The Name Game

“How do you feel about the name Milton?”

“Do you hate that kid?” Chris replied.

“Maybe I would,” I retorted.

“Then Milton would be a great name.”

Any time I suggest a name to Chris, this is pretty much how the conversation goes. I tend to like old-fashioned names, like Wilford or Madge. Or names that have literary significance, like Seymour (from J.D. Salinger’s Glass family) or Finnegan (James Joyce). Or ones that do both, like Ezra (Pound) or Virginia (Woolf).

But then Chris likes really boring names. Like Peter or Jane.

For now, it’s a fun game. But I have the feeling that some day my husband is going to pay off some doctor to put me under long enough to change the kid’s name to something more innocuous than Ernest. You know, like pretty much any name out there.

Nonetheless, there are a few names we’ve managed to agree on. Here they are:

Male:
Seth
Liam
Peter

Female:
Leila
Jean
Kalina (Lina for short)

Also, this is tangential, but what is up with parents giving their kids long names with the intention of shortening them? If you want a kid called Cal, name him Cal, not freaking Callahan. Want an Emmy? How’s about just naming your daughter Emmy instead of Emeline?

Now, if it’s a family name and then you shorten it or something like that, that’s fine. Whatever. But the rest of you parents, cut it out.

Don’t burden your kid with the name Gertrude if she’s just gonna end up being Trudy. In fact, don’t name her Gertrude at all. Even I can agree that that’s cruel.

German Chocolate Frosting

I’m not cake’s biggest fan. In the world of dessert-calorie-currency, I’d simply rather spend mine on other desserts. Like apple or banana cream pie, maybe some coconut cheescake, or any flavor of Ben & Jerry’s.

I revealed this fact to Chris during our courtship, and his reaction was complete and total devastation. No, really though. He’s the proverbial fat kid who loves the proverbial cake. It was almost a deal breaker. Somehow, we pulled through those dark days with our mutual love of frozen custard.

For a little “Hurrah!” to mark making it past the two-month mark of matrimonial bliss, I decided to bake Chris a cake. But being the selfish gal that I am, I chose a flavor I prefer: German chocolate cake. It’s smothered in coconut and pecans and a lot of butter. What more could a gal ask for?

I found a recipe on Rachel Ray’s site that looked promising—fairly simple but with real ingredients (butter, mmm…). But since it’s the frosting I really love, and less the cake, I chose a box mix for the cake. The recipe includes the cake and the icing, but I figured, let’s walk before we run, yes?

The Recipe:

For the coconut frosting:
▪ 1 cup sugar
▪ 4 medium egg yolks
▪ 1 cup evaporated milk
▪ 1/2 cup (1 stick) butter
▪ 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
▪ 10 ounces fresh or frozen and thawed grated coconut
▪ 1 1/2 cups finely ground pecans, walnuts, or almonds
▪ 1/4 cup warm milk

To make the frosting, combine the sugar, egg yolks, and evaporated milk in the top of a double boiler. Stir with a wire whisk until the yolks are fully incorporated. Add the butter. Place over simmering water and bring to a boil (see Note below). Simmer for 12-15 minutes longer, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens. Add the vanilla, coconut, and nuts. Cool.

Whoah, double-take: what is a double boiler? After a quick image search, I surmised it to be a hole-less version of a vegetable steamer, with no match to anything in my pot collection; I shrugged and carried on with a small nonstick pot.

After mixing up the batter and throwing a couple cake pans in the oven, I started off. I decided to one-and-a-half the icing recipe, since a can of evaporated milk is 1.5 cups, and who’s really going to keep that extra half-cup around?

The stirring was an agonizingly boring ten minutes, but I made it through. I dumped in the vanilla, coconut (I chose shaved for some texture) and blender-ground walnuts and pecans.
It was only after I’d completed the frosting and was putting away ingredients and ran into my unopened half-gal of 2% that I realized I’d forgotten that .25 cups of warm milk. Oops.

