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Breakfast

Vegan pumpkin pancakes

2 c. whole wheat pastry flour
2 T packed brown sugar
1 T. baking powder
1 1/4 ts. pumpkin pie spice
1 ts. salt
1 3/4 c. soy milk
1/2 c. organic pumpkin
1 T. cornstarch mixed with a little water
2 T. unsweetened applesauce

Autumn treats

These are a couple of my favorite treats I love to make in the fall...

Vegan pumpkin spice muffins

I love these because there is no oil or butter in them--just pumpkin, spices, and flour!

2 c. whole wheat pastry flour

1/2 c. vegan cane sugar (has great taste)

1 T. baking powder

1/2 ts. baking soda

1/2 ts. salt

1/2 ts. cinnamon (I throw in a little more)

1/4 ts. nutmeg (again a little more)

1 15 oz can of organic pumpkin

unsweetened coconut*

Mix all together and put in muffin tin and bake for 25-30 min. at 375 degrees.

*I wondered how coconut would taste added to the muffins, so I tried it for the first time...I sprinkled coconut on top of each muffin before I put them in the oven. It added a little bit of yummy sweetness. It turned out awesome!

Vegan banana bread

1/2 c. vegan butter

1 c. vegan cane sugar

1/3 c. + 1 T egg replacer

3 bananas

2 c. whole wheat pastry flour

1 tsp. baking soda

1 tsp. vanilla

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

Mix all wet ingredients together. Sift dry ingredients separately and then add to wet mix and pour in loaf pan. Bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees.

Enjoy!

Autumn bliss

Second Snow

Don't worry, I wont keep this up. But since we are only three weeks into October I thought it would be worth mentioning again.

About half an inch of crusty, heavy snow flattens the grass and arcs weak branches under its weight. On certain trees who have managed to retain their leaves, when the snow piles up on one of the dangling ornaments of past life, it falls with an icy thud. The roads, however, are only wet and glossy from the snow. Im surprised it is sticking at all. Two days ago we had the windows open and people walked the streets in shorts and t-shirts, enjoying a daytime high that reached 89. The last snow was reduced to a fuzzy memory and the future was bright. Over the last week we had a couple days of dense fog that was reminiscent of Walt Whitman's opening lines to his poem, "To Autumn," reading, "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness/close bosom friend of the maturing sun/conspiring with him how to load and bless/with fruit the vines that round the thatch eves run." And yesterday as I rode my bike home from school, a northern wind blew and raked leaves across streets, knocked the weakest links from trees and chilled my fingers to the bone. By the time I had arrives home, a blanket of fog and whirling mist shrouded the city, walling off one city block from the other.

The sunny days and frequent wet weather of autumn make Whitman's lines reality. It does feel like the sun and the mists become bosom buddies during this time of the year, taking shifts to delight to those who enjoy their handiwork.

So, until we actually have a real "snow" that causes horns to honk and tires to slip, closes schools and frustrates every living being in Denver, I will keep it to myself, enjoying the flurries in the confines of a small nook just off our kitchen.

First Snow

Many in Denver believe Fall is over. Three days ago the sun was out and daytime highs were in the sixties or seventies. The trees still had their leaves, some of which were green and others tinged bright colors by the waning light and chilly nights. That ended, one might say, this morning. The temperature is 17 F and a dusting of snow clings to grass and rooftops. It is snowing as I write and is supposed to keep up until noon. The high wont get warmer than 32 forcing people to either stay inside and enjoy it, put themselves to some domestic pleasures or grit and bear the wind and snow outside. Those brave people are martyrs and the most bitter souls in the city. They are the Winter naysayers and think not of Nature as whimsical and fun, but as a god whose sole objective is to make their lives better. They say Fall is dead.

Denver is one of Americas "skinniest" cities and they boast of their "320 days of sunshine" a year. Though the former is not an exaggeration, the latter surely is. Nonetheless, people live here because being outside is cherished and utilized to its fullest. They don't live here to be forced to endure inclement weather. So when Nature ushers in an "early" snowfall, or a random cloud in June that sprinkles the barren desert floor with needed rain, the people send up a wail of mourning and strident complaints. "I was going to go jogging today. But I can't do that in the rain!" As the person says this the sun is actually shining through many fractures in over head clouds and a few drops splat on the ground around you. But what I can't seem to get over is how people interact with things beyond their control. And, if say Nature did take requests, the world would be a parched dirt clod with a myriad of nicely paved jogging trails -at least for the majority of suburban America.

Thankfully, Nature doesn't give a damn about what people want or think -including me. If it were up to me there would be a global freezing and everyone would need to dig tunnels from their front doors through snow, get on their sleigh and go where they needed. I'd be a lonely man. Instead I try to take this all worth a grain of salt. Roll with it. Endure heat waves and no rain, which only make a rainy day and snow flurries that much more enjoyable.

