Hello my Xanga peeps!

I’ve been away, traveling sunny Scotland with my hilarious family. If driving your new step dad, mom, and 15 year old brother around on the wrong side of the road for a week sounds masochistic to you: think again. We had a riot. My mom and her man are in looooove, my brother Julian has grown into one of the funniest people I’ve ever met – what more can you ask for in a family? We got goofy together, we adventured together, and we only had approximately one melt-down each during the course of the week, Shaun excluded, as he managed to stay amazingly sweet throughout the rigors of navigating my driving during the entire trip.

Loads of pictures from the trip are up now at The Loch Ness Blog, but lest you are too lazy to click over (trust me, I understand: life gets busy), here is an excerpt from that blog. It is by far my favorite story from my family’s Scottish road trip:

Choose Your Adventure
While all parts of the road trip were grand, our stay on the Isle of Mull was incredible. People are scarce on this beautiful island. Gorges burst forth from the land and caves burrow themselves deep into rock. Green hills bubble up at every turn and cars slow on the winding, one-track roads to avoid the goats and sheep who take naps on the warm pavement. Seals flop on the rocky shore and birds of prey swoop through the sky. Little brown mice scurry underfoot and wild cats haunt the castle ruins. Mull is peace. My bones softened there. I opened up to the world and to the simple comfort of the people around me in a way that had been inaccessible in me for a bit, buried by the harried frenzy of work, of city life.

As pure as Mull was, the tranquility of the place in no way prevented us from having a barking mad adventure. With a group as up for anything as we are, no place can really stop us from that. Upon our arrival, I thought we’d all go for a soothing, short walk along the beach to Mackinnon’s Cave. As the path seemed short and relatively straight forward, I also forwent purchasing the OS map that accompanies this little walk. And this is where things get interesting.

Many walking paths in Scotland that intersect with private property are not as well maintained as the paths in national parks. There is no park ranger; there is only the courtesy of the land owner and the footsteps of those who walked before you. So I didn’t think it too terribly strange when we chose to scale a massively steep hill and walk along a staggering, sheer cliff in pursuit of a “spiraling downward path” to the waterfall and cave below. After all, the hike description promised “increasingly dramatic views.” And we were having so much fun that I’d forgotten that the hike was supposed to be short and soothing. Juje remembered though.

“This is definitely the wrong way.”
“Juje, there is no right or wrong way. There is just this, what we’re doing.”
“I’m going back.”
“No you’re not.”
“We should have turned right back there.”
“The hike isn’t about the destination. You’re there already.”

Soon enough, Juje relented and enjoyed the scenary along with the rest of us. All was going well when suddenly, inexplicably, we found ourselves face down, bodies pressed to the earth, clutching for our lives to tufts of grasses growing on the sheer, vertical face of a cliff. This was not the “spiraling downward path” I had in mind.

“Julian, go in front of me so that if you fall, you’ll land on me and I’ll die instead.”
“No. Things seem to be going pretty good for you right now.”
“But you haven’t even gotten a chance to really live yet.”
“I live.”
“Okay. Just be sly. Everybody: acknowledge your will to live.”

Thusly, we scooted our way across the bluff, landing on horizontal land after more than a few sweaty, horrifying moments. Panting, and dusting ourselves off, we couldn’t help but laugh. Juje was right. We almost died. It was hilarious.

Making our way back down to safety, we had to cut through cow fields where evil cows stared us down, sized us up and made us wonder if we’d survived scaling the width of a sheer cliff just to experience death by bovine. Lucky for us, the cows seemed content with their grass.

When we were possibly less than a quarter mile from the car, hours later, with empty water bottles and shaking legs, we saw a sign that made us laugh until our sides hurt. CAVE, it read. An arrow pointed dumbly.

“We have to finish this properly,” I declared.

We followed the arrow, making our way along the rocky beach, alive with sea creatures and craggy rock scrambles. The cave rose from the beach about a half mile down, its great howling mouth opening to the sea.

