"The Story of My Life"

Over the last month I've sworn up and down that I was going to cancel my Facebook account only to decide that I've got too much invested - too many photographs, too many random status updates, too many this or that - to actually follow through. 

Arrival to the United States in November 1976

Truth be told, there are also too many Korean adoptees. I've been a part of a group of Korean American Adoptees for some time but hadn't really become more participatory until the last couple of months. Why? I don't know. Just is what it is. But what I've found in that forum is a collective group of individuals that understand my struggles and in turn many times my darkest fears and deepest dreams. Despite the fact that we are spread across the globe - some younger, some older - we all share a common thread that binds us together.

I have only just recently started to understand the shapes and forms my identity problems have taken. To most who do not know me I present as a confident, self-assured, intelligent and outgoing individual. Outwardly I am able to say that am good at what I do professionally - the work that I've done has contributed to three years of national awards and I have worked hard to earn the respect and confidence of the leaders who depend on me and my skill set. 

Those who are closest to me however know that I battle low self-esteem.  I overachieve so I do not disappoint. I very carefully calculate my risk so as to not fail. I have difficulty feeling worthy or deserving. There is rarely a week that I am not fearful of losing my job. I am terrified of being left alone, especially in a large crowd where I do not know anyone. For the longest time I viewed my eyes - their unique almond shape and dark brown, almost black color - and my ethnicity as a liability. 

This became especially true in junior high school as friends began experimenting with makeup. The teen magazines don't tell you what to do if you do not have an epicanthal fold and trying to figure it out on my own meant that more times than not I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein rather than the fashionable teen pop star. Of course I was also lacking the blonde hair and blue eyes that society told me was what beauty looked like.


I have done my best to keep my insecurities in check around my daughters, especially The Oldest as she has grown from a toddler to a child who is blossoming into a girl. The last thing I want for them is to project my insecurities into the universe where they can be at best perceived by them, and at worst become a part of who they are. I never want them to look in the mirror and doubt who they are.

I still haven't figured it all out - but with the help of an excellent therapist and some good medication I'm starting to understand how, at the very least, the pieces of the puzzle might fit together. Small dashes of confidence are starting to add up and with that my view of the world has become a little more cheery and bright. As a very wise person once said to me, "It's amazing what happens once you start to like yourself."

Despite the fact that everyone - at least right now - in the Korean American Adoptee group are largely unknown to me personally, I take comfort in knowing that they exist in the vast expanse of cyberspace. In the absence of a biological connection to the place of my birth, aside from The Oldest and The Munchkin they are the closest thing to blood relation that I might ever have. I'm learning more about the food, the culture, the customs and yes - even about how to properly put on eye make up. And I relate to - no, I feel their hurt and their sadness because it has been mine as well.

My file photo, sent to my parents.

I was at the gym tonight putting in some dreaded 'mill miles because it was far too raw and cold outside to go for a run with The Munchkin (despite her asking if we could from the moment I picked her up from daycare). 3 miles done, I slowed my pace to a walk to allow my legs and muscles to cool down and as I did I was scrolling through my email messages and then Facebook on my phone. As I checked out the Korean American Adoptee page I was greeted by a collage, compiled of photos of us (well, not me because I missed this one). There are photos of arrival to the United States, as infants, or the first images sent from orphanages and adoption agencies to waiting families. I always smile when when I see the collage because it makes me feel less alone seeing so many pairs of eyes that are like mine, cheeks and cheekbones like mine, shiny black bowl-cut hair that frames a round face like mine staring back at me. So it seemed fitting that as I was looking at all the adoptees in the photo, Bon Jovi's "Story of My Life" came on to my iPod. 

I used to have that song on my run playlist when I was battling demons that were waging war inside my head. I sometimes would listen to it over and over again to remind myself that I could make it through 24 hours and at midnight I could say I had survived yet another day. Lately, it's been a reminder of where I've been and where I am now. But this afternoon as I listened to the lyrics it took on a new meaning. 

I know it isn't black and white
And it's anything but grey
I know that no I'm not alright, but I feel ok cos
Anything can, everything can happen
That's the story of my life

Many of those photos may look black and white or gray but if you look closer, they're hardly that. They are rich hues of the threads that make up the tapestry of our individual stories. They're the stories of our lives.

