A Scene in an Airport

We are sitting in the Albuquerque Airport, it is 1:29 pm, and our flight doesn't leave for another hour. We are surrounded by people in a similar boat (or terminal, as the case may be) and the scene is definitely worth reading about. In the lull between the actions of getting through security and actually getting on the plane, people all need to be thoroughly occupied--Heaven forbid we spend an entire hour with nothing but out minds. So what do we do? We rely on the true American pastime--eating. The man across from me is eating pretzels and coffee, the women to the right of me are eating a picnic of cheese and crackers, behind me some people are eating ice cream from the airport Baskin Robins, and my brothers and I are eating Mike and Ikes and Whoppers. When the food runs out, so does our attention and we all rummage through our bags trying to find something to occupy us: I pull out my computer to blog about the scene, Arthur pulls out his computer to look at facebook . . . five people have books out but aren't reading them, two have books out that they are actually reading . . . and then Richelle calls because she is in the airport in Michigan with down time too . . .

Anyway, I'm diverted and I hope you are too.

In a word

There is probably a word for blogging about a movie about blogging about cooking, but I don't know what it is. Whatever it is, it is what I'm doing now. Mom and I went to see Julie and Julia last night--I loved it so much I almost went again tonight. Anyway, that's not the point. I had various thoughts as I watched the film--the one worth writing about goes something like this. As I marveled while Meryl Streep nailed Julia Child's accent, this was my primary thought: "Julia Child would make such a great singer." And, seriously folks, she would. Julia Child sing speaks (or sing spoke, may she rest in peace), which is exactly what my teacher is always telling me to do. Not only is it better for the voice, but it actually trains you while you speak. And Julia did it naturally--she basically came out of the womb ready to sing full-scale arias! Can I just say right now that that is deliciously awesome? Because it is. Hats off to the French Chef who is the Maria Callas we never knew.

Breakfast . . .

Most technically, my title is completely inaccurate. This tale actually has nothing to do with the breaking of fast that occurs every morning when I eat a bowl of hot cereal soon after waking up. But, following some colloquial custom, I suppose it will do. The day passed as days do--full of events and emotions and everything else . . . but I won't get into that now. Right now is not about breakfast or the passing of the day. It is really about what occurred as the day reached its close. Mourning the loss of a dear friend (may the 10 days that she is spending with her family pass in haste), Krista and I were left to our own devices. And while we were engaging with said devices I had the sudden urge to eat pancakes and eggs. Yes it was 10:00 at night and no that did not stop me. I whipped together some sunny side up eggs and corn pancakes with honey and ate until I was full. Did my body really need all that energy so close to bed time? Hardly. Was that a concern? Not tonight! And let me tell you--it was delicious.

On a Sunday Morning . . . and into the evening

When you have insomnia that keeps you up until 2:00 in the morning and your alarm goes off at 8am, you're not exactly inclined to to heed its call. In fact, you're much more likely to hit snooze or turn it off altogether and roll a safe distance away from it before dozing back to sleep. And believe you me, this is exactly what I wanted to do when after being up until 2:00 in the morning my alarm went off at 8am. But there was another factor involved--several, in fact. The truth is, you can't just send your alarm on a south-bound train every time it goes off before you're ready (which, let's be honest, happens most days). There generally has to be some sort of compromise. An unspoken agreement of "Okay, alarm clock, I'll let you snooze for ten minutes if you let me snooze for ten minutes." Which, in my experience, is typically enough. As far as "another factor" goes, the simple truth is that a girl with hair less than 3 inches long cannot show up at church when her hair has not been washed for 3 days. I think we all know why. So between church, extremely unwashed hair, and a promise I made to myself the night before, I had no choice but to jerk myself from bed this morning the first time my alarm went off. This behavior is directly linked to a powerful (though sometimes overused) word: SACRIFICE.

