Soundtracks

I am now in the middle of my junior year, and as I've reflected on this, it has come to my attention that so many memories are tied to music. So much so that each year, even each term, has a different feel depending on the 'soundtrack' during that time. If you can't tell, I've been waxing a bit nostalgic lately.

~Freshman year
Fall: I think the background music for this one is Over the Rhine (especially 'Born'). This dredges up memories of being the cook's assistant in the residence program, during which I listened to a lot of this. I never thought I could be so stirred in my soul by that kind of music
(when I came to Gutenberg, my musical repertoire was pretty much the homeschool mix of contemporary Christian, classical, show tunes, and Celtic. I don't consider this a negative list, but growing up I wasn't exposed to much secular music, and struggled with whether or not I was allowed to listen to it). Those memories and feelings are still so vivid.
Winter: Regina Spektor, the score to Amelie, and the music of Thomas Newman (Meet Joe Black, Little Women, and Finding Nemo). I call this 'White House music', because I have very special memories of this from the girls' house at Gutenberg.

~Sophomore year
Winter: I half-despondently, half-mockingly referred to this term as "The Winter of My Discontent": halfway through sophomore year, just months from two-year exams, and the pressure was on. It was a truly maniacal time, in which I was struggling spiritually between wanting light and only seeing darkness (I was given light, wonderful light, but that's another story). To get through despair, I had to laugh at myself, and I really did learn to treasure my life at the time. Not surprising, but this term's playlist was heavy on The Decemberists and Kate Nash. Dark, light, and thoroughly crazy and fun. And not totally hopeless. I really think 'Merry Happy' saved my skin.
Spring: Ah, Iron&Wine and Springtime. And traditional Greek church music, a cappella. So there you go.

~Junior year
Fall: After the gauntlet of sophomore exams, we are finally fancy-free! This is the term of Old Crow Medicine Show and Sufijan Stevens (and lots of songs that remind me of my sister). It's almost embarassing how many times one can listen to 'Wagon Wheel' in a row. Or, er, so I've heard.

So now we've come again to winter, partway through Junior year, and I have over two years' worth of beloved music, music which has been integral in me coming to know myself. It is yet early, but I believe this term is showing trends involving The Weepies, Imogen Heap, and The Postal Service. I'm optimistic about this forecast!

Yours, etc.

The Christmas Mango: a Christmas tale

This tale began a year ago, and quite by accident. I would imagine that many good stories begin quite by accident. Really, all that happened was a slight mix-up about fruits. You see, budgets being tight during Christmas, my parents decided to take the traditional (read: cheap) approach to gifts and filled our stockings with fruit and unshelled nuts. As we unloaded our stockings on Christmas, we were exclaiming over the novelty of our stocking-stuffers (which amounted to an orange and a pear each, along with the nuts) when one of my sisters broke out, "All right! I got a Mango!"
The other three of us looked down at our pears, wondering why they weren't mangoes as well and feeling a bit miffed. My mother's reaction was entirely different; that is to say, she was as confused as we were, but even more so, because she was convinced that she had bought four pears instead of three and a mango. To save face, she calmly replied to my sister, "No, that's a pear."
Knowing exactly what she was holding in her hand, my sister contended that it was indeed a mango. Despite her explanation that it had no stem and was shaped like a mango, my mother still held, "It is a pear, not a mango. I did not buy a mango". We were all extremely amused, especially since the two were almost in hysteria over the fruit. Finally my sister cried out in exasperation, "It's a MANGO! Look! There's a sticker on this fruit that says 'Mamba Mangoes'! We were rolling with laughter, while my mother fell silent for a minute, contemplating the situation. Finally she acknowledged,

"I thought that was an oddly-shaped pear."

So my mother had found a random mango resting with the pears at the grocery store. We enjoyed it so much that it became a new tradition. Each year, it is a surprise: Who will get the Christmas mango? And rather than remaining embarassed, my mother is extremely proud of this tradition, because she started it. Quite by accident, too, which makes it even better.

Mice!

It is yet another finals week, and we have just discovered some intrepid wee mice scampering in and out of our bedrooms. They're obviously babies, because they haven't learned stealth, but go hopping around in broad daylight (they're also little and fuzzy, and quite adorable). This makes for some amusing scenes (Victoria and I were highly entertained by one that was trying to hide from us behind a clear glass bottle), but it also means that we have a nest, an infiltration. We've set traps, but the bait has been mysteriously disappearing, likely indicating that Mom and Dad Mouse are sending the tiny ones to scoop up the bait and bring it back to the nest, because they're dumb enough to comply and too light to activate the traps. So, I think we're resorting to mousing. What fun.