I was so excited about the cave, the haunted wetness of it, the undulating echo, that I forgot to take any pictures at all. I was 12 again, racing around with my brother, shouting into the cave, feeling the moss on its sides, imagining a giant, pinching crab was about to leap from the shadows of the cave’s belly and devour us whole. It was amazing. I will remember it even when I’m old and rotting. I will remember it when I need to remember happiness in its purest, cleanest, most worth while form.

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What is one of your top favorite family adventures?

Once I ate an entire loaf of fish pâté out of spite.
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Funny confessions, people?

I started training for the 10K this week. Everything I’ve read so far says that I’m probably fit enough to go out and run this without any training (I run 4-5 times a week on normal, non-shingles weeks, with lots of walking, hiking and Frisbee playing in my spare time. And I can’t tell you how much I miss my big, blue bike here in Scotland), but I’ve never really tried to increase my mileage for some reason. I usually just do my route when I wake, shower up and move on with my day. I like having muscle tone and not being life-threateningly huge like my biological dad, but I don’t run for fitness reasons, exactly. I run because it is a space in which I have incredible daydreams. Most of the goals that have been worth pursuing in my life were conjured by my wandering mind during my morning run. So this is a change for me. My pal Helen and I are running it together and are on Hal Higdon’s 8-week training schedule. Neither of us like working out with other people (it disrupts the daydreams!), which is good. We work out separately and just talk about how it’s going. So far, its been gone this:

Sunday is Long Run Day. I increased my usual 2.5 mile run to a 3.5 mile run. It was a cinch! I thought it would be harder, but it just took an extra 12 minutes or so. Stretched for ages. Felt great.

Monday is Stretch and Strengthen Day. I lifted my little free weights and stretched for an entire episode of Greys Anatomy after walking home from work (a good 45 minute ordeal – its not the walking that sucks, but that I am generally really hungry and ready for dinner while I’m doing it).

A little side bar about Grey’s Anatomy: we got that show on DVD when I had shingles because everyone always talks about it and I needed something to keep me company in my illness (we don’t own a TV). I was disappointed to find that the writing is chock full of lame “sayings”, the patients have more depth than the main cast sometimes, the cast is riddled with gross clichés (Sassy Black Woman, Detached Asian Chick, Frat Boy, Model-Turned-Doctor), and the main character delivers everything like it is a Neutrogena ad. That said, we bought the series and I’m finishing it if it kills me. I like Sandra Oh a great deal. She deserves a better show, a better script. She deserves the leading role; she is ten times the actress that Ellen Pompeo is. But the weight lifting and stretch was nice.

On Monday, Shaun and I also went for a long walk to a pretty English garden called Victoria Park and talked about favorite flowers. Mine is Gerber Daisy because they are so literal; it is the flower you draw when you think of the word “flower.” I also have unbridled enthusiasm for Chick and Hen plants, Sequoia trees, cactus, and succulents. Shaun is still working on having favorite for nature things.

Tuesday was a Short Run Day. 2.5 miles, a bit of weights and stretch. Totally fine and easy. Except that we are really skint right now (it’s the last week before payday), and I had no pocket money for the subway; I had to also walk to and from work. I usually only walk home from work, if its nice out. Adding that extra 3 miles to the day felt great but it sucked all enthusiasm for a nice, after dinner walk or Frisbee game. All I had energy for was vegging in front of the laptop, lamenting the poor scripting of Grey’s Anatomy again. Plus, I was too tired and hungry to focus on cooking dinner properly, so I made this gross, overly salty risotto and I’m mad that I wasted three cute zucchinis on it. They deserved a more dignified death. So I’ve reached a fitness limit of sorts, which is always annoying. I’m not fit enough to want to play in the park after a day of walking/running 8 solitary miles combined with a full day of work. I think I can get there and that sort of endurance should come in handy when I am a parent some day.

Today is Cross Training Day. It’s just 30 wee minutes of some cardio thing. I think I’ll just walk to and from work and play a little Frisbee tonight. That seems like it will cover it.

Thursday is another Short Run w/ Weights. Friday is Rest Day. Saturday is Cross Training again. Sunday is Long Run and round and round we go for 8 weeks until the race.
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Have you ever trained for something or reached an annoying fitness block? Is anyone else signed up for races this summer/fall?