 

Love That Dirty Water

In the state of Massachusetts and Maine, the 3rd Monday of every April is a holiday. Patriots Day. It commemorates the Battles of Lexington and Concord and the first shots of the Revolutionary War that started the colonies on their path to freedom.  As President Obama so appropriately said, Patriots Day is “...a day that celebrates the free and fiercely independent spirit that this great American city of Boston has reflected from the earliest days of our nation.”

I spent half my school years growing up outside of Boston in a suburb called Reading. Our street dead-ended at a place where, if you climbed through the brush you'd come to a fence on a rocky ledge that overlooked Route 128 and it wasn't unusual to hear the roar of jets flying overhead as they made their way to and from Logan International. In the spring there were trips into the city to spend time at Boston Common and ride the Swan Boats (especially on Mother's Day). The summer brought games at the famous Fenway Park where the wooden slat grandstand seats from yesteryear are so small that even a normal person living in 2013 feels like they're going to eat their kneecaps and in the fall you could find me sitting, legs dangling over the side of a bridge with my dad as we ate Legal Seafood chowdah while we watched the crew teams competing in the Head of the Charles glide beneath us (or occasionally hit a bridge abutment). Winter would bring trips to the Science Museum where we'd watch in fascination as the worlds largest air-insulated Van de Graaff generator created an awesome indoor lightning storm or visits to the aquarium where everyone knew how to walk like a penguin thanks to the Boston Aquarium commercials. 

But Patriots Day - Patriots Day was a day all on its own and for many of us who grew up in Massachusetts it holds very special memories. 

There were journeys to Lexington to see the reenactment of the Battle of Lexington where, at 5am on a cool April morning, when dew and a spotty fog covered the grass our history and our present collided - spring jackets, sneakers and cameras beside tri-corner hats, petticoats and muskets. A rider on horseback appeared, words exchanged and the sleepy green awakened with Minutemen coming out of the tavern and houses surrounding the green and "arriving" from nearby areas. All were prepared to fight the British - the Red Coats or "lobsterbacks". The reenactment itself takes only moments and is done before it ever really feels like it gets started but it's a unique piece of history - history that lives on every year on Patriots Day.

There's a Sox game - a rare early week, midday game that one year could be filled with sunshine and game goers wearing shorts and t-shirts and the next people dressed in their winter's finest parkas, hats and gloves trying to keep the chill away by holding a steaming cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee or eating a Fenway Frank that I think Steven King once said look like its been cooked in water that came right out of the Charles River.

And then... Then there's The Marathon. 

Just as I'll never forget my first Sox game or the first time I saw the reenactment of the Battle of Lexington, I'll also never forget the first time I saw the Boston Marathon. It was a beautiful April day - the kind that makes you forget that just a few weeks before you were wearing snow boots and drinking hot chocolate. It was just my dad and me and a few thousand of our closest friends as we found a place to stand along the route just before the course takes a turn and the runners head for Heartbreak Hill. We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Just as I started to get bored we could hear the siren blips and blurps of a police motorcycle drawing closer and before long it and a strange looking truck carrying a television camera passed us with the elites cruising not too far behind. I remember my dad leaning down and asking me if I could believe that a human being could run that fast. I couldn't then and I still can't now. They made it look so easy, so effortless and so graceful.

What I remember most about that day though is how a slow trickle of runners continuing on their 26.2 mile journey became a steady stream and then came in wave upon wave upon wave. Heads bobbing, hooting and hollering, smiling, laughing - some dressed up in costume, others in their running best - while those of us on the sides cheered. I was lucky enough to get a high five or two and be a part of one of the state's proudest and finest days. 

So the fact that someone has taken a day - a day that for me and many others like me is associated with so many happy memories and turned it, at least for now, into a day of unfathomable tragedy and sadness is beyond my comprehension. My heart aches for Boston. I feel sick to my stomach for so many reasons - only one of which is the fact that this was a violent, senseless act - yet I am also grateful that those that I knew who were in the area are safe and accounted for.

