Friday, October 9, 2009

Granola


Granola - Don't Flush the Lush
I can now say I've seen even a little more of this world of mine. Following a same-day invite-to-ticket-purchase decision, I became the pleased (and only somewhat financially depleted) owner of a Southwest Airlines e-ticket, destined for Portland International Airport. And within ten days I've landed in the greenest state I've visited yet, speaking both physically and politically; in the airport ladies' room, the commode greets me in eco-friendly attire, who instructs me that in order "to conserve our valued resource of water, please pull up for liquid waste and down for solid waste" on the "germ-resistant handle" (the latter claim being a lie, I'm sure, or else non-eco-friendly lavatories would stock this nifty invention). I humor these hippies, but only because I quickly figure out how to push up on the handle via the bottom of my foot (that's how this handle stays germ-free, I say).
Who else would greet me in Oregon besides a nice little Pakistani immigrant, a new addition to the state's residential population as of today. Like myself, he's waiting for his ride by the pick-up/drop-off side of PDX. Fortunately, mine arrives before he presses with his offer of me becoming his first new roommate in the States (well, presses TOO much, I should say...). Whew. How many times must a girl send out "no" vibes before boys get the message? Do I have to start being verbal with declination???

My goodness, Oregon is beautiful. It's even more lush and green than Alabama, but with mountains! And streams! And cascading waterfalls with residential white-bummed arachnid - yay!


Granola - To Eat
When Scott and I finally cruise into downtown Portland we're both pretty famished, so we practice something I learned from reading "Eat, Pray, Love" - inquire of the locals. Who would knwo the eats better than the people who have already done all the hit-and-miss work, after all? In addition to numerous eating recommendations however, Scott gets a variety of liquor counsel: "The sports bar on 5th is great," one (of a billion) bearded sidewalk activist offers. It was my idea to ask this guy, and once I realize the strength of his body odor (since when is it not green to wear antipersperant?) I instantly regret desiring to know where he likes to eat. "They have good burgers and great beer on the tap." Then our new friend uses this (this being alcohol) as a segue into his cause, "And for just three dollars a day you provide education for a kid in any one of these countries listed - three dollars! That's like a beer a day!" He backhands Scott's chest/arm area. "Thanks man, but I actually don't drink."
We don't take his counsel, but instead find a little Mediterranean spot hidden in a corner. We are greeted by a twenty-something brunette with a headscarf wrapped around her crown - my bet being that's she's convering un-shampooed hair - and wearing a black spaghetti-strap jersey dress with matching bra straps peeking out. Tacky and trashy anywhere else, but for some reason I decide this Oregonian can pull it off.
Ok, so the Hummus Special isn't as yummy as I (or the Dry Erased "Yummy!" scribbing on the menu board) had thought it would be. Seasoned lamb cubes encased in a sphere of hummus with a homemade pita sounded worthy of my high hopes, but my skepticism was brooding the moment our food got to the table before we had even filled our drink cups. I've only had lamb one other time, and I guess "Hush Hush Mediterranean Cafe" just should not be compared to Jean George's; the wife beater-clad cook just can't compete with Donald Trump's kitchen crew. "Do you like the lamb?" the only quasi-showered cashier/now waitress asks. I nod, but Scott checks me after she leaves. "Do you really? and I quickly shake my head 'no.' Curious, Scott forks up a taste and smiles. "Get used to it, this is what the mission is like..."
Call me a foodie, but normally a bad meal has the potential to ruin my day. Much in the same way I feel the last bit has to be the best part of the meal (isn't that why they invented dessert, anyway?). It has to be something worthy to linger until you pop that strip of Orbit. But oddly enough, I don't mind it this time. I feel like I'm getting a more authentic Mediterranean "experience" through the meal. In fact, each bit is a bit of an...adventure. Really? Fat kid me is ok after a less-than-scrumptious plate?
For once, yes.