Taking the cakes out of the pans, one fell apart (of course). I pasted the pieces back together with frosting, slathered its top up, slapped the other layer on top.

I frosted the top, and tried to frost the side but the icing was still warm. It was a mess, and all over that lovely pink Williams-Sonoma cake platter I got as a bridal shower gift (which may have been the real motive behind this cake caper).

I put the icing back in the freezer to cool some more while I enjoyed some Indian food that my husband had been kind enough to bring home (coconut vegetable curry, delish). When I pulled it out, it was pleasantly cool and spread like a dream.

The Result:

For a first attempt, I think it went swimmingly. Although I did scald the milk and was afraid it might turn out grainy, this recipe is robust enough to survive my rookie mistakes.

Taste Tester (Chris) says: “That cakes tastes like straight sugar and butter and coconut. And by that I mean it was awesome.”

So it couldn’t be that bad.

Menu Mondays

Chris and I decided to make some goals for the rest of the year. Because making goals once a year is for people who only want to feel like failures in February. But me and Chris? We like to fail often and with style.

In any case, one of the goals I made was to try one new recipe a week—dinner, dessert, appetizer, side dish, hor d’ourves—whatever. I tend to get in a cooking rut, as I’m sure many other designated family chefs do. Mine tend to be particularly bad, however, because following recipes bores me. I tend to just make things that don’t require a recipe—you know, spaghetti out of a box with sauce from a can, or salad, or enchiladas.

Also, when I cook? It’s a complete mess. And I do mean complete. Chris describes my cooking methods as “kamikaze,” “inventive” and “unorthodox.” Cooking tried-and-true recipes is tempting fate. Trying new ones is mooning her while laughing in her face. How could she not take a swat?

But I’m sticking my derriere out in the wind and making a tradition of “Menu Mondays.” Every Monday, I’ll try a new recipe, let you know how it went, post some scary pictures and a how-to.

Look forward to the first, which will be German chocolate cake.

Marriage, thank you's, writing. And stuff.

In recent news, I got married to a man who is good and great and awesome. He treats me so well.

Married life is an adjustment. But a good one. As always, being with Chris makes me want to be better, kinder, more loving. And who better to help me than the love of my life?

Oh and check out Jason McGrew, our Utah wedding photographer, he's VUNDERBAR. He’s based out of Salt Lake and he is affordable, very talented, and was a dream to work with. Chris even liked him, and he doesn’t like any photographers.

I have been working on thank you cards for a week now. They have taken a surprisingly long time to do. My goal is to have them sent by the end of the month. Still, I do love writing them. There is something about a hand-written note that will always be special.

Isn’t it funny to think that just a few decades ago, “note” wouldn’t have needed the description of hand-written? They were all hand-written. Just saying.

I’ve started my internship at the New Era. I really love it, actually. I was worried, because I knew that the magazine obviously has a very specific audience and a strict set of standards. They are very careful about what they put in. But it is not bad at all, and it’s kind of nice to get to research and write about my religion.

Also, the place lacks the groupthink I was worried about. You’re allowed to dissent, a little. At least, I hope we are, because I have dissented already. You know, a little.

What I really love about my job, though, is that I get to talk to awesome young people, interview them, talk to them about their beliefs. And then I get to write their stories. Cheesy, maybe, but it’s kind of an honor.

So I’m revving up this blog engine once more. Life is calming down, and though I get tons of chances to write at work, I still need an outlet. Somewhere to put thoughts that don’t have to shuffle through three departments before finally being published.

Isn’t the internet wonderful?

Dust in the wind

I was already a third of the way through my run before I reached what I had really set out for. To the north of town, at the end of 2nd west is a concrete trail. It runs along the tracks for about a half mile, ending in a bridge that crosses the Teton River and a path on the other side that leads to the backside of the Rex.