It's only been within the last few years that I developed a love for running. I tried, unsuccessfully in high school to be a 100m high hurdler and loathed running anything that had the world "mile" in it. I would joke that the only time I would run was if chased and even then it had better be downhill with a stiff tailwind. It at first seemed impossible and I was limited to running short intervals of 15 to 20 seconds with double the amount of walking to recover but with time and persistence I started putting enough distance together to cover a 5k and eventually a half marathon. Somewhere along the way running became less of  a struggle and more of an escape, especially when it included time with The Munchkin. As I grew and developed into a runner I began to have a new appreciation for what it must mean to actually qualify for and RUN the Boston Marathon and with that came the dream of actually running it myself. I know what it's like as a spectator - I grew up loving The Marathon because of it. I want to know what it's like to be on the other side. 

Which is why what happened on Patriots Day - April 15, 2013 - is all the more difficult for me to understand. For the love of "my" city but also for the running community because - whether we know each other or not - we're all one big family. We share a common thread of knowing that no matter how long we've been gone or need to be away, the road or the trail will be waiting for us. We've shared our triumphs and our successes. Like your oldest, most trusted friend it listens to our sorrows and sadness - allowing our tears to fall and our screams to be heard. Because running is unlike anything else - for most of us we've experienced a time when even the shortest of distances has required pure grit and determination to propel our bodies along using only the strength of our legs and the will of our mind - I feel like there's an unspoken understanding. We all chafe. We all do nasty things to our toenails and talk about poop and trots and snot in such candid ways most non-runners think we're crazy. And maybe we are because who, after all, would want to push their bodies to the point of physical exhaustion or rise before dawn because it's better to get the long run done on an 80 degree summer morning than when it hits 90 in the middle of the day. 

Though the title of this Blog is 3M: Motherhood, Munchkin and a Marathon I had put my marathon plans on hold. After injuring my leg the way I did last fall I rethought my plan and had decided to focus on running the half-marathon distance (still no small feat) and on trying to become a half-iron distance triathlete. Yesterday changed that. I don't know when, but I WILL run the Marathon distance and some day I WILL run Boston. Because as the song goes... I love that dirty water... Boston, you're my home. 

Beneath the Surface

When someone asks me about adoption or what it's been like to have been born in South Korea and adopted at 6 months of age most of the time I'll respond by saying that I feel blessed to have had a biological mother who was willing to relinquish me in the hopes that someone else could provide me with a better life. Of course, having been abandoned in a hospital after birth (that in and of itself is unique because many adoptees from the 1970s and earlier have no formal record of their actual birth date) I don't know how much or little of this is true, but it's what I choose to believe. What I do know is that after visiting South Korea on a "Motherland" tour with Holt International -- the organization I was adopted through -- I have an even greater appreciation for the opportunities I've been afforded because I was placed in the United States. Sometimes a well-meaning person will ask me if I've ever wanted to find my "real parents". My real parents make their home in York, Maine and I'd have no problem finding them if I wanted to -- my biological parents, however, 99.9% of the time I have little to no desire to actively seek out my biological parents.

99.9% of the time. It's the 00.1% that I rarely discuss because it is kept under lock and key buried deep down. It has the potential to open me up to a world full of hurt that emotionally I know I am not in a position to handle at this point in time. In that 0.1% is a longing for some kind of a connection - ANY kind of connection; which explains why, in 2000 when I received the news that Holt Korea was unable to locate my foster mother for me to meet during my time there, I dissolved into a heap on the floor of the kitchen. Nobody enjoys rejection - but an active search for a biological connection has the potential to lead to just that but in a way that is so much more personal and deep than anything I can imagine.

Arrival to JFK and becoming a family.

I wrote that in 2009, just about a year after someone I know  sat down with me and reviewed my adoption records. I was mostly curious because a majority of documents within my record are in Korean. She reviewed each page carefully and then summarized, as best she could, what she was reading. Until she came to one page and she fell silent. She flipped back and forth between that and a couple of others and then, looking me directly in the eyes, she told me she thought there was information about my biological roots through my family tree. I was born in Seoul in a hospital so there is a definite record of the date and time of my birth. This document referenced a location that is entirely different.

I've sat with this information over the last four, almost five, years - not entirely sure what to do with it, if to do anything at all. I once said that it's like a stone that sits just below the surface in a shallow pool of waterl. Sometimes the water is as smooth as glass and remains undisturbed. Other times the wind roughs up the surface so it's hard to see what lies below. I can look at it, can reach my fingers down and touch it and move it around, but where I haven't chosen to pick it up, it's remained there. 