Hmm...on to the arboretum! I don't know what this is, but I figure it has something to do with trees, going off context clues of similar words (i.e., Arbor Day). Here, after strolling past T-shirt and biker short-clad locals, I hug my first tree. And I must say, I feel some sort of peculiar connection to it as I do, almost as if...it's hugging back. And don't judge me before you try it. While walking back to our car, an older couple slows down theirs and stops to ask for directions. After giving the best directions he can, Scott is - once again - offered a drink. "Thanks young man," the fifty-plus driver says. "I owe you a beer," and drives off. What is this place? Since when is brewery an acceptable provincial currency?
Granola - At the Coast
I'm reading my scriptures at the kitchen table the next morning when a well-postured pre-schooler comes strolling past me, staring, but with a pleasant smile nonetheless. After he shimmies himself up to the cereal cabinet and lugs a gallon of milk back to the table where I'm seated, he pleasantly rattles off each of his family member's first and middle names. ANd I listen, attentively, until he pauses, perplexed, and looks up at me for help. "Do you need me to pour the milk?" I offer. He nods yes. Ok, so this one is kinda cute. Maybe kids aren't so smelly and sticky after all...

The coast is even better than the woodsy Portland area. I can feel salt and mist blowing on my face, but it's not quite humid. I see thick fog, but it's not dreary. My nostrils are filled with fresh seafood, but it's not smelly. And I especially like the chilly weather. I imagine there are oodles more of loveliness when it's snowy on the docks.

And if I were your personal correspond for Travel + Leisure, I would have to be like all the rest and recommend Moe's. If the long lines don't tip you off on it's yummy debajos, I certainly will. Scott quickly orders their renowned clam chowder, and I order...carefully. One meal "for the experience" is enough for a three-day rendezvous. And my constant "Just one more minute" pleas to our waitress was worth it- parmesan-crusted Alaskan cod sandwich. Yum :) I figure we were close to Alaska, so this was the most true-to-life taste I was going to get to the native Alaskan fishies. This one more than made up for the plate of Serta I had the day prior ( sorry for the gruesome reference, but I'm a bit upset they didn't just come clean and put "Mutton Special" on the menu). And what goes with whale-watching like popcorn goes with cinema, but Tillamook ice cream. I didn't think anything could taste better than BYU Creamery chocolate, but I was wrong. Very wrong.

Granola - In my Carry-on Home
My little pre-mission getaway concluded with a tour of the Portland International Airport - because I was there from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. My flight was delayed not once, but twice. I try to smile really big and get a food voucher out of Southwest, but the customer service attendant is neithe rmale nor old (the demographics whom I usually have the best luck with) so no dice. But I do have lots of time to think, to write in my journal, and to catch up on my Book of Mormon reading (all with the background music of a Dean Martin imposter tickling the ivories, mind you), and I do eventually inherit some airplane-shaped graham cracker cookies on the Salt Lake-bound flight, so all was not lost. My brother's loaned tinted-windowed Cadillac was still waiting for me in the economy lot (although I had partially expected one of his rims to be stolen by now) and I made it home safely. It was my first time arriving at an airport without having someone waiting for me, and I must say, it only compounded my current loneliness from all day at PDX. But no worries, I was awakened the next morning by my six and nine-years-old temporary siblings fighting upstairs over Life cereal, and no one can feel alone with Rock Canyon Elementary students in the house, I promise. This easing back into normal life after a trip is always a little difficult, and my ego typically puts up at least minor resistance to the non-carefree routine of the daily grind. But oddly enough, this time I just feel refreshed (think...post-nap) and more ready to finish my mission departure prep :)

Monday, October 5, 2009

This is a Test


This is only a test. My lovely mother consented to post my missionary e-mails each week (pictures included!) on my blog, and this is our practice post! So after October 14th, don't think I'm being disobedient by keeping up a blog - it's just Mom. :)

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Mormon Holiday


"I could do some of the things I've always wanted to."
"Like what?" "Oh, you can't imagine. I-I'd just do whatever I liked all day long."
~ Roman Holiday, 1953

