All Adither

Now I can fashion myself a coconut bra

My proudest Maui moment so far:

Cracking open this sucka. It took rocks. Big rocks. And lots of pounding.

At least I never puked

Today, J. and I went on a five-hour snorkeling trip from Maui to Lana'i. Here was our view for part of the inter-island cruise.

Big, guy asses versus beautiful Hawaiian scenery. Yeah, I craned my head a lot to see around these particular bums.

Also, I am an idiot. I forgot that I get seasick. This is how I spent my time on the catamaran:

Finally, Happy Birthday, J!

So glad we could spend it together in Hawaii.

Isn't he a cutie?

Lava and finely diced carrots: Maui Day 2

Today J. and I trekked across the Moon.

To get to this:

I am staring at the Nakalele blowhole in Northwest Maui. The surf was just high enough for a little seaspray to spurt out every thirty seconds or so.

And then we ate lunch here:

Where I was served my new favorite vegetable. Macaroni salad.

Yum.

And you thought you were getting a sunset

No, no. Silly you.

My tropical photo for today is the ladies' room sign at the Maui airport.

I love the muumuu. And the lei. So Hawaiian. Muumuus and leis are almost as iconically Hawaiian as guys riding around shirtless in the back of pickup trucks.

Also, this:

Because can you believe bread is this expensive here? I knew groceries, heck everything, cost more here. But six bucks for some wheat, yeast and salt!

And, totally unrelated to bathrooms or bread, J. and I apparently built up this trip quite a bit in the little minds of our children, because Kitty Cat keeps gazing up at a palm tree or out at the ocean or down the road and asking, "Is THIS Hawaii?"

Yes, Virginia. This is all Hawaii.

Pre-Vacation Euphoria

We are leaving for Maui on Friday morning. That we will be ensconced in sun, warmth and balmy breezes for a week is a great thing. That I will not be alone with the kids for ten-or-so days is a fabulous thing. That my parents are joining us and we will revel in their company as well as their aptitude for caring for our kids is an outstanding thing.

The thing that is not so outstanding is that J. filled up three-quarters of our largest suitcase with snorkel gear and sand toys and is now insisting that we bring only that suitcase plus one other (the size of a Betty Crocker cookbook) on our trip.

He knows how I pack. He knows we need to bring a palette of Fruit Bat's alternative food so I don't have to spend our Hawaiian Holiday searching out health food stores. (As this is how I spend 80% of my real life and I have no need to replicate this experience when there are beaches and turtles to be had.) He knows, or he should, that I need fifteen swimsuits to choose from depending on my level of bloat each particular day.

But, as we are running out of hands to pull the various wheeled valises to and from the airports, he is only being practical. Fruit Bat, if he is feeling helpful, can handle one. One suitcase and one Kelty Minnow backpack that we will probably end up forgetting in security along with my carry-on and our massive collection of Epi-pens and Benadryl.

None of that matters though, because THIS, my friends, is what a Hawaiian getaway is all about:

The Electronics.

Missing from this photo is J.'s Blackberry, which will be hooked to his swim trunks the whole week anyway (Just kidding, J.! Mostly.)

Lest I come across as a thankless diva, I want to point out that the above is almost exclusively sarcastic hyperbole. J. and I are working together as a team–lovingly and encouragingly discussing how we can make this trip fun for all involved (while gazing into each other's eyes and tenderly stroking the other's knees with our fingertips).

This vacation is kind of a big deal because 1. It's Hawaii! 2. My parents are meeting us there and I'm hoping very badly to create a wonderful tropical memory for all involved and 3. J. is from Hawaii and returning always has special significance to him. And me. Because I'm his wife and I love him.

As you can see, if you squint closely enough at the tangle of 21st century trappings up there, I will be taking my iBook and updating All Adither from the tropics. I've devised a compromise, however, to prevent myself from sneaking off and tucking myself and my oh-so-lusty laptop under a palm tree. When I am there, I will post a quixotic photo of the day, a caption and not much else.

I hope you enjoy my little snapshots from paradise and I'll look forward to posting about all the Hawaiian meltdowns, illnesses and arguments when I return.

You're so fine you blow my mind

You are alternately cold and hard, then warm and supple.

