In Lieu of Writing: Stuffed Poblano Peppers

Alright so I haven't posted to my blog in a year. As an excuse, I started graduate school and dropped my writing group. My writing group, and writing guru, Diane Owens, is the key to unlocking my muse. Despite writing my 20 page research papers this year, I am missing writing the really awesome, soul searching/revealing stuff that feeds my soul...so...just started back with the writing group. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, instead of feeding my soul, I've been (as usual) feeding my belly. I love to cook. I am pretty good--not stellar (I'm no Lisa Alado or anything), but I hold my own. Tonight, I tried to remake some stuffed poblanos I'd made 6-8 months ago, but I am an ad-lib cook, so I couldn't remember what I put in them. I thought I'd share this iteration of the recipe with you, so perhaps next time I go to make them, I'll have it recorded somewhere!

6 poblano/pasilla peppers (our store never has poblanos, so I use pasilla)
1 c Lundberg Jubilee rice, cooked (got it at Whole Foods)
1 lb. pork chorizo
16 oz. canned black beans
1 tbsp. olive oil
28 oz. crushed tomatoes
1 clove garlic
1 tbsp ancho chile powder
1 tbsp ground cumin
6 slices cheddar or monterey jack (I didn't have the MJ so used cheddar)
1/2 cup queso fresco

Preheat the broiler on high, with rack set to middle of oven.

Cut the tops off the peppers, carefully removing the seeds and membrane. Reserve the tops.

Cook the chorizo (seriously, it's worth it to get it at Whole Foods...WAY less grease and it crumbles instead of turning into a weird, red mushy mass). Add black beans (drained and rinsed) and cooked rice. Stuff each pepper full of the chorizo/bean/rice mixture. Place on broiler-friendly pan. Put top on end.

Heat oil in pan over medium heat. Add garlic clove, cook for a minute or so. Add crushed tomatoes, chile powder, and cumin. Stir and cook on low heat.

Put peppers in oven. Turn after 10 minutes (this was tough, but it's doable). Pepper should be turning brown/black and starting to blister. Broil 10 more minutes, then pour the tomato sauce over all the peppers and place a slice of cheddar on top of each one. Broil another 5 minutes.

Remove peppers from oven, sprinkled crumbled queso over all. EAT UP!

Hope you enjoy. Stay tuned for my reentry into writing...

Wow, Too Bad You’re Not Taller...and Ten Pounds Thinner

I had an epiphany today. When I tell you what it was, some of you will say, “duh.” But some others of you might have an epiphany, too. Still others won’t be ready to hear it yet, but someday, you will. So tuck it away.

Here it is: There is no such thing as being self-deprecating.

I grew up in a culture where women were taught that the polite, humble thing to do when complimented was to put ourselves down or dismiss the compliment.

“What a lovely dress!”

“What? This old thing?”

or

“You look beautiful!”

“Maybe if I lost ten pounds!”

We were told and shown that it was immodest and haughty to accept a compliment, to acknowledge our accomplishments. What happened, at least for me, was that I learned to put myself down—to others and in my own head. I thought that’s what nice girls did, but there’s nothing “nice” about it.

Every time we put ourselves down, we put down our source, our Creator. We tell Him or Her, “you didn’t do a very good job.” We basically tell our parents the same thing. Our put-downs tell our spouse or partner that he or she didn’t choose very well, or their eyesight or judgement isn’t very good. Our self put-downs tell our kids that we’re not worthy of love or respect...and neither are they, since they so closely align their goodness (or lack of it) with ours.

I’ve noticed that when I put myself down in a group of friends, even though I think I am expressing dissatisfaction with some aspect of myself, really I’m telling them they’re not good enough either. When I say I’m too tall, how do taller friends feel? Or how do my shortest friends react? What about when I comment on my weight? What am I saying about their weight? Regardless of the fact that I love them exactly the way they are...fat, thin, short, tall...what I am telling them is that they are not good enough either, and they have terrible judgement if they think I am smart, beautiful, or any number of other positive things.

So let’s just all give it up, shall we? (And definitely let's put an end to it with this generation!) I’m not saying we have to go around touting our gifts, talents, and achievements (although, why not, really?). What I am saying is let’s put the kibosh on put-downs of all kinds. We would never think of saying to our friends “Hey, too bad you’re not taller and ten pounds thinner!”

Yet, when we say terrible things about ourselves we are inadvertently commenting on all those around us.

Maybe next time you catch me saying something self-deprecating, you can just simply say, “You’re wonderful just the way you are...and so am I.” It will be a nice reminder that the God of the Universe doesn't compare and did a pretty darn good job.