I'm so glad Scott said he was going into work an hour later than usual, I think as I shove my make-up bag and brush into my Degas tote bag, because I am nowhere near being ready. My mind bounces between the conversation we had the night before, where we made the last-minute plans for me to ride up to Salt Lake with him (he's doing some of the remodeling in the Salt Lake temple's upper floors - yes, where those people meet - and I've always wanted to tour the area), and the frenzied hurriedness that always attends the mixture of oversleeping and packing. "I just need to pick up something at the BYU bookstore, and then we can go," he told me the night before as we were leaving my Bath and Body Works barbecue. He calls. He's out front. Yay! Notices such as "Russell M. Nelson just told me to have a good day" have been filling my Blackberry's text inbox for weeks, and so I've been looking forward to visiting this city of such great historical and spiritual significance. I open the passenger-side door and see a recently-purchased book on Salt Lake City walking tours - with a BYU bookstore bag shoved in the backseat. "Scott you are not an hour late for work because you bought this book for me!" So he tells me he's seen it at the bookstore for a while and thought I would like it, but just had never bought it. Since we only decided last night that this morning would be the day I would come, he wanted to get it before we left. So...Scott's probably one of my favorite people right now. And for a similar price (i.e. tardiness to employment for the good of Stefanie) this privileged spot can be yours too :)
I'm sure he is ready to get me out of the car though, because I begin to enlighten him, unceasingly, with all the historical knowledge I'm gleaning from this book.
Joseph in Egypt, Conference Center gallery
First stop: Conference Center. I've been to general conference, where leaders of the Church speak to us every six months, so I almost turn away with a "been there, done that" attitude, but omygoodness I am so glad I take the tour. There is just so much I didn't see with crowds of people around during Conference sessions, not to mention the access to the roof garden and all the tidbits of info that come with the guide. And, I discover an incredible art gallery on the second floor.


I get out of the tour just in time to catch a free organ recital in the tabernacle. From here I have precisely 40 minutes until the free shuttle destined for Welfare Square departs. I take an express route through the Church History Museum, promising to myself I will return for a more leisurely tour later, complete with a finger-touch of the first printing press of the Book of Mormon. I'm not sure if that's allowed...but I really wanted to. Joseph Smith touched that printing press, as has my right pointer finger. So...we've practically shaken hands. Practically.
Aah free shuttle to Welfare Square!!! I'm so excited! I've heard they give out free cheese at the end of the tour, and you get to shop at Deseret Industries, where all the cute temple square sisters get rid of their mid-calf skirts. I must be smiling a little too wide, however, because the drivers, a senior missionary couple, remind me of the shuttle's destination to check if I know where I'm going. The tour is fabulous! Ok, the free cheese and chocolate milk at the end really is great (I'm quite the connoiseur of free samples, after all) , but the Church's welfare system is divine. The primary aim of the system is to help others become self-reliant so they too can find the joy of lifting others. Many employees at D.I. and other welfare facilities are actually recipients of the welfare program. In this way they not only earn the assistance they have received but also learn marketable skills so they will be better candidates for employment.
The shuttle doesn't wait for guests who decide to do some perusing at D.I., so after I find some Banana Republic linen skirts (mission approved!) for $5, I take the bus back up to temple square to meet up with Scott, who is about to get off work. Sigh. Is it really 4:30 already? There is still so much on my list to see! Salt Lake is obviously not meant for a single day trip. I devise a plan on how to convince Scott to let me stow away in his car again as I wait at the bus stop outside Welfare Square. And, for practical reasons I suppose, this facility is not in the best part of town. Pair this consideration with the everyday userfolk of public transport waiting at this stop, and you can imagine my uneasiness as I wait for the bus to come - soon. Why do I look so dang approachable?...Please stop staring... Ah, how quick I am to judge though! When I obviously look lost and confused, the whole diverse bunch actually pitch in their knowledge of the system's routes to navigate me back to my destination.

Alas. Back to temple square safe and sound. Sad to leave but anticipating a return visit soon, we grab a quick dinner at a critcally-acclaimed (the critics being the rennovaters on the Salt Lake temple) burger place. Crown Burger veteran that he is, Scott orders for me and within a few minutes I am biting into a salami burger. Yum. And big, too. Even I can't finish all the salami.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

My New Amiga


Hello, Phoenix Arizona.

Seeing as how you will be my home for the better part of eighteen months, I thought it proper to introduce myself. My name is Stefanie, but you will know me by Sister Barker - or Hermana Barker, in Spanish. Don't be tempted to think Hermana is my first name (sorry, Am :) ), it's just a title. I'm a sister missionary. Or, well at least I will be, when you meet me. I suspect you're too busy with all your other inhabitants to know what "sister missionary" means, so allow me to explain. It means I walk on you, all over your precious 115+ degree desert soil, in funny-looking shoes that are "cute" only in a relative sense - only because mine were more expensive than my companion's, basically. It means that that companion - whose shoes will envy my shoes' more stylish combination of leather - will be with me all the time. Yes, in my sight, always (except potty breaks). It means I will learn to love that companion. Yes, I will put away any "I-like-my-alone-time, people-eater" tendencies and overlook flaws in order to keep a Spirit of love and peace with us as we work together to teach Phoenixians, whom we will also learn to love.