Fall is not over. The naysayers lack foresight. If they had it they would understand that tomorrow is forecasting clear skies and "above average" temperatures. All next week is in the seventies again. The trees will bask in the remaining days of Autumn and the snow will most likely not return until sometime in November. But, like C.S. Lewis commented on humanities need to bitch and moan, "we'd rather have the itch than not be able to scratch." Let them itch. I'm going to enjoy my coffee and stare into a dynamic sheet of white.

I love that my husband rocks at cooking.

Opah! The Pleasure and Plight of Catering a Greek Wedding

Ten plates of salad vied for space on an oval tray. Anticipation beaded on our foreheads and the musty smell like pencil lead emanated from our armpits. A hand waved, then servers and runners funneled through three narrow doorways and around four corners into a dinning hall of hungry Greeks. They clanked forks on wine glasses invoking the newlyweds to press their prominent features together, forming a single mass of sweaty, olive colored flesh. Though I never saw the bride, I heard she was beautiful. And though I never met any of them, I heard these were our city’s richest. These thoughts suspended my anxiety like a gurney. This made each step a crucial responsibility to succeed. I felt plates shift and water pool up in the space between my palm and the bottom of the tray as I navigated through a maze of tables. I imagined an entire tray tipping and an avalanche of garden salad, dressing, salmon, filet mignon and potatoes nailing one of these cultural elites. I focused and stepped confidently, back arched and chin high. But it was foolish to think that of all the runners there that night that I would evade starring in another one of Fates tragicomedies.

Three men with glistening, chiseled features stood in the place where I turned to head out to the dinning area. One tapped away on an iPhone, the others swirled Pinot Gris in crystal glasses and spoke loudly with violent gestures. I should have worried about the amount of space afforded to get through, yet I drank deeply of intoxicating confidence and continued toward them, silently. I lifted the tray over one of their shoulders and, with exact precision, knocked the far plate off the tray onto the stone tiled floor. I wish I knew more about physiology and what happens in fight-or-flight scenarios because I felt every extremity of my body tingle, turn ice cold then burn with the unrelenting heat of Hades. “Opah!” One of the men said, then did a graceful two-step, with the glass of wine raised over his head. The other said excitedly, “there’s the first one! At least we got it out of the way early!” They all left the intersection and walked down the hall dancing as they spoke.

My boss for the night, who is also our landlord, saw the entire thing happen. She’s Greek and has the feminine fire of such a woman. But her voice was poised and quick and assertive, “That’s ok. That’s tradition. Just keep going.” What I imagined to be a faux pas turned out to commence a night of absurd custom and clashing of my rigid, mechanical Americanism with the fluid, flawless Greek world.

Naomi served their food and I ran tray after tray of gourmet entrees out. So I cannot speak to the experience of interacting with them. And of the two of us, it was better that she, and not I, had that “opportunity”. As was mentioned earlier, this was no typical wedding. There was a three time Super Bowl winning running back in their midst (Terrell Davis?), club owners, Pete and his family from the myriad of Pete’s Greek Cafes, Diners, Bistros etc. that dominated the downtown Denver real-estate; “a few millionaires” one of the servers said casually, with a sardonic grin. Once the flow of work became a ritual, I relaxed my mind and drifted into a seat at one of the tables.

Faces were aglow from the floating votives that bumped against Orchids in a crystal vase. I wore an Armani pinstriped jacket and a navy blue button up Gucci with the top button undone to reveal a frayed tuft of hair just beneath my prominent Adam’s apple and tendon rippled neck. I wasn’t wearing glasses either because last Spring I’d just taken new eyes from one of my unfortunate clients who couldn’t pay back “The Loan” in time. Yes, I carried a gun: a chrome .9 mil with my wife and mistress’ names engraved around the barrel. One of the bullets in the chamber had “Lucky Bitch” engraved on it. I was happy and took copious, full-mouthed gulps from the Woodridge Cabernet, slouched a bit, yet still maintained aplomb. “Polli kala!” I’d say randomly, raising my glass. (Unfortunately my Greek in real life is far less than it would be if I were this imagined man.)

Yet the pressure of the class and pomp would weigh, I assume, too much, making a night like this unbearable with out the aid of alcohol. But that is me speaking; not Loukas or Salaki, Bernaki or Jimmy. My character faded into the richly textured faces around the table and I receded into madiocredom.