The Other Half and I have talked here and there about my making a trip to Korea. My first, and so far only, visit there was with a group of adoptees and our parents as part of a "Motherland" tour offered by the agency I was adopted through. It was an intense two weeks and I will forever be grateful for the experience, especially the opportunity to visit locations that were significant to me and me alone. But now, with The Oldest having just turned 8 and The Munchkin about to turn 3 I want to know more about the place where I came from. - the food, the people, the culture. 

I've wondered if the person who helped me review my records - and has also been my source of all food things Korean when I've needed ingredients to make one of the few Korean dishes I know how to make - would be willing to make that journey with me. I feel tied to her, I'm sure in part because she's helped me navigate something so intensely personal and private. In my heart I knew the answer to my question, but to be polite I asked. She told me that she was so glad that I did - that she's been wanting to speak with me to say that she would be willing to help me in any way that she could but that she also didn't want to impose and trusted I would ask when I was ready. And so begins a new journey for me. I'm still not sure what I'm going to do with the information - mostly I want to learn and to be immersed so I can tell my girls what Korea means to me. I guess if the journey takes me elsewhere with her it will be an added bonus.

So that's what I thought about today as my time on the treadmill added up to a few miles and then later as I made my way into the pool to give my legs a bit of a break and allow myself to be surrounded by the element that always brings me some peace and clarity. I know I don't need to make any decisions today or even tomorrow or next month - building upon what I wrote a few weeks back, maybe this is my true leap of faith.

Quick & Easy (Cheap Too!)

The Oldest asked me what was for dinner. My response? "A Mommy Concoction"

It's when I'm not quite sure what I'm going to make but I look in my fridge, the freezer, the pantry - pick something from here, something from there, throw it all together, stir it up with a little bit of love and hope that what I get is edible. The Other Half would tell you he loves it when I do that - that some of my best meals come out of my not having the slightest clue as to what I'm going to do. 

Tonight wasn't rocket science and it was far from totally homemade but it was made at home, it was quick, it was easy and it was gobbled up with so little left in the skillet that the best thing I could do was to spoon out the good bits, eat them up and then wait for the rest to be scraped into the trash. 

So what was this cooking genius, you ask?

2 Cans of Trader Joe's Minestrone Soup
1 lb lean ground beef (browned)
1/2 package Trader Joe's roasted corn

brown the ground beef in a large skillet, add 2 cans of TJ's minestrone soup and 1/2 package of TJ's roasted corn and cook over medium until heated through. 

Cooking. Genius. Yup.

Random Acts of Kindness

A couple of hours ago we pulled into our driveway after two semi-long days of driving over more than a few hundred miles. We spent Christmas and a little over a weeks time with my family in Maine (I'll write more about our trip in a couple of days) and as it always does, the time seemed to pass too quickly and before I knew it we were packing up to make the return trip to Indiana.

The night before we left I had a horribly unsettling feeling that caused me a great deal of anxiety and worry. I normally have difficulty leaving the northeast - it's home to me and I feel more at ease and at peace there than I do anywhere else - but this was more than just separation pangs. Though I wasn't sure what, I was convinced that something was going to happen and it made me physically ill. That gut feeling was so overwhelmingly strong that I logged in to my retirement accounts and insurance policies to make sure that my beneficiary information was updated and current. The Other Half walked in on me during this process and commented that it seemed ominous. 

If there's one thing that The Other Half will tell you its that when I get those gut feelings - those strange intuitive thoughts that I can't place but won't ignore - they rarely turn out to be wrong. Some people would call it a sixth sense and he'll tell you he can't explain it and I hardly ever ignore it. I made him promise me that if we got started down the road and the feeling wouldn't go away that if I told him to stop, we'd stop and break the trip up over three days instead of two. 

When I woke up on Monday morning I was still feeling uneasy, but nowhere near as badly as I had the night before. The weather was beautiful for traveling and because of the holiday traffic was light and easygoing. We stopped over at the Rochester Airport Marriott, enjoyed pizza from a fabulous pizza place (Pontillo's), ordered room service for dessert, I had a glass of wine and somehow or another we all managed to make it to midnight and welcome the new year of 2013 in as a family. Still, the uneasiness stayed with me and was with me this morning when I woke up and we hit the road.