I gleaned from my letter by the First Presidency that you are home to quite a few Spanish-speakers. Otherwise, there would be little need for the "You will prepare to teach the gospel in the Spanish language" instruction. I told my brother I was "called to Arizona Phoenix. In Spanish that's Uhrisona, Phee-NUX!" He didn't think it was funny. Maybe you will appreciate my humor a bit more. With eighteen months of my full attention - no dating or schoolwork to occupy this usually-assiduous little mind of mine - I'm sure you'll acquire a taste for my jokes. I'll see to it.

Have I mentioned I don't speak Spanish? Well, not yet at least. You wouldn't happen to be tucking away any Japanese-speakers would you? Though I do like Mexican food. Authentic, with lard. Oh, what a surprise you were, my dear Phoenix! But I'll let you in on a bit of a secret, I already love you. It is true, Italy Rome you are not. But there is this quiet confirming feeling that I really am called to serve in you. This peace is something that, before, I always judged to be a fluke, one that elders and sisters conjured up in their beds at night to make themselves feel better when they weren't called to someplace exotic, like the West Indies, but this sentiment of mine was unsolicited, unforced, and quite surprising - even comforting. And as I Google-Image-stalk you each night before retiring, I grow more and more excited to meet you. To step foot on that soil-clay-dirt mixture of yours. Rome has the Laocoon Group, but does she have cacti? I think not. And although you will never make the cut for vacation locale of choice, I can't imagine preparing to serve anywhere else but you. Honest.

Well, your rising temperature and my list of today's errands suggest that this visit has reasonably run its course. Drop a few degrees while I'm at the Missionary Training Center from October to December, would you? I'll just be shopping for mid-calf-hitting skirts while studying up on the language with Ericka, my native friend from Mexico. I've enjoyed chatting with you. I think we'll become fast friends.

I'm not a fan of plagiarism, so I must confess this was highly influenced by the May 11, 2009 The New Yorker article entitled "Making Friends" by Amy Ozols; I just wanted to play around a bit and try something new.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Are Sparklers Legal at the Hinckley Center?

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Movin on 'Up'


Put me in a dressing room with a few high-heeled ladies' legs (of the mannequin variety, fishnets included), and expect me to take pictures. Promptly following my arrival at Montgomery International, Mom and I headed over to Victoria's Secret to stock up on semi-annual sale bras. As is custom, we shacked up in the same dressing room (to shave time off of the "Hey, I'm ready to show you mine, are you ready to show me yours?" wait, of course), which usually means we get the handicapped room. And, just so everyone is aware, I will no longer be mistaken for a sixteen-year-old because (drumroll please) from that lovely Friday on I have been the satisfied owner of not one but two push up bras. I had to dig a bit to find a good selection in my size (do you know how dispiriting it is to pilfer through those pink-labeled bins, find a cute bra, and realize that it's really a 32 B that has "Geronimo'd" over from the neighboring container? To well-endowed women everywhere, save a small-chested girl some distress next time and be sure to keep your big cups in their designated space, por favor.), but to be able to pass for an 'almost B,' I'd say it was worth it.


After the mother-daughter weekend was up, Daddy and I took a trip to Tuscaloosa to pick up some things my friends were storing. I'm usually one to be swooed by emotions - nostalgia in particular; my inabilities in decisiveness often leave me with the "grass is greener" symptoms of decision remorse. But even as Dad and I stroll about the [beautiful!] campus afront Denny Chimes, and even as I acrobat around in front of Bryant-Denny stadium, I'm once again reassured that I made the right decision. I'm so grateful my friends encouraged me to follow the Spirit, and to trust what just felt right. Brigham Young University has been the perfect soil for me to blossom and grow.

After we had loaded up the car and eaten lunch at Desperado's (my old summer job!), we hit up Durbin Farms, a good reminder that the South is the only place mouthwatering peaches are grown, and the only place dressing your male children in petticoat-esque attire is a sign of affluence.


And yes, they do always look this bored around me :)
My favorite parts of the trip home, however, were just the funny little things that happened as I spent time with the fam. Upon receiving the chopsticks I brought back as souveneirs from Japan, my little cousins Jesse and Jack whispered, "Mom, these have lead in them." How does one become that cautious by ten??? Apparently not from observing my Uncle Steve, as he proceeded to pick pistacios out of a bowl with the newly-acquired utensil.