In the mood for a giant eat? Unlike Pizza Hut, my pie won’t give you the shits. It’s also cheap, nourishing, and fun to make. And because no kitchen should close before offering something chocolaty to munch, I bring you my favorite cookie recipe for a sweet finish. Read on, hungry people. Read on.

Gather:
3 teaspoons of yeast
1 1/2 cups warm water
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon salt
2 1/2 cups white flour
2 cups wheat flour
Pizza toppings of choice

Now do this:
1.) Wash your filthy paws.

2.) Get out the biggest bowl you have; hopefully it’s big enough to fit a human head, because while you are probably not a cannibal, every kitchen needs a head-sized bowl. Dissolve yeast into warm water into it (the bowl, not your head). You can frizzle the yeast around with a fork – that seems to help. Splash in oil and salt. In another big bowl, mix together the different flours before kneading them into the big ‘ole yeast bowl. Squish the mix around with your bare mitts and notice how completely warm and crotch-like the whole ordeal smells. (Ha! Well it does!)

3.) Once the bowl stuff is squished into a big, yeasty dough ball, let it fester in the bowl undisturbed for about 40 minutes.

4.) While the great ball of yeast is rising, chop up stuff to put on your pizza. I like red sauce, rocket, sausage, peppers, fresh mozzarella, and basil from my basil plant named Little Cat. Once I tried olive oil, leftover chicken, caramelized onions, spinach, and a mozzarella/parmesan mix, which was also good. Someone once said that figs and goat cheese was good, but that sounds sort of dry to me. Maybe figs and mascarpone would be better? Anyway, whatever you like on your pie is good.

5.) Oh yeah, preheat the oven to 425F. And clean off your counters with something that’s not toxic. You’ll need a spot to sprinkle a bit of flour onto for rolling out your doughy balls.

6.) When the dough is all arisen, separate it into two balls. Take one at a time and roll it into a flat disk on your clean, floured counter top. When it’s a nice disk, pick it up and drape it over your fist and make little punching motions towards to ceiling. This makes it all stretchy and is fun to do. Lay your crust out on a baking sheet and top with whatever you chopped up.

7.) With the other dough ball, break off little bits and twist them into bread sticks. If you want, you can brush on olive oil, push in garlic bits or feta or whatever stinky little food thing you like. Put these on another baking sheet.

8.) Bake everything for about 20 minutes.

9.) Partake in a giant eat. Extra red sauce makes a nice dip for the breadsticks.

Wormy, Weird Cookies
This recipe is ripped directly from the pages of Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. These cookies are fit for devouring and provide another place to shove all that zucchini that your gardening friends will be pawning off this time of year, when they are flooded with the green knobs. If you like these yummies (and you will), buy the book or get it from your library. It’s full of great, seasonal eating tips.

Gather
1 beaten egg
1/2 cup butter (softened)
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup honey
1-tablespoon vanilla extract

Combine in large bowl.

1 cup white flour
1 cup wheat flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

Combine in a separate bowl and blend into liquid mixture.

1 shredded zucchini (about 1 cup)
12 oz chocolate chips

Stir the zucchini and chocolate chips into the other ingredients, mix well. Drop by the spoonful onto a greased baking sheet, and flatten with the back of a spoon. Back at 350 for 10 to 15 minutes.

This is how happy you will be before, during, and after cooking this stuff:

“I like feed!”

In completely unrelated news, my step dad and his lady friend left for home sweet home this morning. (Saturday morning, rather. I’m unable to sleep for some reason tonight, thus the 3 am blogging.) The time we did get to spend together was some of the most honest, good time we’ve spent together in a long time. The last time we talked as much and bonded as much was the summer I was home from my freshmen year in college. We went on a really long afternoon bike ride together on a rails-to-trails route in Michigan called Paint Creek. We talked about the future and the past and the world; it was really good to see him. Here we are in Edinburgh:

Also, I signed up for a 10K race that happens in Glasgow in early September. While I’ve always been a runner, the longest race I’ve ever done has been a 7K. I start my training regimine tomorrow. Horray!
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What are you up to this weekend? Whats your favorite recipe at the moment?