For those of you that have always known this, there is no lengthy lecture necessary (that only defeats the purpose). For those of us working on it, it will be a good reminder for ourselves and others. For those who aren’t yet ready to absorb this yet...all I have to say is “You’re wonderful just the way you are...and so am I.”

Merry "whatever doesn't offend you": Peace, love, and a little family fighting

I always knew, but never really thought, I'd be the kind of person who moved out of my hometown. I dreamed it, but part of me always thought I'd stay put. Like most things in my life, I was ambivalent about it. Over six years ago, my husband came home with the news that we had the opportunity to move to Phoenix, AZ. Just a slight change from our gorgeous, yet gloomy Seattle. We deliberated, but decided to go for it. Moving was everything I'd ever dreamed of...and dreaded. I love the weather here, but it has been a difficult change. I only thought it would take a couple of years to settle in, make friends, and resume our wonderful (if not complicated) life. It took a lot longer. Like 4 years longer. I thought we'd NEVER make friends! It took forever, but now, here, on Christmas Eve, I have so much to be thankful for. I love how I am friends with people in Seattle now that I wasn't that close to when I lived there (thank you Facebook!). I love how I've kept in touch with Seattle friends, that even though they're not every day staples like they used to be, we can pick it up in a heartbeat. And I used to have a hard time mourning the friendships that seemed to disappear when we moved, but now I have enough distance to just be grateful that these lovely people were there in our lives when we needed them. And a few old friends that had gone AWOL are suddenly reappearing! I can't begin to express my appreciation for the people we've met here, who hung in there with me. They listened to story after story about how AMAZING Seattle is. And occasionally they still have to listen to it. It's part of who I am. But I have to admit...I'm part Phoenician now, too. Maybe it's easier when I've got the love of my life by my side. I hope it is, because even though I doubt it will happen, I hope we end up overseas somewhere cool together. All my love to all of you...past, present, future...who have extended your hand, your ear, your shoulder, your laughter, your tears, to reach out and touch my life in such incredible ways. Bless you, my friends. Bless you.

Letting Go of the Boat: The Trouble with Making Decisions

“Let go of the boat!”

I barely heard the words as the thrashing water of the rapids bounced me around while wave after wave crashed over my head. The fear and freezing temperature took my breath away as I clung to the rope that surrounded our upside down raft. Just a few moments earlier, our guide, Neils, had asked us if we wanted to go through the next (and biggest) set of rapids on the river. He explained that the boat could flip, but that he'd navigated this area many times and flipping was something he knew how to handle. As my friend, Ronda, and I considered it, he asked: "Do you want to go big or go home?" That settled it. We were going big.

We were paddling through the roughest part of the rapids, doing just fine, when suddenly the boat was upside down and we were under it in the frigid, snow-melt water. After getting out from under the boat, I found myself repeatedly pummeled with waves that filled my mouth with water every time I tried to take a breath. As I clutched the rope that connected me to the raft, I found myself staring up into Neils' calm, but serious face from his perch on top of the flipped boat. Although his voice was steady and firm, I couldn’t fully process what he was saying to me.

“Let go of the boat!”

Slowly, his words sank in. The idea of voluntarily casting myself adrift into the rapids was terrifying—This is how people drown, I thought to myself. The snug fit of my life jacket was less than comforting. My friend, Ronda, was behind me in the water—one hand holding onto the back of my life vest, the other, like mine, clinging to the rope connected to our boat. Neils’ order defied logic; The boat felt like the only thing that stood between me and drowning. But it was the right thing to do. Our guide, despite his youth, was very experienced; he grew up on the river and led countless friends and family members on this trip. I had to trust that he knew what he was doing. In order for him to flip the boat back over, Ronda and I would have to let go.

My river run with Ronda a couple of summers ago is a great metaphor for the way I make most decisions in my life. I cling to what I know, what seems to be true and solid, in fear of the unknown. As I research on the Internet and talk to friends ad nauseam about whatever the decision is at hand, the waves of information eventually threaten to drown me. I feel as if I can’t breathe. My thoughts swirl as surely as the whirpools of the river as the water flows over rocks and fallen trees.

The funny thing is, the fear and paralysis occur regardless of the size of the decision. From picking out a movie to deciding on schools for my kids, I have a very difficult time making choices. Choosing one thing is not choosing something else. What if I make the wrong choice? What if I miss out on something that would have been better?

Right now, I’m in the midst of one of those agonizing decisions. After working on my own for the last 17 years as a consultant in corporate training and communications, I got burnt out and quit. That was a year and a half ago. At first, it was nice being at home and I needed some time to regroup and recover, but now—it’s time. I need to decide what comes next.