We made a detour to Niagara Falls - The Other Half has never seen it and we thought that it would provide a break in the car ride monotony for The Oldest and The Munchkin. Our route there wasn't the most direct - and we joked that it was a Larry Keith detour as my late father-in-law would often get sidetracked from Point A to Point B by going sightseeing along the way by going off on planned detour. Either way, it wound along the lake shore and with the wind blowing as fiercely as it was, the waves were beautiful rolling in to shore. As you might imagine, Niagara Falls in January isn't exactly a tourist hotspot, especially when covered over by snow, but after making our way to the point closest to the falls we managed to get out, take some photographs and then continue on our way.

Both The Oldest and The Munchkin had been Super Amazing travel companions. They danced some and watched DVDs, were occasionally cranky (as their momma gets) when hungry but were otherwise very content and happy especially given that this type of driving could test the patience of adults. We were able to drive and keep interruptions to a minimum by stopping only for gas and picking up lunch at a McDonald's drive-through.

We had just crossed over the Indiana border when I glanced at the dashboard (The Other Half was driving by this point) and asked if we needed to stop for gas. He replied with what mileage remained in our road trip and what the remaining fuel levels were at. I was a little worried because we've had problems with the fuel gauge suddenly dropping at an exponential rate, but I didn't think much of it until he commented that maybe our consumption to mileage remaining would require us to stop. 

It wasn't more than a few miles later, as we approached an exit where there was a gas station, that the engine cut out. Thankfully the stretch of I-70 we were on was slightly downhill so we were able to coast toward the exit hoping that maybe we'd somehow be able to get closer than we were to help. The fuel gauge was still showing that we had gas in the tank so it was going to be a guess as to whether or not a couple of gallons of gas would help get us on our way again. As we coasted downhill he tried to start the engine again but with no luck.

We came to a stop just under an overpass and right at the start of the exit off-ramp and no sooner had we started to try and figure out what needed to be done and who we should try and call if we needed help when suddenly a small pickup pulled off to the side ahead of us, came to a stop and someone walked over to ask The Other Half if he needed help. The Other Half told me that the kind stranger would drive him to the gas station and off they went. 

I called 911 to report that I was in a disabled vehicle with two small girls and that The Other Half had gone to see if fuel would help. While I waited for either a Sheriff's car or for The Other Half to return I called a friend (who I had sent a text asking if he'd be able to help if we needed it) for moral support and to keep me from freaking out in front of the girls. Before I knew it, I saw The Other Half running (yes, he was running - I've never seen him run before and I'm pretty sure I'll never see him run again) down the embankment, gas can in hand. A couple of nervous minutes later - gas in the tank - the engine turned over and we were able to get to the gas station to fill up and make the final push home.

I've always wondered what kind of person is willing to stop for a vehicle that's pulled over to the side of the road with their hazard lights on and see if they can help in any way. And tonight I got my answer. For us it was a young man in his early 20s. He had been in West Virginia and was on his way back to Indiana but had managed to get lost somewhere in Ohio. Why he stopped, especially given that he had gotten lost on his return trip and was probably behind his schedule, I don't know. I don't know his name because we didn't get a chance to get it so I can't even send him a thank you. I do know that I am indebted to him for his willingness to help a family he didn't even know.

Someone was watching over us tonight. For The Other Half and me there's no doubt in our mind that it was his father. His dad spent his entire life working for the Indiana State Department of Transportation (INDOT). That we stalled out where we did and not a couple miles down the road where the next rest stop (not even services) was more than 20 miles down the road, had someone stop to help us within seconds, and that remarkably in the dark of a winter's night we all remained safe and were able to get on our way was all his doing. As we got back on to the interstate I looked at The Other Half and said that it was all his dad he turned to me and said, "You know, as I was putting the gas in the tank I was looking down the highway and was saying my thank yous to him."  That someone was watching over us I believe is because of the people who were praying for us, a couple of whom because I specifically asked them to which I have never done before.

