AfricanKelli

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I’m behind at work, and prepping for a week away on business. So! How about I distract you lovely friends for a moment with Nelson’s spring hair cut?

He was out of the house today for 4 hours and in the meantime, I had one of the most productive afternoons ever. Perhaps his napping on my keyboard isn’t the best for workflow…

Oh, who am I kidding? Mr. Willie Nelson Mandela gets what Willie Nelson Mandela wants.

~K

The Crazy:

I celebrated Valentine’s day by throwing a small, simple dinner party for a couple friends.

Fine.

It was a choreographed, triumphant dinner party, with seven courses for more than a dozen friends. The older I get, the less ability I have take the easy route when the difficult one? It has better views! Never mind it requires complicated maps, immunizations and a safety harness. Never mind you look horrible in a safety harness.

Dinner — which started with 4 friends who asked me to cook for their single hearts — ended with 14 people perched around a large folding table in my living room. Of course that original quartet knew what they were asking. They wanted a warm meal, wine,  and conversation without the looming commercialism of the holiday.

I had time to put together a complicated menu because the Valentine’s were ordered, addressed and readied with the most ridiculous FOREVER LOVE stamps the post office offers, weeks in advance. Because in the back of my very crazy mind, someone might notice if I used the leftover Christmas stamps. And cards can’t be late when they can be early.

Did I mention this party fully indulges the crazy? 

The Sexy:

Can a menu be sexy? Will you forgive the unabashed pun of showcasing a “piece of meat” under this subhead?

Oh, come on. Play along.

I. Charcuterie

II. Cauliflower bacon soup

III. Salad with a citrus vinegarette

IV. Berry sorbet

V. Stuffed pork loin, garlic mashed red potatoes

VI. Chocolate and coffee tasting

VII. Lemon bars, brownies, orange blossom madeleines

The Love:

A friend of mine brought me the most thoughtful Valentine gift: a pair of red cooking tongs. He knew they’d be put to great use and would go well with my kitchen. Also, while I enjoyed my company — he jumped up and washed nearly all of the dishes. I got up this morning to find minimal mayhem after 2 days of cooking:

Also — I found some lovely new vintage items at a thrift market near my home for this party. I was worried I wouldn’t have enough bowls, spoons, etc. Friends brought items so we wouldn’t have to wash between courses and it worked out beautifully.

This gave me a chance to set a mismatched table — with thrown together linens — that showed my own peculiar sense of shabby chic:

The group that came together was as happily mismatched and chic. They are a kind and fun gaggle who I’m so happy to have around my table. Spending the night with new friends and a warm meal made for the best crazy, sexy, loving Valentine’s yet.

~K

Wishing you a day of love and happiness,

Kelli + WNM

{I am stealing this blog post title from my friend Elizabeth (Mini). If you aren’t reading her blog, you should. It is some of the funniest writing on the web.}

Last night I met friends in LoHi — oh Denver, with your bizarre naming of neighborhoods — for dinner. It’s been a cold week, so that record-breaking snowfall has turned into slush and large stretches of ice. I circled the block until voila! Amazing! There was a large spot available that I could nose into. Parallel parking isn’t among my strengths.

Okay. Driving isn’t among my strengths.

Little did I realize any seasoned Denver driver would have seen that spot two blocks away and thought, “No way. You are never going to get out of there.”

Compare this to my, “Woohoo! Parking spot! Wait. Why won’t my car move forward? Wait. Why won’t my car back up? Wait. Why am I on a one way street with traffic barreling down on me and my car is 3 feet from the curb, now taking up two parking meters with the front left wheel stuck in a rather large pothole, while the rest of the car slides around on a block of ice?”

Full disclosure — I’ve already received an embarrassing number of parking tickets in my few months of living in Colorado. I knew leaving my car that far from the curb — while just barely out of traffic — and taking up two meters would surely result in a series of new yellow envelopes tucked sinisterly under my windshield wipers.

So, I did what any Phoenician who can’t move her car does. I flagged down strangers and handed them my keys. I asked for help. One lovely Samaritan jumped in and spent 15 minutes trying to navigate out of the hole. Problem being, I had a car both in front and behind me. If she gunned it, she’d likely fly into one or the other. But oh, how she tried. Patiently, kindly, with my tires smoking. Yet the native Coloradoan gave up, suggesting I call a tow truck.