As I measured out my steps, trying to breathe methodically so as to suck in as much oxygen as possible with every breath, I could feel the stitches starting. My throat was thick and tight, in the way that makes me wonder if I had asthma, despite knowing I don't. A batch of mucus had formed in my mouth, and I swallowed, hoping to coat my quickly-drying throat.

The tracks to my left grew closer to the path, and the tank cars that had been stored out here loom black and tall, like so many elephants lined up, clutching to the tail of his predecessor. I crossed a small bridge that runs over an irrigation canal.

I passed a field, now, that was once the site that of a lumber mill. Wood was brought there from all over the state, the location next to the tracks all too convenient for that, to be processed and then shipped off once more. When the Teton Dam broke in 1976, however, it wiped the mill out. Now all that remains are a few concrete foundations, rusted-out oil barrels, scattered collections of ancient-looking wood. I wondered, if the Dam had never broken, what this field would look like — if the lumber mill would still be standing and running, or if it would have been converted into convenience stores and office buildings.

Kansas shuffled up in my ear buds just as I approached the bridge that spans the Teton River. The steel was rusted red, but sturdy. If I looked west, I saw the fading skyline, the bridge just a couple hundred feet downriver that carries the tracks from one side of the river to the other. I stopped, noting how if I stood just right, I could get the effect of a streak of light, running down the rive, reflected up at me.

Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky,

It slips away.

And all your money won't another minute buy.

All we are is dust in the wind.

I laid on the bridge, flat against it. The sky above me was cut with clouds. I pulled out my headphones, and just breathed. I noticed I could hear the water, the sound of millions of molecules collectively flopping end over end between the banks. Crickets chirped, not too loudly just yet, but with the charming significance of the space between spring and summer. I felt suspended, as if levitating above the water, the steel suddenly thin air, but just as supportive.

I hung there in that minute. It wouldn't last forever, but for now, it's all I had — and it was lovely.

I would get what I wanted ... if I just knew what that was

If trying to work out a wedding has taught me anything, it is that I really have no idea what I really want.

Take my dress, for instance. I have long been convinced that I wanted a shorter dress, and had specifics in mind.

But then I went and actually tried on dresses, and while I found one that was tea-length and adorable, it failed to convince me that it was all I'd ever wanted in a wedding dress. Or dress I'll be wearing to my reception. Or whatever you would call it.

So I tried on long dresses, and found a couple I liked, but still nothing that I wanted to take home with me.

So here I am, with only a little more than two months ahead of me, at a sort of impasse with myself. On one hand, I'm really whatever about my dress. I will wear it once and then pretty much be done with it. It seems silly to spend a lot of time stressing out about it.

But, on the other hand, it really does matter to me. I want to look absolutely beautiful. I want to look back on that day and feel the vivacity and loveliness of that day.

I want a skirt that is knee-length, to avoid sweatiness and show of my stems. But then I want that is long and A-line and will swirl out around me when I dance.

Do you see my problem? Too conflicted.

Let's not even discuss the veil.

But at least I'm positive about the groom.

Engaged.

It's true. I am actually, factually, officially unavailable. All single men and vampires, take note, because I'm just not destined to be your Bella Swan.

Instead, I am the cheese to this guy's macaroni:

And believe me, our brand of mac'n'cheese is the best you're gonna find.

But seriously.

His name is Chris Kirkham and he's the biggest stud I know.

We are to be married July 30th in the St. George temple — which happens to be his favorite. That also happens to be the same place and date that my parents got hitched 34 years ago. Wild, huh?

For now, however, we still live in separate states — him in Utah (I know, right? Who lives in Utah?) and me in Idaho (much cooler, I assure).

Most of the time, being apart is not that bad.

Ok, so that's a total lie. It's horrible to be apart.

But, the thing is, it just means that I have that much less time of actually being around him to drive him away crazy, which is probably a good thing.

Oh, I also have some other things going on before July 30th. Just a little ol' thing called graduation.

Still, I can't help but think of July 30th and ask: are we there yet?