I think I've always held some sort of belief that sacrifice brings reward--if it didn't, we wouldn't do it. I don't know anyone that's that altruistic . . . or stupid. In this case, the reward came within a few hours of the initial sacrifice. Relief Society, Sunday School . . . Sacrament Meeting. Before it even started I had a smile on my face because the boy who Krista and I fondly refer to as "Draco" and occasionally "Malfoy," when we want variety, was sitting at the front of the room. We all know what that means--he was giving a talk. The highlight of the whole experience can be summed up in one sentence said by Draco himself as he told a story, "I looked more like Snape then, than I look like Malfoy now." *boisterous laughter* Yes, the boy whose name we never knew, but whose identity was always clear acknowledged the resemblance. If that, my dear reader, doesn't make you roll to the ground in a fit of laughter then all I can say is I wish you had been there 'cause it was awesome.

Choir practice was the jam session it always is, and perhaps one day I'll tell you about it. But it will not be this day. This day I tell you a different story. It is the story of three girls, all on different corners of the same intersection, all going different directions, united in a certain purpose. They yelled at each other from their respective corners. And what did they say? "Hey, so what time did we decide?" Yes. We confirmed our visiting teaching across an intersection.

So from alarms to Malfoy to street corners it has been quite the Sunday. Did I miss anything?

Pear and Gruyère

If you are reading this right now and have ever pushed a daisy, you probably know Ned. My instinctual hope if you ever have pushed a daisy and are reading this right now is that you are at this very moment being timed. And that in about 45 seconds and counting you won't be reading this or anything else anymore and will return to making the world a more beautiful and flowerful place. Not for any dislike I may have for you (which I sincerely hope I don't, but depending on who you are very much might have), but rather for a very intent like/love/infatuation for a certain pie maker who I would be crestfallen to find out was touching people only once. I like a man who can stick to a pattern--touch, 60 seconds, touch again . . . No one likes a repeat offender.

Aaaanyway, if you are among those who never have pushed a daisy, you most likely have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about . . . unless you are like me and a few other choice individuals who are enamored of a certain series involving Ned, pies, and daisies . . . and a few other important elements. But whether you are waiting for your minute to be up, are completely lost by my abstract banter, or are privy to all the inuendo, know this: tonight something magical happened. The stars didn't even have to align and it can happen to you too. All it takes is some first-class cheese, an inspired television series, and possibly a shoulder to rest your head on.

Step 1: Bake your pie with cheese crust
Step 2: Turn on Pushing Daisies
Step 3: Eat your pie and watch PD
Step 4 (optional): share it with someone you love

So the next time your physical science teacher asks you the magic equation, remember the answer is not e=mc2. It is in fact pie+pushing daisies=love. Recap: if ever you feel sad and alone, make yourself a pear and gruyère pie and watch Pushing Daisies--it will change your life.


A special thanks to cheese for making my world go round.

Soprano in the Basement

Here find the explanation that any who happened to pass through the Wilkinson Center on a certain Tuesday (November 3, in case you were unclear as to which certain Tuesday I was referring) around 6:00pm:

Wafting through the hallways were the voices of some 150 women in black chiffon, velvet, and glitter singing an enraged love duet by Handel. Thus far, no explanation needed. But wait--as you enjoy "No, di voi non vo fidarmi," which you are thinking is "For unto us a Child is Born" you suddenly here a woman adamantly saying "raise the roof! raise the roof!" over and over and you are thinking, "okay, what is happening right now." Yes, Sister Applonie was telling the entire Women's Chorus to raise the roof. But, no, it was not what you are thinking. Much as we would all like to think that Sister A. had her hands in the air and was bustin' a move to the choral stylings of Handel, the reality of the situation is that she was hounding us on our poor technique and telling us to raise the roofs of our mouths. But between Handel's work being sung by a premier choir (if I do say so myself . . . and I do), Sister Applonie shouting "raise the roof!", and us pulling off a concert 7 days after our last one, I think we all felt like rock stars--raised roofs and busted moves included.