Instead I filled the meter, met my friends for dinner and begged them to come with me back to the car to see if they could help. By the time we got there, the car in front had left giving me enough room to use momentum to rock the car back and forth in drive and reverse to get out of the pothole, off the ice and happily on the road home.

Needless to say, these are not issues you deal with living in the desert.

Driving home I realized this momentum maneuver is so much like writing a novel. Sometimes you get stuck. You beg strangers for help. You walk away hoping the problem resolves itself. You throw money at it. You have a stiff drink. You beg friends to listen, to look at it, to give you their opinion. And then, magically, you move backward five feet to grab the precious inch forward you are dying to gain.

~K

Sometimes when I am preparing for a dinner party, I let myself get lost in a pretend land where I have a reality cooking show. Wearing a frilly apron and pearls, I whip through the fridge, pulling out ingredients and humming along to Miles Davis on the radio. I rattle off the recipes to the audience (Nelson.) I laugh at my mistakes and spills and blush bashful when something comes out of the oven that makes me proud.

Yesterday my La-La Land looked a bit like this:

With a dozen friends coming over after work for a meal I marketed as “a casual happy hour,” the menu got a wee bit carried away, as it goes when I receive an issue of Bon Appetit mid-week. My friend David wanted to bring black eyed peas and make his famous cast iron skillet cornbread. Sarah wanted to make kale chips. Everyone else wanted a warm meal and a cold drink. And so, I added roasted Brussels sprouts, baked barbeque chicken, and lots of dessert. Lots and lots of dessert.

Baking apple pie reminds me of my Grandmother Maxine — known for her crust prowess. These beauties would make her smile. The coconut cake, made with coconut oil and milk and topped with toasted flakes over a buttercream cream cheese frosting, went over well too. (It was a take on a recipe in this month’s BA, and a nod to the southern theme.)

The sponsors of my pretend cooking show would be Kitchen-Aid, Tory Burch and Bare Minerals. The eggs would be fresh from the chicken coop. The sprouts would have come from my garden. The guest would sit together around a great kitchen table, rather than folding chairs with plates in their laps like last night. We would play cards after dinner and sip French press coffee, relaxed and happy.

That said, I’ve got the bones of this daydream right: an incredibly sweet group of friends, great food and lovely Mr. Davis on the radio. A delightful start to the weekend, indeed.

Watch your back Martha,

K

I flew to Phoenix this week for work. It was a turn-around trip in one day – some 19 hours door-to-door.

This is the new bar for exhaustion. The standard used to be post-marathon. Or at least post-time zone/hemisphere/continent jump. Alas, with a plantar still fasciating and a passport gathering dust – the occasional back and forth commuting adventure drains me dry.

I plopped into my airplane seat home, already 15 hours after I’d left Nelson, ready to catch up with podcasts and review notes for the next day. Instead, I quickly found myself in a lengthy conversation with the man in the middle seat, who’d arrived in a cloud equal parts nicotine and sorrow. His eyes prematurely creased, teeth stained, hands and face spotted by his age-old habit.

And then, just as I was about to roll my tired eyes back in my head, turn up the iPod and try to ignore the smell of stale cigarettes permeating our area, I noticed he was crying. Gentle tears flowed down his cheeks as he studied the ticket in his lap.

“Where are you from, sir?” I said quietly, reaching out for the calloused hand of a laborer.

“Cuba.”

“Ay, si? Cuba? Cubano! Que parte?”

We continued for an hour while, coincidentally, stalled at the gate — the plane’s fuel cells were being repaired. He left Cuba 30 years ago after serving as a merchant marine. He’d sailed around the world. But today, his journey was from Tucson, via Phoenix, Denver, Charlotte and Miami to attend the funeral of his mother.

She’d lived a good life. A long life. She’d escaped Cuba too. He’d see his siblings and several of his adult children when he finally arrived. He was certain she would be proud of him for making the trip. But…

I waited. He reddened with embarrassment, coughing up so much of his life to a stranger. Yet, he rattled on like a boiling pot.