So to the stranger, our angel in disguise, thank you. I have made a promise that in an effort to repay your kindness I will do my best to extend the same random act of kindness throughout 2013. The Oldest and The Munchkin are asleep, soundly, in their beds and I have once again been reminded believe in the goodness in others.

Sunday Dinner

I have wonderful memories of sitting down to Sunday afternoon dinners with my family. Sometimes it was only my mom, dad, sister and me - but others we were visiting my Nana in Connecticut or my Grandma and Grandpa in New Hampshire. I especially loved it when my mom would cook because the house would fill with the most wonderful smells

Roasted Pork

There's lots of research out there that points eating meals at home as a family being really beneficial to children.  Eating well (or at least better) is one of the biggest, but a family meal seated around a table can really help set the stage and lay a solid foundation for many other things in a child's life. Despite this, and for a variety of reasons, many families are struggling to to share meals together. 

I'm the first to admit that this was us, especially after The Munchkin joined our family of three and made it it a family of four. After a long day of work and shuttling kids out the door to school or to daycare coming home to cook was the last thing on my mind. We happen to live in an area where per-capita individuals eat out more than any area in the country (please don't ask me for a hard reference - see note below if you want to know where I pulled that one from) and because of that there is a plethora of restaurants making it very easy to eat out or pick up a to-go order. Hindsight being 20/20, I cringe to think about how much of our family budget was being allocated to eating meals every week. 

So what changed? 

Late last year The Oldest became very upset as we were getting ready to head out to eat. Sat down on the floor and began to cry kind of upset. When I finally got her calmed down enough that she could explain between sobs what was going on, she told me all she wanted to do was eat at home as a family. 

That was all the motivation I needed to make a change. 

It's not easy getting my family to sit down to a meal as many times per week as we can. I need to plan ahead, sometimes adjust MY schedule to make it work and I've had to get creative. We've started eating breakfast together on Saturday morning and Sunday - because I value my time in the evening to get ready for the week - I've returned to, you guessed it, a Sunday afternoon dinner.

It wasn't too hard to make the change because I love to cook. Years ago I was --> THIS <-- close to plunking down a deposit to become a student at the New England Culinary Institute. It's something that comes naturally to me - just something I know how to do. But I know that for others cooking can be a challenge. So, in my attempt to become more regular at blogging and wanting to give anyone who is reading a "gift" for the season, I'm going to do my best to log on on Sunday mornings, share with you what thoughts I've had about meals for the week, and share a recipe (or maybe two) with you in the hopes that maybe it will make it a little easier for you to have a meal with your family. 

I have a recipe that I'll share with you for the week, but first some "food" for thought (sorry, couldn't resist):

1. Prepacked Foods: I try to avoid them whenever possible but sometimes they are a necessary evil and will still be cheaper and many times more healthy for my family than going out. I always read labels when I do making note of the portion/serving size and the nutritional information. 20% of daily fat intake might not be too bad UNLESS one package of pulled pork is less than 1 pound and contains 8-10 servings. I like Laura's Lean, particularly the Beef Pot Roast. It's a bit more expensive at around $7 - $9 for the package, but when I consider I can serve it with steamed broccoli and a baked potato and come out to a grand total of about $4 per serving, it's still cheaper (and again, healthier) than eating out.

2. Start Small: Even though I love to cook, it still took me time to get into the HABIT of making meals during the week and when I began making the change my goal was to get two meals on the table each week. 

3. When I buy pork and chicken at the grocery and don't have plans to use them until later in the week I'll place them in a zip top bag, add a little orange juice, seal it and freeze. When I take it out to thaw it marinates in the oj, becomes tender and flavorful. Throw on a George Foreman or in the oven, cook and then baste with BBQ sauce and VOILA! 

4. If I'm making something like pasta with spaghetti sauce I'll buy two containers of sauce and extra of whatever I'm cooking up to put in it (ground beef, ground sausage) and make it up in one big batch. I'll use half of it for that meal and then freeze the rest for a later date. 

5. Remember, when introducing new foods and flavors to kids it takes them trying it 8 to 10 times before they can really tell whether or not they like it. If they don't like the taste of a vegetable steamed, try roasting it with a little bit of olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. To make clean up easier put cut veggies into a zip top bag, drizzle with oil and salt, close and shake. It's a bit wasteful and the tree-hugging environmentalist in me cringes but if it makes getting a meal on the table easier, it's worth it.