I paid as much attention as possible to their disposition and manner with each other. Warmth -light hearted and flamboyant warmth- hung over each table like a fog. But like fog in a valley, it was trapped and immediate to those at the table. It was family and friends; the atomic structure of the bonds between individuals was exclusive and beckoned envy. There was a sense of infallible filialty. “Mamaaa” an older gentleman said at one point. He stood up from his seat and gripped the jowls of a woman across the table, shook them, shot Greek into the air then pressed his lips against both hers and the corner of an eye. I watched the expressions of the other guests at that table, expecting the sophisticated wince at an uncouth action. Instead, a younger man with a face that resembled Pliny’s ivory bust, hoorayed, clapped his hands then raised his glass and cheered to Mamaaa. A part of me wanted to throw a plate against the wall and cheer too, saying, “Opah! Polli kala! Mamaaa!” But there was a clear division: Family. Friends. The table runner: Foreigner.

One has to remember that it is the Greeks who invented sophistication. Sophia: their word for wisdom, social intuitiveness, the finger on the pulse of custom and tradition. Had I been Greek I might not have been horrified at breaking a plate. I might have dropped the whole tray and broke into dance and song. But probably not. I’d be the crazy Greek they sequester into the dance hall. Nonetheless, there was something elusive and mysterious about the event, something antiquated and incredibly taunting.

After our shift was over we were invited by our landlord (no longer boss) to join her for drinks in the Champagne Corner. Naomi grabbed some sticky baklava and a glass of Champagne. The glasses were set up in pairs of two and lined the perimeter of a round table. One of the fellow servers was in the Corner and had a bottle of Miller in one hand and a glass of golden bubbly in the other. Her once pale, northern European face was flushed pink and stretched into a permanent grin. We joined her and turned to face the dance floor.

Bills of money, from ones to hundreds, lay scattered everywhere. I saw rent, a skateboard, new shoes, and a debtless life get danced on. The women in silk and high riding dresses, and the men, as symmetrical as Ken dolls, contrasted the elderly who walked slow, bent over by the gravity of time. Stumpy thick legs carried the women and the men’s faces were submersed in the growing flesh of bulbous noses, cauliflowered ears and jowls that crowded the dark dots of eyes. Many of their faces looked like lumps of tawny dough that had coal pushed into the surface for eyes and slits cut out for mouths. How do they get from this, looking at a handsome man link arms with an astounding woman, to that? looking at an older man prop himself against a brass cane, striving to maintain life.

The girl we met up with in the Corner talked viciously about the women; their figures, skin tones and hair. “Those bitches can’t afford to look normal” she said. She followed the statement with a toss of Champagne down her throat. “Their husbands would ditch them so fast! I’d love to just cram baklava down their throats and hold their hands back so they couldn’t make themselves vomit!” her glassy eyes glaring at the hourglass shapes gyrating before her.

It was odd to see how “perfect” everyone looked. I grew self-conscious, too. A round pudge pushed out over my waistline. “Does more money actually buy the time to work this off?” I thought. We observed the mass of people interact. Jovial and free to the eye. I thought about private lives of Greek-American society. Like our new friend said, many of the men carried around wads of hundred dollar bills that were dispensable, being thrown in the air, floating gently to the ground for the groom and bride to scoop up later. Were they happy beneath this sheen? Was affluence really working out to their favor? My simple observation of the activity on the dance floor said “Yes, absolutely.”

A new song began and the crowd joined in a circle, their arms linked over each others shoulders as their legs matched the rhythm and pulse of the song; kicking once, stepping twice, kicking with the other, stepping twice. They bounced with each move not merely gliding and keeping sync or precision like an American square dance would. There was a carelessness and frivolity with it. A young boy stood in the center and clapped his hands imitating the adults that surrounded him. I said to our friend, “I wish I was able to do that with out thinking.” She said, “they’re not thinking about it. Its just centuries of tradition passed along by blood.” What a concept. Maybe it really does boil down to biology. I have the coordination and moves of a rusty John Deer tractor despite being from a Maltese background. Yet somehow apart from my consciousness and self-absorbed eyes, my knees bent and swayed, my toes tapped and my shoulders twitched with the music. How is it that I am restricted from enjoying myself?

We left after the show ended and as we walked to our car, Naomi reflected on the beauty of other cultures and asked naively why imported Greeks managed to make so much money. “They entertain and offer a lot of goods and services Americans covet” I said. We got in our Toyota, rolled down the windows that still work, and clunked off to a Greek owned home, licking the residue of free baklava from our fingers.

vegan dark chocolate chip cookies

These turned out superlicious with great flavor!

1/2 c. vegan butter (I love Earth Balance brand)

3/4 c + 1T egg replacer

3/4 c. sugar

1 ts. vanilla

1 1/4 c. flour (I use whole wheat pastry flour, and it works great...more fiber for ya! ;-) )

1/2 ts. baking soda

1/2 c. coconut

1/2 ts. salt

3/4 c. dark chocolate chunks (I use dark chocolate wherever I can!)