I’m not qualified for any other careers right now, so that led me to the idea of going back to school. The problem is that my interests and background don’t lend themselves to a practical degree like Nursing or Accounting. You know—the kind of degree that qualifies me to get a job. My undergrad degree is in Humanities, so the program that appeals to me is a Masters in Liberal Studies, which, in my opinion, qualifies me for life, but not so directly for a job.

Do I enjoy the next two years and get the degree that best suits me? Or do I suck it up and get a degree in something more practical? Or do I just try to find a job and skip school all together? The decision feels overwhelming and it will take a while before I can answer those questions—after all, at least some research is in order for major life decisions, right?

One thing that gives me comfort is that although it’s easy for me to get stuck in the decision-making process, I’ve never regretted a single decision I’ve made. Apple founder, the late Steve Jobs, said in his Stanford commencement speech in 2005, “…you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.”

Looking back, the dots do connect. Every decision got me to where I am today—a place I am happy to be. I love my husband, I like who my kids are, I had an amazing career, and I have to trust whatever comes next will only add to a life well-lived. The fact is: there are no wrong decisions. Regardless of which degree I choose or if I decide to get a job, my experience will have its positives and negatives, but ultimately it will have been an experience worth having.

Back in that river two summers ago, I did finally let go of the boat. While the waves kept crashing over me and I struggled to catch my breath, I held on to my paddle and felt Ronda holding on to me. There we were, two middle-aged women, adrift in some pretty gnarly rapids. After what seemed like an eternity, but was mere seconds, I felt Neils’ strong hand grab the shoulder of my life vest as he hauled me into the boat. I lay there, spent and heaving, as he pulled Ronda to safety as well.

Even when it seems illogical, even when I want to cling to the safety of the known, it’s true that the better decision is to let go of the boat—to release myself into the flow of the river of life (preferably with a friend holding on to my back). Whether the current is slow and smooth, or crashing whitewater, I can trust that God, my river guide, will not let me drown.

Let go of the boat, Dana. I’ve got this.

Letting go, He will pull me to safety, where, relieved, I can enjoy the rest of the trip.

Expect Nothing, Be Open for Anything

“The best things in life are unexpected - because there were no expectations.” - Eli Khamarov

Every frustration, disappointment, or fear in my life comes from expectations. Sometimes it's that people aren't who I expect them to be, or they don't do what I expect them to do. Situations don't turn out the way I expected. It seems that culturally, we talk of "hope" and "expectations" as if they are good things, but I am beginning to wonder. It seems to me that it is better to live in the moment and free myself of expectations, since hoping and expecting are all about a future that I cannot see.

A standard part of human experience is that we fear not living up to others' expectations. We talk of "expecting more" of our kids or our employees. But really, when we have specific expectations of others, aren't we limiting who they can be? What they can accomplish? When we have expectations of ourselves or others, they are based on our tiny, little, pea-sized view of the world. How can we create expectations for the best possible things in our life when we can't even see all of the possibilities?

Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun, says: The truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new." By creating expectations on what we "know" to be true, we are restricting ourselves from taking in new information. If my goal is truly to be present—for that is all I have—then it seems to me that I must let go of expectations. Even "hoping" implies expectation—hope for the best—so it seems best to leave that behind as well.

Backward-facing emotions like regret, shame, and guilt usually come from past expectations. I didn't expect to lose that friendship. I expected more of myself. My parents expected more of me. These rear view thoughts serve as a cage to keep us from the present and all of the possibility of "what could be."

Moving forward, my choice is to expect nothing, but to notice everything. To pause, and say "Hmmm...based on my limited world-view, my tiny sense of truth, this doesn't look so good. It's not what I expected. But who knows what a God of the Universe could DO with this! Let's see what happens!"

Damn, It's Hot

The day we moved into our house in Scottsdale, Arizona it was 115 degrees. It was the first house I’d ever lived in that had air conditioning, but of course we couldn’t turn it on that moving day, with the doors open to facilitate the process. As a girl who had spent her entire thirty-five years in the cool, rainy Pacific Northwest, it might have been normal for me to think, “Oh Lord, what have we done,” but I don’t remember thinking that. What I do remember thinking is: Damn, it’s hot.

Everything is different here, even the houses. For instance, very few homes here have basements. Every home I’d ever lived in in Seattle had a basement. Basements, while great for storage and rec rooms, lodged big, brown fuzzy spiders seeking someplace dry to dwell. Basements were cold and damp—damper than the rest of the home. During the grey, rainy months that made up the better part of the year, that dampness seeped into my bones, making it impossible to feel warm, despite cozy fires or comfy socks.