6. Don't forget that meals can be simple and do not have to be involved. Whole grain blueberry pancakes with turkey sausage and apple sauce is easy to whip up, easy to involve kids, and easy to clean up from too.

----

My recipe for Sunday is one that I made yesterday: Ina Garten's Perfect Roast Chicken. I'm not sure why it took me so long to try and conquer the Roasted Chicken - maybe because there's something that's intimidating about roasting a whole bird. Of course, my only experience with roasting poultry up to that point had been turkeys and those can intimidate almost anyone. I wanted a simple recipe both in flavor and preparation and this fit the bill. 

When I make this I usually roast extra veggies in the roasting pan in addition to the fennel and onion. Parsnips, carrots, celery, extra onions, rutabaga and potatoes have been used in the past. Last night, as a change, I also added two full heads of garlic sliced off at the top and at the end had two perfectly heads of rich, buttery, roasted garlic. I don't use the roasting rack - I lay all the veggies in the pan and then place the chicken directly on top. Word of advice, do tie the chicken's legs together otherwise you're likely to lose half of a lemon or the garlic not to mention I think that the bird stays juicier that way. Kitchen twine or string is your best bet and can be found at most specialty cooking stores (or if you're really nice to the person at the meat counter they might cut you off a small length) but any 100% natural cotton string (not bleached, no synthetic fibers) could work too. The recipe says it serves 3, but with added veggies and salad it's fed 3 adults and 2 kiddos. 

I serve with a salad so my family gets their greens. The first time I made this it was an instant hit and I was told it was a definite "do-over". Hopefully you will find the same.

Perfect Roast Chicken - Ina Garten
Preheat Oven to 425
Prep Time: Varies 30 to 60 minutes
Cook Time: 1.5 hours

1 (5 to 6 pound) roasting chicken
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 large bunch fresh thyme
1 lemon, halved
1 head garlic, cut in half crosswise
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) butter, melted
1 large yellow onion, thickly sliced
4 carrots cut into 2-inch chunks
1 bulb of fennel, tops removed, and cut into wedges

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. 

Remove the chicken giblets. Rinse the chicken inside and out. Remove any excess fat and leftover pinfeathers and pat the outside dry. Liberally salt and pepper the inside of the chicken. Stuff the cavity with the bunch of thyme, both halves of lemon, and all the garlic. Brush the outside of the chicken with the butter and sprinkle again with salt and pepper. Tie the legs together with kitchen string and tuck the wing tips under the body of the chicken. Place the onions, carrots, and fennel in a roasting pan. Toss with salt, pepper, thyme, and olive oil. Spread around the bottom of the roasting pan and place the chicken on top.
Roast the chicken for 1 1/2 hours, or until the juices run clear when you cut between a leg and thigh. Remove the chicken and vegetables to a platter and cover with aluminum foil for about 20 minutes. Slice the chicken onto a platter and serve it with the vegetables. 

And about how this area per capita eats out more than any other place in the United States? In a former professional life I coordinated special event fundraisers for a children's hospital. In 2003 a chain restaurant opened their very first location here and as part of their grand opening held a private fundraiser. When I asked the general manager at that time why here he said it was for a handful of reasons but one of the biggest was because it was a market where people eat out more than other places in the United States. I know there have been other restaurant groups that utilize this as a test market for concepts and menus so it makes sense to me. So again, I can't provide hard data, but given this man's position within the restaurant that opened I have to believe there is some truth behind his words.

It's Home

Let me tell you a little bit about New England.

No, it is not a state that you have not heard of.

Yes, it does include Connecticut even though there are areas - like down around New Haven - that many New Englanders consider to be an extension of New York. This is particularly true of baseball and football fans, and occasionally those who follow basketball and hockey.  And no, New York is not a part of New England.

New England isn't just a place to live. It's a way of life. It's a landscape. It's large, diverse cities and small, quaint towns with a white church that sit quietly at the head of a "common". It's where old timers gather on the porch of the country store during the summer or at the local breakfast dive during the winter and over a cup of coffee talk about all the goings on and gossip. People say we talk fast, are always in a hurry, and keep to ourselves - but once we warm to you what you know you have got is genuine and the real deal.