How's that for an anecdote? More thoughts from the term will surface over break, I'm sure, but what is immediate in my mind is that today is St. Nicholas' Day. This is an important day in the Advent cycle (which began three weeks ago), where we celebrate one of the great saints who conveyed the love of Christ to those around him. The story is that he knew a poor family who had daughters, and took it upon himself to provide the girls with money for dowries (thus saving them from their father's intention of prostituting them for extra funds). It became a tradition to give gifts on December 5th or 6th in remembrance of St. Nicholas, a tradition that is still very common in Northern Europe, where children leave a shoe out over night, to find it filled with goodies in the morning. Gift-giving at Christmas has a long heritage. So...St. Nicholas, Santa Claus, Father Christmas...remember where this tradition derives from, who he really is and what he did, and that he did it for Christ. I know I'm inspired even more to give gifts out of love and in celebration of Christ's Nativity.

With that, cheers to you for Christmastime!

In which Ashli has the house to herself, Part 4: Final thoughts for the final hours

Just yesterday I remembered an item on my wish list from earlier in the spring, a wish that developed out of a rather topsy-turvey school year (during which I went somewhat crazy). I almost desperately wanted to get away on a sort of retreat, to somewhere like a monestary, for a time of prayer and a break from the complete bedlam that had been my life for several months. With the end of school I felt some stress-relief, however, and funds not permitting, I quite contentedly decided that this summer wouldn't be the time for that kind of thing. The summer has been peaceful enough, and I don't feel nearly as hectic (although their are some crazy quirks left over from the school year snappage). What I realized yesterday, after being largely solitary for nearly two weeks, was that I have had my retreat after all. Not in the way I expected--I didn't leave home or withdraw from other people--but the aspect of solitude has been present. And how timely, too, as I get ready to move back to Eugene for another year of school. Timely...and not my time or planning, but God's. Glory to Him, for an entire three months of peace and rest and for satisfying my needs and desires but not always in the way I expect--reminding me how good He is and that it is good to cling to Him. Now, may I be grateful.

And now is probably the time to put my sister's clothes back in her room.

In which Ashli has the house to herself, Part 3: Jamming

Yesterday I was able to fulfill a good bit of my canning endeavors. If I do not live to can another item (which may be likely, since today's main project is cleaning out our home's own private Pit of Despair--the garage--from whence I may not rise the victor), I shall be pleased with yesterday's accomplishments. But that's enough drama. On to the real business.
I'm wary of canning as a method of food preservation generally, because I'm not convinced that cooking a fruit or vegetable to death, dousing it in sugar-syrup, then sealing it in limbo so it can hang out in your cupboard for months is the best way to reap the nutritional benefits of summer during the winter (okay, not done with the drama). I've found other methods for making things like pickles that so far have been successful...and quite tasty. Apparently, the traditional pickle, whether cucumber or other veggie, was made by letting the chosen vegetable sit in a saltwater solution at room temperature for a number of days. It sounds scary, but what occurs is a fermentation process. It allows the development of enzymes and friendly bacteria which enhance the nutrients of raw vegetables. And the taste? Well, they taste like...pickles. So I can have my pickles and eat them, with the benefits of their being a raw food. Sweet!

But I love jam. I continue to opt for the cooked-n-canned version (tried the fermented version, didn't like fizzy jam), but there are still alternatives that aren't so sugary. So, armed with honey and Pomona's Universal Pectin, I think I've found a happy medium with happy results...