The trip was such a luxury. He felt guilty for the money he’d had to borrow to get the flights. And here he was without any money for food or any way to buy flowers for her service. But his heart truly ached because the one person he wanted sitting next to him was instead in Sonora, Mexico. Deported. His mujer had been swooped up in an immigration raid. She’d left behind her 16 year old American-born daughter, who he was now caring for.

“I drive her to school every day. She’s not mine, but she is mine.”

Now somewhere over northern Arizona at 30,000 feet, I simply nodded. I gave him what I could – my full attention.

And in a moment of grace, the woman sitting next to him on the aisle spoke up – hours after the confessional began.

“Señor,” she began with an accent I recognized as Mexican. “Señor.” I wondered if she was calling him, or God? She took his hand, looked him in the eye, and began to pray for his family and comfort him. A business owner in Denver, her grandparents were from Chihuahua. She knew the sorrow of having family spread across the world and not always being able to put the pieces of life together the way one wished.

The next hour involved the three of us discussing life, love, sorrow and faith. By the time the landing gear dropped, she’d opened her wallet and given him money for those meals and flowers. I passed off a bit of food I’d been given for the flight. His tears dried and slowly, a smile revealing missing teeth emerged.

Looking at a sea of amber lights shining from the city floor below, I found comfort. Refueled. Full of grace.

~K

I am taking a new course at my church on poetry and theology. The church has a resident theologian, thanks to a nearby seminary. I expected very little and was a touch overwhelmed by the 25 folks who came together for this first class, much of which was far over my head. Needless to say, I know little about either topic, but am always hungry to learn.

A few of the ideas we discussed included having an internal theology. What do you believe and why? The leader said he thinks poetry is one of the most abstract forms of art, and yet huge world views can be contained within a 10 line stanza. We are studying three poets who were Christians and included their religious views and doubts in their work: T. S Elliot, W. H. Auden and Wallace Stevens.

The leader also mentioned Rudolf Otto, author of  “Idea of the Holy.” Having never studied religion or poetry formally, Otto’s writings on the beauty and repulsiveness included in man’s relationship with God are fascinating and new to me. We discussed several stories in the Bible where the concept is showcased. Think of Noah being saved while the rest of humanity drowns. Or Abraham taking the son he so cherished up the mountain at God’s command to be sacrificed. Or, you know. The idea of setting up your only Son to be crucified at the hands of the rest of those you also created. Repulsive. And yet, as a Christian, there is nothing more beautiful than the sacrifice of the Savior.

We had a fairly involved discussion about symbolitry and how it can quickly become idolotry, as well. I shared my confusion on the topic; living in Mexico at age 14, I was exposed to the Catholic tradition of stations of the cross for the first time. I also spent a good bit of time with a Muslim family that shunned any symbolotry in their home. My Methodist roots couldn’t make sense of the two extremes, which both seemed like the right fit for either family. As do my own beliefs — that praying to items rather than to God is missing the point.

I’ll be sharing a bit of the class here and there as we continue. I know it freaks a lot of my friends out that I talk about my faith, but the older I’ve gotten, the less I care. It is important to me, as is the continued study. My beliefs have changed and matured with time, as has my comfort level in discussing these matters. That said, I hope to never offend. My faith is an all-loving challenge and journey.

Cheers,

Kelli

New Year’s Eve dinner party success, even if we did have to watch the ball drop on my computer in lieu of TV.

Happy 2012, y’all. May this year knock our socks off with joy and blessings!
~K

2011 will always be known as the year of Willie Nelson Mandela. Granted, there were a few other monsters crossed off the bucket list, but none of those wake me up each morning with a smile and a wagging pom pom tail screaming, “TODAY IS GOING TO BE THE BEST DAY EVER! CAN I GO OUTSIDE NOW?”

A few of my favorite photos from the year, including too many of the prized pup:

A year that begins in Africa can be nothing short of magical; 2011 didn’t disappoint.

Holy crikes. That’s how you do a year right. Thank you 2011! (I hear your younger sister 2012 brings great promise.)

~K