The tanned, pretty girls dancing around you make you that much more desirable. With so many disciples, surely you are credible.

But you are illicit. First with one girl, then another. Sometimes you even lure men into your snare.

Your future is tenuous. People are wising up to your destructive ways.

Even your very cleanliness is questionable. Sometimes, when the room is bright enough, I witness signs of filth.

If I stay with you too long I will get burned.

P.S. I will quit you after this week, I swear, when I fling myself into the arms of my true, steadfast love, the Hawaiian sun.

P.P.S. I will wear sunscreen.

Dear Seattle Weather: You Suck

Last weekend we were doing this:

I was stretched across the (dirty, rocky, Washington) sand snapping pictures of sea glass:

This weekend we are staring glumly at snowflakes, too winter-weary to catch them on our tongues or mold them into little men:

Seattle Snow in April from All Adither on Vimeo.

Ah well. We'll always have last Saturday.

My Day: illustrated

A lot of this

A little of this

Some, but not enough of this

Just a splash of this

Sista, Sista how'd you get so fly?

You know what it's like when your favorite rock star (Ani Difranco or, perhaps MADONNA) emails and asks if she can stay at your house for a night? And you're like, Sure, let me clean. Let me buy some food. Let me adorn the house with tulips? And she shows up and is gracious and unassuming and appreciative and you totally hit it off?

Yeah, I didn't either. Until yesterday. Now I kinda do know how that feels. Bossy, on her way through Seattle, slept under my very own roof. And I loved her more in person than I do even on my monitor.

I had to share her, of course. So we met several other Seattle bloggers at the Pink Door for a white wine/salad social. It was an amazing assemblage of Moms seeking community, stepping out of their comfort zones and, of course, wanting to meet Bossy.

Then this morning? This morning I got to tag along while Bossy was interviewed by a Seattle P-I reporter.

This was us, driving separately to Queen Anne for the media blitz, me going, Holy Cannoli, that is Bossy in that car behind me.

And this is where I tell you all that Yeah, she's an awesome, successful blogger and all, but she's just a woman. Just like everyone else.

Really, she's way more fly.

Liver and prunes, anyone? Or, Ode to my Grandma Lucy

Those of you who took a gander at my scintillating bureau-top saw a photo of my great-grandmother Lillian. Lillian's first child, the one daughter she had the privelege to know and love (for a couple years anyway) was my grandma, Lucy.

Lucy had her faults, I am sure. But she had many strengths. One of them was her generosity. She was generous with her time, spending hours playing with my sister and me when we visited. She was generous with money, slipping us tens from her insubstantial allowance so we could buy a trinket (that would soon end up lost or broken). And she was generous with her things, letting us drag out all her costume jewelry and every one of her pairs of shoes so we could play Store.

My grandma Lucy had a cookbook. It was called The Household Searchlight Recipe Book and was published in 1936. Somehow it has found its way to me.

The book is battered and stained. Full of recipes for things jellied. Prunes abound. Salads are not arugula and frisee, but are often made with gelatin and meat, then plopped on a bed of lettuce.

Throughout the 304-page tome, Lucy has made notes.

She was a jotter. Throughout her adult life, she wrote, in plain, small notepads, what she wore each day, what she cooked, her level of success with both. Her cookbooks were no different. She annotated tweaks she made to the recipes, what "Georgie", my grandpa, liked.

She was funny, self-deprecating, unafraid to call herself out.

Her oldest daughter, vanished from this life just a couple years after Lucy, scrawled across many pages with a fat, purple crayon. I imagine these doodles amused my grandma, rather than irritated her. She simply wrote: Marilyn, 17 months and etched an arrow to the first of the purple hieroglyphics.

Most of the recipes she claimed to have tried at some point in her marriage were fairly sensible. It seems, by her lack of annotations, that she avoided the Creamed Brains (ingredients: one brain, white sauce, paprika, salt and pepper), Egg coffee and Prune Onion Salad.

Her favorites were meatloaf and fudge.

The Household Searchlight Recipe Book is 72-years-old now. Just two years younger than Lucy was when she died in the late eighties. I miss her. I miss her generosity.

I even miss her cooking.