Instead of walled-in patios with swimming pools, our homes in Seattle had decks and front porches for enjoying the sunshine when it did come out. On those gorgeous, yet rare, blue-sky days when the sun graced us with its appearance, everything was outside on the deck. Our first home as newlyweds was a tiny, white brick, “war-box” house to which we quickly added a giant deck. If it wasn’t raining, the deck was where the celebration was—birthdays, baptisms, impromptu get-togethers, all celebrated in our outdoor space.

After spending our whole lives within five miles of the house I’d grown up in, we decided to follow my husband’s job to Scottsdale. We had two weekends to find a house that would suit Jim and me along with our two boys that were nine and twelve at the time. Between two whirlwind trips packed with home tours, we settled on our current home—a remodeled southwest-style ranch home. My first home with one floor.

We traded hardwood floors for travertine marble tile…everywhere. We traded cozy rooms for soaring 14-foot ceilings. None of our “contemporary Northwest” furniture worked in the new home, but even after replacing it with more appropriate counterparts, our voices literally echoed through the house. Friends back home would call and partway into the conversation would ask, “Where are you? It sounds as if you’re in a cave.”

Out front, instead of rhododendrons, there are bougainvillea and giant, towering saguaro. Fuzzy thyme plants have been replaced by small barrel cactus and plants for which I do not yet know the names. We almost ripped out a dead looking, medusa-like bush/tree thing before finding out it was a dormant ocotillo. Ironically, the one thing we have more of in our desert landscape than we had in Seattle is a giant swath of thick, green grass.

My favorite thing about this house is that I can run from one end of it to the other. Or dance across it. With a wall of glass doors that open up to our patio, I often delightfully boogie across our living and dining area, spying outside to the swimming pool, palm trees, and hammock that paint the picture of a lovely vacation day. And, just as in the brochures, the sun is always shining.

No, I’ve never entertained the thought, what have we done? Even during our five scorching summers where you just survive five months of hotter-than-hell. I don’t believe in regrets. Despite the fact that the desert is pokey and harsh, and in many ways trying to fit in here has been the same, I am glad we moved. This home, like all the others I’ve lived in, is not “home” because of where it is or what it holds. It is home because it is where I live with the people I love. In many ways, our move to Arizona has brought our family closer because we have only had each other.

Our sons, now 15 and 18, will be moving along soon, and Jim and I already talk about “our next home.” It could be a loft condo, or a small flat in France, or a beach house in Central America. We still own our house in Seattle and people always ask if we will move back. We always have the same reply: Even if we did move back, we would live in a different house. That house, filled with the sweet memories of raising our young boys, served its purpose for us. Each new home has served the stage of our lives we were in well.

For now, with our teens fast asleep on this sunny Sunday morning, I’ll just take another sip of coffee, and do my little boogie across the house. We’ve got three more months to enjoy before damn, it’s hot begins again.

The Joy Choice (Part 3)

(Part 3 of 3)

Choosing to Laugh and Play More

The last choice I'll share with you in my quest to choose joy is choosing to laugh and play more. We humans tend to take life so seriously! We need to lighten up, laugh a bit more. Right now my son is a senior in high school and talk about serious...you should hear parents who are going through this college admissions process!

What is he going to do next year? Which school is he going to? What if he doesn't get in to his first choice? What if he doesn't get in at all? When is this due, that due, what if he doesn't graduate--he'll never be able to be productive in the world! All will be lost!

The fact of the matter is, they're going to be okay, these seniors of ours. Why do we insist on creating all this stress and pressure on them at what is probably one of the most exciting, hopeful times of their lives? This is a time of opportunity and dreams...all on mom and dad's dime! If we could just lighten up about it, maybe they could experience the joy of the experience.

Even in our darkest circumstances, there are opportunities for us to play and laugh. The late Gilda Radner, a marvelous comedienne, said: "Cancer is probably the most unfunny thing in the world, but I'm a comedienne, and even cancer wasn't going to stop me from seeing the humor in what I was going through."

And play and laughter is not only good for us personally, but it also connects us to those around us. Another great comedian and musician, the late Victor Borge said: "Laughter is the shortest distance between two people."

But I'd dare to take it one step further.

Choosing joy--through laughter, choosing our thoughts, making choices, noticing, and however else--does more than just impact me or the people I come in contact with on a regular basis. I would argue that it changes the world. 

How can we solve war and discord in the world if we do not first eliminate it in our own hearts and minds?

So, for me, in this moment and in as many moments as possible while I am on this planet...I choose joy.

I hope you will, too.