AfricanKelli

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I know. It’s gross. You should see my leg; it isn’t any prettier. In an energetic burst of long-weekend-joy, I hit the trails for a mountain run Saturday morning and managed to trip on pretty much the very last rock before reaching the parking lot. I slid. On my hands. And one leg.

As you can imagine, this did not make me feel very good. Or very graceful.

It did elicit a rather Sarah Silverman-inspired tirade of tears and curses.

But of course, what can you do? Sit in a cloud of desert dirt and cry the long weekend away? No. That would be silly. So, I showered, hit the bagel shop and regrouped with carbs. My previously planned day of sewing and gardening had to be scrapped. My hand wasn’t going to participate.

So, I hit the mailbox instead, picked up the latest Netflix correspondence and plopped on the couch ready to spend a Saturday entirely wrapped up in a sullen, woe-is-me, mood.

This didn’t last through the previews. I simply don’t do pathetic. Instead, I remembered that giant tin of tangled yarn and half-completed knitting projects in my bedroom. A few minutes later, I had things sorted.

I also went through a stack of books to find a new project. I needed something simple, easy, mindless and fun.

With gobs of kitchen cotton, and a true gaggle of babies due to girlfriends this Fall, I figured the time was right to dig into some baby shower gifts. 

Viola — a knit baby cap. I’ve got enough kitchen cotton to whip up a half dozen of these. I plan on pairing them with an adorable hooded baby towel. How cute is this tutorial? (Thanks Zarah for the lead!)

My hand is quickly getting better. My grace? Well, that’s a far different story. Thankfully, my mule-like stubbornness keeps me going. I’ll be back on the trails tomorrow.

For those in the US, and soldiers everywhere, thank you. You work is not without incredible sacrifice. Thank you for protecting goof balls like me. And to the many military families, I am so very grateful for your incredible patriotism. May God keep all of your loved ones safe. (And may peace abound!)

xo,

Kelli

The saguaros are in full bloom this week — an annual event in the Valley. The crown of silky white flowers make me smile; even these desert warriors like to feel pretty once in a while.

~K

I followed the instructions from this NYT article on making better homemade pizza. The results? I liked the toppings, but the crust still isn’t right. It is a tricky thing to master — pizza crust. Also, I wanted a healthier pizza and in truth? I missed all that gooey cheese. I am going to keep playing with different flours this summer to try to get it just right.

I also turned a handful of peaches from a friend’s tree into a fun dessert — a modification of this great Pioneer Woman recipe.

I’ve noticed when eating farmer’s market or garden produce, I eat less. The flavors are such much more intense — you need less. Someone should write a silly new trendy diet book on this and get more people gardening and eating locally.

~K

I know. I know. Another post with tomato photos. Trust me, even I’m getting sick of these. Humor me with one more week of celebrating the joy that is having a mighty little garden.  (How fun is that banana leaf platter my mama bought me when we were in Mexico for Christmas? Matty took it upon himself to fill it with the garden’s pick of the day.)

You mean you don’t display tomatoes in your living room like art?

Trust me, the hilarity of this nonsense has kept me going during a week of few other indulgences. I’m trying to get back into running and swimming shape. Without changes to my diet too, this will take exponentially longer than it should. So, we are eating a lot of steamed fish and veggies. And I’m taking walks in the evening to keep my hands out of the freezer and away from the ice cream.

Thankfully tonight is book club. I’m hosting and very much looking forward to turning this ball of dough and a bucket of those tomatoes into some fantastic margherita pizza, with basil from the garden. Considering I didn’t come close to finishing the book, I’m going to woo the members with food, wine and peach cobbler instead.

Today’s motto: “I smell like chlorine. I deserve a little pizza.”

~K

I’m reading a book that refers to the Greek concept of kairos — the state of in between when something special happens. Not the quantitative chronos, but the spiritual, mystical kairos. The athletic “zone.” The Christian moment of grace. The moment before a roller coaster plummets, a newborn gasps a first breath, a champagne cork flies through the air.

This weekend I found kairos in the grace of a ballerina’s arms. I watched, rapt, as a dance troupe leapt across an auditorium stage. Folded into my tiny chair with a furrowed brow, I felt my fingers tingle and my anxiety fall away when the ballerinas came on stage in a flutter of beauty. One ballerina in particular was so tall, so elegant. Her arms and legs moved like water rushing through a canyon — strong, fierce and yet simply perfectly flowing.

I felt kairos in the rush of ice cold water when I dove into a swimming pool, joining a clump of other Speedo-clad adults. The familiarity of the navy square tiles on the bottom of the pool, the red plastic lane lines, the sharp sting of chlorine flooding your sinuses after the first flip turn. The snap of a latex cap and the pinch of my goggles, I felt like I’d returned home when I felt the first splash.

Cooking, especially, is a state of kairos — the in between. The chopping, grinding, measuring and waiting for the final result. The carob brownies three days late for a friend’s birthday. She didn’t remember the delay  (chronos) when I handed her these.

Gardening, too. The planting, tending, watering, weeding. The baby tomatoes, squash and peppers that sprout with youthful determination. It takes mature patience to wait for the ripening. The sweet, juicy lure of homegrown warm produce from the garden — worth both forms of time.

Finding happiness without measuring life by the chronological isn’t easy. And yet, moments of kairos dance by unappreciated if my heart is paced by the tick of the clock.

Time to take off the watch.

~K