PS
In these pictures, please forgive my tragic, soccar mom hair. While a short-banged bob seems like a very chic, artsy cut to get, if you have massivly thick, wavy hair like me it just fluffs up into a round, heinous helemt by mid-morning. Not even your cool, horned rimmed glasses can save you from looking suberban. Join me in sending positive vibes to my hair folicles for a speedy recovery.

I’m tired today. Bone tired. Hiked with shingles. Had to. Wanted to. Was getting better anyway. Then my city had a terrorist attack. I wrote a blog about it. Posted it on the Loch Ness Blog. Then there was an error establishing a database conntection and my blog was eaten. It came back, but it keeps acting funky. I’ve posted it here, just in case it disappears entirely. It is below.

3.15
Yesterday, while Glasgow airport was panicked and aflame, I was watching Scottish Red Kites cut through the sky. Their massive wings and their forked tail feathers were warm, pumping them through impressive dives for food. With meats in their talon clutches, Red Kites eat in the sky, bringing claws to jaws. They sleep on the wing too; in some ways, I suspect we all do.

Our Red Kite guide took us – me, Shaun, my dad Tony, his lady friend Cheryl, and Cheryl’s cousin Iain – hiking through the farm and thick wood, pointing out different types of nests, orchids, and animals along the way. With our binoculars, we spied a red squirrel, rare and pretty. We met a retired milk cow who was lovingly nursing two orphaned calves, smitten with their nuzzling and warmth after a career spent hooked to a cold, metal milking machine. We were covered by forest so thick that it suffocated the afternoon light and sprouted long, thick, and hilariously phallic mushrooms from its spongy moss. We photographed uprooted stumps that looked like monsters. We scooped up frogs and poked at pellets. We looked for tawny owls in the topmost branches, close to the trunk. Mud squished beneath our boots and birdcalls, rustling, and wind bloomed in the precious space of our silence.

At the end of the day, Iain drove Shaun and I to the train station. He took Tony and Cheryl to a train station further north, where they caught a train to take them further still, to where they are staying. The train ride back home was a sleepy one. Walking home from the station, I noticed that Crow Road was bumper-to-bumper.

“Look at the traffic! Do you think there is a parade or something on? They must have shut off a road for it to be so congested here.”

Shaun shrugged, but some charge in the air told us that the commotion wasn’t over a parade.

Once home, Shaun logged onto BBC to find out what had happened: somebody crashed a car into Glasgow International Airport. A flaming car. On purpose. All the roads near the airport were closed; people were flooding into the city.

We found comfort in the action taken by civilians during the attack. People like Mr. Crosby and Stephen Clarkson helped diffuse the situation, aiding the police, ensuring the safety of those around them. A year in this friendly city has taught me that these people are not heroes: they are simply Glaswegians. This is not to say that what these people did is not courageous, or that their concern for others, their eagerness to help, their generosity and spirit is going unnoticed. It is only to say that I notice it all the time in Glasgow; these soulful qualities are not reserved for times of crisis, they are employed always. It’s just how they are.

Shaun and I really like this show called Spooks; it’s a spy drama about Britain’s MI-5 (this is like the FBI in the States). We watch episodes of it on our computer. This season’s focus is on terrorism in Britain, how it destroys people, mostly from how it is exploited politically.

We have a new prime minister, Gordon Brown. He moved in to 10 Downing Street on Thursday, when Blair packed the last of his things. So far, his handling of the flaming car in Glasgow and the two un-detonated car bombs in London has been fairly even headed. His official public statement did not contain grand, sweeping generalizations or alarmist suggestions that we are “at war” or “under attack.” I hope it stays that way; alarmist leadership does more harm than good, and it doesn’t take an episode of MI-5 to tell you that.

Tony and Cheryl fly home to Michigan next Saturday. My mom, Rick and Julian will be in town the following Sunday. The airport is stepping up security measures, but we all know how shallow and tinny those feel when you’re actually at the airport. I hope my family can take comfort in flying to a city whose inhabitants care so fiercely about each other. It’s the only thing we can do, really. That, and try to be just as fiercely caring as they are.