The Asian Pears: Last weekend my dad and I picked several pounds of this fruit from my grandpa's trees. Unfortunately, I was adversely impacted by finding so many wormy ones, and just felt too grossed out to eat them plain. So...nobody else is here to eat them...aha! Convert the good bits into a nice batch of Pear Sauce (like applesauce, just not apple). This worked okay, but it was too runny and wouldn't cook down, so I just decided to see if the remainders of the pearsauce would make jam. I actually managed to cook it down further (it's probably cooked beyond having any nutritional value left), and with a little extra honey and some pumpkin pie spice, it turned out delicious! At least, the remnant that ended up just in the fridge and not in a jar is. It appears that, like canned tomatoes, when canning asian pears one has to take precautions against botulism. So maybe we're not okay. But then, I feel like these darn pears were a gamble from the beginning.
The Plums: I think this variety is what they call an 'Italian Prune'. I picked them off a random tree in my neighborhood that doesn't appear to belong to anyone. Tasty and beautiful, they turned into beautiful preserves, all peachy-colored with purple spots from the peel. Never made plum jam before, but the name sounds so wonderful I had to try it out! And with free fruit, why not?
The Blackberries: Good ol' blackberry jam. Tangles of brambles near my house yielded lots of nice berries this season, although I started jamming a bit late and had to scrounge a little to make the jam. This canning experience was remarkable because I was able to pick each fruit, and not necessarily with the aim of making jam. It was available, so I took some (why waste it?), and now each jar of jam that resulted has little memories and experiences preserved in it. I bet they're nice on toast.

In which Ashli has the house to herself, Part 2: Not so alone

The tea kettle is again on it's way to whistling, as we open the second installment of Ashli Alone in the House. Which, really, has not been so 'lonely' as I expected. Today and Monday have been my only two alone-days, reminding me of just how gracious God is to give me the friends and family that I have. I've had the opportunity to spend a weekend with my dad, which doesn't happen much these days (in my dusty attic-room, no less, which made me feel rather like Polly in The Magician's Nephew, a feeling I indulged as much a possible). I've also celebrated a long-awaited wedding, had tea with my housemates (who were in Portland for the wedding), spent nice time with my step-dad, and enjoyed the company of three good friends. I don't mind that this takes away from the me-plans that I have, because aside from being reminded that my friends rock, I am given another opportunity to remember that tend to go a bit bats when too often alone with myself. I get myself stuck inside my head. Time alone is a necessity for me, but not too much, and God knows this. Which brings yet another reminder: I guess I'm technically never alone. I'm glad sometimes (okay, frequently) to be without people, but I'm never without God. I think that's why I'm so comfortable with solitude, because it's not just me that I'm hanging out with. And with or without people, I'm learning what it means for God to satisfy us with good things.

A quote from C. S. Lewis' Surprised by Joy comes to mind. Of his childhood travels to and from school with his brother, Lewis says, "The homeward journey was even more festal. It had an invariable routine: first the supper at a restaurant--it was merely poached eggs and tea but to us the tables of the gods..." Yesterday Rebekah and I discovered the same thing about cinnamon-raisin bread with raspberry jam. A feast. Perfectly satisfying. It is amazing how good, and satisfying, good things are.

In which Ashli has the house to herself: Part 1

With Megan in Utah since last week and mum newly landed in Moscow, the tea is brewing and I am ready to begin the saga of...me, in the house by myself (well, largely by myself. Stepfather will be home most evenings). Megan, if you read this, I have a confession...I've been wearing your black leggings and have used the Jenny-cup twice without asking. Such is my unruliness when you are not around to keep tabs on me.
And what shall one do with one's stolen time? Hmmm...

Around this time of year I get the inclination to make jam. I think I've contracted a sort of harvest-bug, because this inclination has expanded to include other types of preservation, like pickles and such what-nots. Kind of a 'let's-prepare-for-winter' spirit. Recently I finished reading a book called Plenty (by Alisa Smith and J. B. MacKinnon), which describes the authors' year-long experiment in eating only foods produced locally, within one hundred miles of their British Columbia home. To do so, they actually had to pay attention to the seasonality of certain vegetables (sorry, no salad in winter!) and the fact that many produce items don't actually grow in the Pacific Northwest (tragically, bananas, and things like olive oil and cane sugar). So naturally, when one is living off the local land, one must take advantage of what's available. In part, I suppose this is where food preservation comes into business. As the experiment in the book showed me, there is plenty of food right at our fingertips, and much of it can be frozen or canned. I find it fascinating! Really, it's the coolest thing ever.

Although, in recent years more traditional ways of life have become increasingly appealing to me. I think a lot of it has to do with understanding the natural ryhthms and cycles of life, things which God intended to be natural to us. Things which we have lost contact with, and therefore make our lives feel disconnected and unbalanced. It's something to think about, at least.

And every September, I get the urge to turn sweet Oregon summer fruits into jams. Not that I'm saying it should be everybody's business to do the same, that you should reestablish your ties with the earth and be all natural. No. And whether or not someone has the same inclinations, he or she is always welcome to something from my kitchen!