Jennifer Wilson's Blog

Often what I miss about our year away is that closeness as a family.

Yes, it could get annoying to be surrounded by my people 24/7. Claustrophobic even. But after we came home, life swept us back into its current. Though we make an effort to stay tight, I think a certain degree of separation is inevitable over the years. I suppose it’s natural to let nostalgia color that time. “Remember when we were together so often that going to the bathroom seemed like a little vacation? Yeah, I miss that.”

These days, Sam is heading into the tween years. Jim and I are glimpsing a new teenager attitude in our smiley-faced boy. It’s not offensive so much as it is a sign: Someday he will leave us and go his own way. Same with Zadie. It’s the natural progression of life, I suppose. But it can sure make a mama melancholy every now and then.

These photos were taken on a family hike just outside the village. One of the weird and wonderful adventures in Mrkopalj that is on my mind today—and not just because we got lost and thought we might have to eat someone in our party.

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There is no image with this blog post. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just that, on New Year’s Eve, when this story takes place, I had a personal press blackout. And also, my camera froze up a little bit.

We’d traveled with some other families to a cabin in northern Minnesota for that weird space between Christmas and New Year’s. We do it every year, travel during that time. We don’t go far. But it seems like after the hosting hubbub of Christmas, we’re all ready for a break from the house.

We did some skiing, some snow tubing, even some dogsledding. It’s nice up north in winter. Nobody else is up there, except a few other rosy-cheeked souls. I like the empty sound of boots crunching cold snow. I like the snap of a fire at night. We stayed somewhere we could get one of our favorite things: Free breakfast in a lodge.

But the kids were up really early every day, and we played hard in that snow. By 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, most of us were tuckered out. I almost went to bed myself. Except the lake out there beyond the cabin wouldn’t let me.

The ice cracks on a frozen lake. It shifts and groans and when cars drive out to their ice houses, it can cause big fissures on the surface. The cracking makes an echo, and it’s a really haunting and lonely sound. It’s seductive, in a strange way.

Jim, my friend Kyle, and I, were the last ones standing on New Year’s Eve. I felt compelled to go out on the ice for the stroke of midnight, even though it was like 15 below. So I bundled up and I did, just to see what was out there, causing all this odd urgency in my brain.

As I walked, the stars really popped, and the plain of snow covering the lake was almost blue in the moonlight. It crunched under my boots. The ice shifted sometimes as I moved. If I didn’t know it was frozen for a few feet down, it would’ve been scary. And maybe my heart did jump a little, especially when the thundering was so loud.

I stood out there, and the year changed from a very wonderful 2012 into the unknown of 2013, and the cold was so sharp it made my nose and fingers hurt. A shooting star slid across the dark sky.

Maybe we’re at our best, we humans, when we put ourselves into uncomfortable situations. When we go beyond the place that comes easy, into an unknown. We’re more alert. Edgy even. Pores wide open to the bright stars above, and the cold depths below. We feel more.

I ended up calling Kyle and Jim, and they joined me out on the ice. We hugged and welcomed another year of our lives. As we stood there, admiring the quiet, a pickup drove out onto the lake.

It was a solo driver. He rolled out into the middle of the water, got out, shot off a single bottle rocket, then got back into the truck and returned to wherever he came from. Maybe a warm cabin. Maybe his own comfortable house, where a wife and kids snoozed peacefully.

Was this his own tradition? Or a one-off dare? I’ll never know. But I like to think that the lake called him out there, against his better judgement, to witness something entirely different. A new thing. The space between the usual wheel ruts. Maybe it calls everybody that way sometimes.

Happy New Year. I wish you connection, joyful travels, and a bit of self-imposed discomfort, to help you find the magic in all of it.

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Few things make me happier than this sight. Joe the Wood Guy rules. (Plus, he likes rakija.)

May your holidays be full and warm.

Love to all.

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Here”s what my dear friend Jen will be cooking from this Christmas. Jen owns a lovely lovely lotions and potions shop called Eden. You casino online won”t find a better one like it anywhere in the world. Believe me. I”ve tried.

I especially love this page of the notations:

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The post My Friend Jen's Family Recipe Book appeared first on Jennifer Wilson.