Ha, another is when Dad and I went shooting, and he really wanted me to shoot this rifle he built. It was already far too heavy for my measly little arms to hold up, but then he excitedly ran for my camera. "You'll want a picture of this!" he called out. Hm...I really just wanted to put it down.
And...simply because it's not really in me to close with a cliche sentimental wrap-up (I suppose some are just better at crafting them than I am), I won't. So...thank you for tuning in, and I hope you stop by again soon to read about my fabulous life :)

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Just Like Riding a Bike...


My commute to work

So lately I've been torn. It's just not as easy as it used to be to make my life appear as exciting, and I really don't want to waste anyone's time or make them feel they need to read and comment on my blog. So I promise, if what you read doesn't entice you, my feelings won't be hurt. However, I do promise I'll try my best to write something worthwhile.

Whoever coined that analogy apparently didn't know me. I haven't ridden a bike since elementary school, and I definitely didn't pick it back up right away. Even long hours at spin class didn't prep me against balancing, turning, and braking [quickly]. But...I needed an economical commute to work, so a search on Craig's List and eighty dollars later, University Boulevard has the lovely sight of me peddling in Bath & Body Works regalia. Oh, and I got hit on a lot less in my spin class. So...I'm running (er...peddling) late to work the other day when a blonde in a collared uniform speeds up from behind me, only to whip his head around to look at me. "Hey!" he grins. "Do you remember me?" "No," I peddle harder. "No, really," he argues," "You were walking by my apartment when I was moving, and you stopped to help carry a box in!" Ok I'm seriously never going to do another act of kindness EVER again now. "Oh yeah hey," I keep peddling. "What are you up to?" "I'm late for work." "Where do you work at?" "Bath and Body Works, at Riverwoods." "Woah that's really far out there! I walked there one day and it took me all day!" That's why I'm peddling hard. "Well hey, this is me," he gestures to Burger King, and and he leads in to getting my number, "but do you want to hang out some time?" I notice the cartoon hamburger bun on his polo. "I'm sorry, I'm late for work." Why do guys never listen? His countenance drops, and I peddle on. I think I hurt his feelings, but I ended up being five minutes early to work because of it. Hey, there's no time to waste when anti-bac is $3. But, alas, at the end my shift I return to my new-found mode of transportation, only to find the back tire utterly deflated. And...ignorant me tries to hop on and ride home (you can drive on a flat car tire for a bit, after all!) only to find myself sitting completely stationary-but not for long, of course, since my bike balance hasn't exactly been honed yet. And then, the turning of the knife: I am graced by the presence of raindrops. Yes, I am four miles away from my apartment, and it is raining. Oh, and did I mention I haven't eaten in five and a half hours? So, once again, my brother Nick comes to my rescue. And even puts up with my hunger-induced crankiness.

Aside from burger boy (who really was quite polite, just had bad timing I suppose...) and the punctured inner tube, I really do enjoy riding my bike. The fresh ocea - er...mountain? - breeze blows gently through my hair to offset the heat of the sun. This makes for a comfortable tanning option. And, I must admit, I feel like a kid again.


Nicki and me

And my childhood nostalgia doesn't stop with the recent Huffy upgrade. How about a kind reminder of how much I hated waiting for something to come? Postal things like mail-order salt and pepper shakers from Snapple (it took me weeks to save up enough caps!) and adventures like Six Flags-bound vacations were the worst. So it's really not fair that a mission call is a little bit of both. But...the last word out was that Church Headquarters received my paperwork on Sunday, and my call is currently "in process." My friend and next-door neighbor, Nicki, is bound for Rosario, Argentina, in a little shy of two months, so we've been making plans for sister missionary shopping excursions to D.I. while exchanging guesses for where I'll be going.
And...any pointers for how to tell the rest of my family? I really care about my grandpa's opinion, probably the most out of all my family, and I want to explain it so he would understand. I thought I'd have my call by now so when I go home [this Friday] I could say, "Hey I'm doing [this] going to [here]." Uh...I feel like now I'll be like "Hey I'm going to...I don't know where yet. It could be pretty much anywhere...except Afghanistan....

Oh, and PS: My roommate Brittany's birthday cakes!

Rainbow Pop Rock Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting (and yes, the pop rocks were quite the sparkling experience for the mouth!)

Chocolate Candy Bar Cake