In many ways, a visit to New England is like being able to visit France, Spain, Italy, Germany, and Austria all in one day. Accents are different. Cultures are different. It might take you a little while to realize that "Down East" Maine is actually more north.  The people in the city of Burlington located in the Green Mountain State sometimes joke that the great thing about their locations is that it's so close to the rest of Vermont. Lobstahs, as they should appropriately be called, are purple crustaceans and chowdah should never, ever be red. That Manhattan stuff? It's soup.

New Englanders can add the word "wicked" to almost anything. Wicked cool. Wicked awesome. Wicked bad. In some parts of New England they seem to forget what the letter "r" sounds like but in others the letter "r" gets randomly added to words. They understand there's truth to the phrase, "You can't get there from here," and often measure distance not in miles but in the number of hours it takes to get from Point A to Point B. They sometimes experience the season of spring, maybe a few weeks of summer, a beautiful fall, a cold winter and then the season of mud. Driving in the winter is great because snow will fill potholes but sometimes you have to contend with frost heaves. Even then, one of the worst seasons anyone could ever experience is Black Fly.

New Englanders are resourceful and resilient and have been since the early days of our country.Communities banded together then, and they will come together again because inevitably everyone knows someone who knows someone.

I still haven't figured out why I want to tell you about New England. Maybe it's because despite living in the mid-west for the last 10 years New England is still home. But maybe it's because I know a handful of someones directly affected by Newtown. And yes, I may be in the land of soybeans and corn but they are all still close to my heart and my heart aches for "my" New England.

Where The Heart Is

They say home is where the heart is. I may have spent the last 10 years in the relative flat of Central Indiana and while I have come to accept it as my place of residence, I'm not sure it will ever be home.

And so it is that last week I found myself driving, across Indiana, through Ohio, skipping by Pennsylvania, traversing New York (there's a point on the New York State Throughway that every single time I reach every muscle in my body seems to relax a little more because the rolling landscape, views of the mountains in the distance, and the continuous green blanket of trees is what I know), over Vermont (literally over) and into New Hampshire.

The second half of my grade school years were spent in southwestern New Hampshire but I haven't been back for almost 6 years - or since my parents retired to the coast of Maine. It was strange to run in a town that's at the same time familiar and what I remember as a kid, but also different. The college has grown exponentially, big box stores and some national chain restaurants have moved in (this is a place that didn't have a Burger King until I was a senior in high school in the early 90's) so the town isn't as small as it once was but the main street is still lined with mom and pop establishments and maintains the small feel.

I had been sitting the better part of 18 hours in a large SUV and I was certain I wanted to run and stretch my legs - but I was also pretty sure that my body would protest the run. My HR shot up and never really evened out, and my legs felt heavy but as I wrote on Daily Mile, there's something to be said about running in a place where the heart and soul can exhale and relax. I ran through the downtown area and onto the campus of the local college - eventually making one large loop back to our hotel. My only regret for this run is that I didn't have more time as I would have liked to have spent an hour or two exploring by my own two feet.

After meeting my sister for lunch we packed up The Oldest and The Munchkin and continued east to where my parents are in Maine, and that's where I've been for the last few days. My time here is always far too short so I've been taking advantage of the rolling hills and the forested paths, or the ponds and ocean, while I can. The trails at home give me an opportunity to decompress but it's not the same. The scents. The sounds. The peace and calm. Me, the road, and nothing more but the sound of my breathing and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

The northeast is where, in my heart, I know I belong and it breaks a little to hear The Oldest remark about how beautiful the landscape is or how amazing the mountains are. I try to remain grateful that she is able to have the experiences that she has - that I am able to visit family that lives in one of the most beautiful areas of the country - but I wish that she could experience this every day. At the same time, I didn't truly understand what I had until I moved away and maybe these visits will help foster a greater sense of appreciation. I watch her with my parents - her grandparents - and try to commit special moments like her making cookies with her grammy or boogie boarding in the ocean with her poppa to memory. And I sit in the relatively bug-free enclosure of the screened in porch, take in a deep breath, and hope that I'll be able to take some of this serenity with me when I go.