Beat first 4 ingredients together in large bowl. Then mix remaining ingredients in separate bowl. Then combine the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients. Scoop onto cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees until golden brown. Enjoy! And you'll never know they are vegan! =)

First days of school

Well, I have survived the first 3 days of 1st grade! W00hoooo!!! And I am utterly EXHAUSTED!! I am so thankful to God that I have so far only 20 kiddos. I was told I could have up to 35! I can't even begin to imagine. I am also grateful to have a Para in my classroom helping me for an hour a day. Unfortunately it is is the last hour of the day when the kids are antsy and ready to go home after a long day (they go till 3:45pm!).

My first impressions are that 20 6-year olds for 7 hours a day is a TON of work. I have been working a lot with them on my routines and behavior expectations. It is a lot for them, but I know they can do it with time.

Lesson planning has been the biggest challenge for me, aside from getting their attention throughout the day. I'm constantly saying "eyes on me please" and "mouths shut" and "criss-cross applesauce." :-) Lesson planning for 6 subjects a day seems to be way too much right now. I'm trying to figure out a system as to how to best manage my time so that I'm not lesson planning before school, after school and in the evenings every day and thus getting little sleep.

My kiddos are precious. There really do make it all worth it. There is Brian whose gorgeous brown eyes and sweet smile melt my heart every time. He has a precious voice and is so obedient. Then there is Emily who is an amazing writer and artist. Irving is enraptured by animals. Karla talks a lot and is constantly telling me what everyone else in the class is doing (We're working on worrying about herself, and not the other children). Daniel is really smart and speaks almost perfect English. Anthony is my biggest behavior challenge. He has to constantly be moving and has a hard time focusing. Each one is precious and I can't wait to know them better as the year progresses. And the best part is they understand my Castilian accent (whew!). =)

Here are some pics of my classroom. Thanks to my mom and aunt who were AMAZING at helping me set it up.

Large group instruction area - "the carpet". Some day I'll have a big carpet to put here.

The classroom library (we will soon have the shelves filled with books!)

Supplies area

Guided reading table (once it's cleared off) and some literacy stations

My desk behind those white cubbies.

first fruits

Can't wait to dig into this garden goodness.

I'm think'in zucchini bread.

reality check

Love this...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=twQED8zOBDo

a little miracle

About 6 months ago, I had been praying to the Lord that somehow someway I would meet a Spanish gal as a friend here in Denver. This seemed pretty farfetched to me ('cuz Spaniards just don't come to live in the western US), but I thought I'd just let God know the desire of my heart. After awhile, I had stopped praying about it and then eventually came to forget it.

Until today. At my Math training class today I was walking past a gal and immediately recognized the Spanish accent and thought "She can't be from Spain." It turns out we were in the same class today so at our morning break I approached her, and the two gals seated with her, and started speaking in Spanish and it turns out all three of them are from Spain!! One is from Barcelona, one from Pamplona, and the other from Zaragoza. We talked for about 10 minutes about Spain and what they're doing here. They will be teaching for DPS too! We exchanged numbers and hope to hang out soon for tapas. =)

All the while we were talking, my heart was bursting with happiness. I can't explain it. Whenever I speak Castillian, or hear it, or meet Spaniards, or am in Spain, or anything to do with Spain, my heart is complete. God gave me not 1 Spanish friend, but 3!!

A better pack this time...

Mt. Evans Wilderness

Check out where Naomi will be teaching for the next few years!...

http://beachcourt.dpsk12.org/

Naomi's First Backpacking Trip

Buffalo Creek Campground where we spent our first night.

Portion of the Colorado Trail before we began our assent up Rolling Creek trail. Naomi's bag was ultra-light, but awkward.

The Castle in hazy dawn light. It's been an unusually wet summer for Colorado providing foggy mornings in the mountains and vibrant forest undergrowth.

Second night along Rolling Creek. It is such a comfort to hike all day and walk into a temporary home in the wilderness.

The blue is our tent as seen from the trail.

The back-side of The Castle at sunset.

Desert Paintbrush.

Moonrise over the castle.

Columbine and Shooting Rockets.

Buffalo herd and Wigwam Creek waterfall.

After a two hour deluge we emerged from our tent, started a fire and ate a needed dinner. The clouds dissipated just enough to let the rosy hues of sunset light the tree-tops and drifting fog above us. It was frigid and wet but well worth it.

Extracting water from Wigwam creek.

This is our third night at Wigwam Creek. The creek darted in and out of elbows and tight hairpin turns, under giant boulders and over fallen trees. It is one of the most fun creeks I've seen. There were decently sized Brook Trout just off the shore, too.

On our way out we had to stop and capture the vast fields of wildflowers. The fields surface seemed to shimmer with color as breezes passed over. We were fortunate to have seen such an abundance of flora. One person we talked to said that due to Colorado's drought over the last 10 years, this kind of foliage has been non-existent. I'm glad we were able to enjoy it while it lasts.