, however: my abiding loyalty to Cafe Rio.

Reader, have you ever wondered whether one of your favorite things is objectively good? I have. When the new Cafe Rio location was announced in Olney, I wondered: how would the Rio stack up to the rest of the casual pseudo-Mexican joints around the DC metropolis area? Was nostalgia blinding my taste buds? So, I blithely mentioned the new restaurant to a few impartial--and picky--coworkers.

Good news, denizens of the West. The deliciousness of Cafe Rio has a confirmed 100% success rate in my place of work so far.

And just like that, my identity is validated.

Pardon our dust.

Once upon a time, David and I decided to start a new blog. After we redesigned the thing to move it away from blahsville wedding central, blogger decided to crash and wipe out all of our work. Thanks, universe.

A better blog facade will be posted soon. Patience is a virtue.

Speak the speech, I pray you.

I can tell you right now, reader: the title of this new blog is deceptive.

When I was a wee undergrad, I studied literature--Victorian literature, chiefly. There aren't exactly a shortage of words in the typical Victorian novel. Since my brain was steeped in that gorgeous, excessive language, it naturally follows that I don't know how to be brief. Why use one word when I can use five words to say the exact same thing?

David, husband and fellow blogster of this realm, is typically not short on words either. We may be double liars here.

But, I can promise to be abstract. I can also promise to provide a ridiculous number of allusions to Shakespeare (see: blog title), the Scarlet Pimpernel, or whatever video tape haunted our family's VCR in the 90s. (I'm sure we'll slip in the occasional report on the life and times of the D+WK fam along the way.)

Let the games begin.