Here’s what my dear friend Jen will be cooking from this Christmas. Jen owns a lovely lovely lotions and potions shop called Eden. You won’t find a better one like it anywhere in the world. Believe me. I’ve tried.

I especially love this page of the notations:

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If you’d like a signed copy of the book for a holiday gift, just email me. jen@jennifer-wilson.com.

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I just finished a segment on Iowa Public Radio with that awesome blossom Charity Nebbe. She and I and a passel of other guests discussed recipes we pass through the generations.

It was a really great talk, but I left wanting more.

Now, more than ever, we need to share the warmth and love of our old recipes, passed down with generosity of spirit by our grandmothers, our aunts, our neighbors, our dear friends.

Food can heal, and home-made food is a powerful peacemaker. Another guest, Beth Howard, is doing that right now, as she bakes pies for the grieving residents of Newtown.

Will you share with us what you’re cooking or baking this holiday season? How will you pass the love along this year, through the nurturing spirit of food?

And if you’re inspired, snap a pic of that recipe card with your cell phone. I’ll put it up here on the blog, too.

I’ll leave you with a quote from Judy Stark, another guest on today’s show:

“Serve these recipes with a smile, a servant’s heart, and unconditional love.”

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Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #9. Epitaph by @SarahLoveSager. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

   the ultimate revenge: staying together, forever. — @SarahLoveSager

S: “You over there, buddy?”

B: “I am.”

S: “I’m here, too.”

B: “Figured that.”

S: “Have a smoke?”

B: “You know I couldn’t pass it if I did.”

S: “Just thought I’d ask.”

B: “…”

S: “Now you’ve gone silent.”

B: “Well, now you’ve got me all riled up. Wishing to smoke.”

S: “That moment when you strike the match, that first fresh inhale …”

B: “You’re not helping.”

S: “I haven’t meant to. What’s life if we can’t torture our best friend.”

B: “…”

S: “Alright, don’t be cross now. How can I fix it?”

B: “How about you tell me about a time when you had a great smoke. Maybe on … one of those fishing trips you once took.”

S: “Ah, you know how I’d like so much to have a smoke in the great outdoors.”

B: “I do know.”

S: “I’d been camping. It was early, early spring. Barely out of winter, and some nights, not even. I’d gone up to northeast, where you can get trout, and the earliest is the best because the cress is fresh and there’s something about the taste that transfers.”

B: “That sounds grand. Go on.”

S: “You’re bossing me.”

B: “Well, you got me wanting to smoke.”

S: “Okay then. I’d set up my tent early and had a nice long walk. I came back and started a fire and I took out my mess kit with the bright intention to cook the fish. Inside, I found a very large pat of fresh butter and a napkin bound in string that contained a portion of salt. Emily had packed them when I hadn’t noticed it.”

B: “And?”

S: “So I ate those trout, and it was as good as you’d think they were, and elevated to the best thing I’d ever eaten, for the love of my woman.”

B: “What I wouldn’t give for a moment with that Emily.”

S: “Watch yourself, friend.”

B: “Well it’s too dark for that. And there now is the matter of my tremendous need for a cigarette, because of your fool mouth.”

S: “So much ire from a dead man! Here. I ate the fish. Then I had the perfect smoke. Every single star was out. I had a tent, and a full belly, and my woman had blessed my trip by packing butter and salt for me. It was then I knew that there was a God, and He wanted nothing but for me to enjoy his Earth and all its wonders.”

B: “ And so? “

S: “So I decided there and then to stay two more nights at least. Maybe another week even. It was heavenly.”

B: “I told her.”

S: “What’s that, old pal?”

B: “I said I told her. A woman who packs her man butter and salt. She hopes it might keep him out a bit longer. Because he has her blessing.”

S: “ … ”

B: : “Just a thought. Have you ever wondered, then, why it was that all your tow-headed babies had a habit of arriving in December?”

S: ” … ”

B: “What I wouldn’t do for a smoke about now. But I’m feeling better every moment.”

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Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #8. Epitaph by @archman9, @k8silver, @cshenks. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

  What doesn’t make you stronger kills you. — @K8Silver

The knock at the door was no surprise.

“Husband?” Marietta looked up from her sewing.

The Independent Order of Odd Fellows should have been a protection.

“Friendship, love and truth, eh?”

They looked at me, alarmed. Mr. Taylor stared down at his hands. Mr. Bures got right to it.

“They’ve asked that we come to collect. We’ll be much more kind than the men at the bank.”

“That so?” I asked.

Then Marietta was behind me.

“Husband, what is this all about?”

Every day, I dressed for work as she tended the baby. I wanted nothing of the baby business. Every day, I worked some, too. But at night, it wasn’t overtime that kept me busy. It was cards.

“He’s leveraged the house, ma’am,” Bures said, removing his hat.

My girl surprised me. I thought maybe she’d fight them. We’ve always had love. The spark hadn’t left us after we married.

Instead, she picked up the baby.

“Go on, then,” she said.

I felt my head go all cottony.

Taylor finally found his mouth. “We did what we could.”

“I said take him, you dumb bastard,” Marietta said. I’d never heard her swear. She’d been brought up well, too. “You’ll get no fight from me.”

I knew she stowed money from her family. “Marietta, I’ve found all that money in the floor already. Might as well just tell you now.”

She held her chin up, pulled the baby closer, wouldn’t look at me.

“I said take him.”

They led me out the door, and I can’t tell you about what it’s like to have your face mashed to pulp. You’re probably eating breakfast, or maybe just about to head to the doctor to see if maybe that little bump on your neck might be something. I’d hate to make you more nervous than you already are.

Let’s just say I saw her later on, when I went to the next place. That money in the floor wasn’t even the half of it. Wasn’t a drop compared what she hid in the baby cradle. She kept me for the things we did in the dark, but she knew I wasn’t worth the name my daddy gave me, no matter how she dressed me up.

I see her here sometimes. She’ll give me that look. I’ll almost go to her, but I stay at the card table mostly. It stays with you, even in the beyond, if you’re not finished with earthly things.

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Twitter Fiction Festival Flash Fiction #7. Epitaph by @KyleMunson, @SarahLoveSager, @jessieopie. Fiction by Jennifer Wilson. 

 Far as we know, she never stopped. — @jessieopie

She packed her kit and continued walking. The thing was snug to her back, but it bothered her. She could deal with the tent just fine, even though it weighed at almost 50 pounds with stakes. Adah had always been hardy. Back in Iowa, her pop lent it to her knowing she could shoulder it like a weak calf in spring.

It was the less luxurious things she’d begun to resent. Pillow. Blanket. It was so damned hot this time of year anyway, and she didn’t mind the dew at night, closest thing to beauty cream she’d ever get. Toothbrush. She wasn’t kissing anyone in this war, wasn’t particularly interested in anything but writing. She’d been tempted to throw it out.

Adah had gone wild. That’s what it was.

Farm life was fine. Pop liked the help, but he didn’t need her. That’s what brothers were for. Everybody back home was always milling around and waiting for her to take up with that sad-sack Carl Crout.

Adah grimaced at the thought. Just because Carl Crout was the only fella to look at her didn’t mean she had to take that jackass. He only wanted to stick it to her and make a mess of kids to keep her home for good.

But life on the road was the life for her. Didn’t matter where! Hell, she’d cover anything they’d pay her for at the Bureau. Lady journos were scarce, and sometimes she was the only one who could get the story. Like when the pretty Swiss nurses got sick of the men gogging around the hospital and kicked them all out but Adah. She’d scooped them all on the gut-shot colonel that way.

Adah felt good today. The air was sharp in her nose and the sky was clear and she hadn’t slept half bad.

Milbourne chucked her on the back when he walked by.

“Saw your piece yesterday, Adah,” he winked. “Real good work. For a dame.”

Adah picked up some gravel and tossed it half-heartedly in his direction. Her eyes scanned the woods.

Pop was the only one she’d miss.

She couldn’t write or call or anything, though. He’d come for her, thinking she was out of her mind. Probably she was. But it sure felt fine to be that way.

“Milbourne,” she called. “You ever carry a calf in spring?”

Milbourne stopped and turned. He shook his head. “I never did,” he said.

Adah nodded. “You ain’t missing much,” she said. “Only need to do it once to know how you feel about a thing like that.”

# # #

Thanks, @TwitterBooks!

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