LuLu Love

Something amazing happened last week.

One of the dearest people in my life had a baby girl. Jennifer Herther gave birth to Leona Louise Herther, affectionately dubbed Lulu, last week Tuesday. I met Lulu on Thursday, immediately fell in love with the kid, and sat wide-eyed at Jen for the valiant feat she accomplished.

I suppose that things like this happen every day. People have babies all the time. But this one was somehow more real to me than all the others.

You see, I knew Jen as a Dennison. Jennifer Dennison. I knew her as my kindred spirit roommate in Pilsen, the older sister I never had. My running buddy, my fellow social-justice-activist, my wardrobe sharer, and my froyo sidekick. When we lived together I would pick Jen's brain in all sorts of things, from theology to dating advice to health care to please-can-you-help-me-understand-what-an-HMO-is-and-call-up-your-doctor-friends-for-advice-thanks. I still like to pick her brain on her latest nutritional advice and home-buying perspectives and maybe one day she'll be dishing on all the ways to raise kids organically. She's the one that knocked a few ounces of sense into me when I was dating the wrong guy(s) and yet never judged me or looked down on me in the process.

Jen represents a big part of my life: those two all-important years spent in Chicago. Living in the city shaped who I am in so many ways. They were my first years paying the rent. My Teach for America years. My oops-I've-gone-on-seven-first-dates-and-they-all-flopped-years. Jen was there for it all: the good, the bad, and the hilarious (because when you come home from a long day of teaching in CPS all you can do is laugh). Jen is the friend who met me and showed me that I was good enough, flaws and all. What more can you ask for, than someone who finds out about your real, messy self, and then happily accepts you anyway?

Le bebe.

So all of that, and much more, is who Jen is to me. I see myself in her. I look up to her. And for the first time, someone who was so present in the life of adulthood Anna has taken this step into motherhood. It was an overwhelming feeling to meet Jen's kid for the first time. (I cried immediately. Obvi.) 

It's a weird thing, to be a girl in your twenties. First they ask you who you're dating or why you're not dating. Then they ask you when you'll be married. Either it's not moving fast enough, or (in my case) you're getting engaged too soon. Then they ask you if baby fever has set in and when that deadline is pending. To be honest, I have never felt "baby fever." I have felt immediate love for my niece and nephew, total heartbreak at stories of loss, and pure joy for all of the other babies in the lives of my friends and family. I don't know if so-called baby fever will ever hit me (I don't think you have to be ill to choose to have a family one day!) and that's okay. I'm thankful for the timeline God's set before me, and for now I am enjoying it so much that I don't mind seeing other people at different points on theirs. 

So no, seeing Lulu for the first time wasn't a pang in my heart for my own. I felt something different instead. As Jen detailed for me the story of Lulu's birthday (with hilarious interjections from her husband Andrew, as per usual) I just sat there in awe. She approached her delivery day with such grace, so much composure, and incredible poise. The best thing about the story was that it wasn't by any means a perfect or easy experience for her. As I sat and listened to her graciously explain all the medical mumbo jumbo to my ignorant self ("Wait, what does five centimeters mean? Is that bad? Oh wait, that's good! Okay, keep going!"), I felt a new respect for this friend of mine. She laughed her way through explaining the chaos and out-of-body experience of bringing a baby into this world. I sat in total and complete awe at what she's been through, at how she fiercely loves her family, and at how God so perfectly chose her to be Leona Louise's mom. Like so many other times, her experiences reminded me that if she can do hard things, so can I. She inspires me to be brave, to embrace everything meant for me in this scary and beautiful world. 

My kindred free spirit is a mom. And I couldn't imagine anything better. 

You Better Believe It

So I noticed the date this past Sunday. It has been a YEAR since I graduated from college and I absolutely cannot believe it. I’m an adult! (Yep, read that sentence just like you SNL-lovers all read it.)

That feels wrong. It feels wrong to say that I’m an adult because I honestly have no idea how to change the oil in my car. I feel like that’s something adults should be able to do, and I don’t know how to do it. I feel like a 14-year-old trying to fly under the radar and hope nobody notices that I’m playing hooky from 7th period only to send me back from whence I came. I usually feel like a complete imposter in this adult world post-graduation.

 Last week, however, I had someone at work pay me the compliment that they were surprised that I was 23. They thought that I acted more like a “27-year-old or something”, not a newbie right out of the gate. I have to say, I took a moment to note the statement. It’s not everday you feel like that at work in your first year of teaching. And during that one small moment of satisfaction it dawned on me how I’ve managed to stay afloat in the adult world. The secret lies in these six words:

Fake it ‘til you make it.

 You’ve heard it before, but it is the single most helpful phrase to shake off those I’m-an-inadequate-fresh-piece-of-meat-who-has-no-clue-how-to-function-in-the-real-world blues. It’s kind of been my mantra since August 1st, when I, who had no business educating in the neediest of school districts in the country, was in charge of the 2nd-grade-fates of 23 children. I had never been in an education class, let alone did I know what a 7-year-old even looked like. I didn’t know what “best practices” were for teaching and I had no freaking CLUE what RTI or IEP or PLC meant. But if I could give any advice to fresh graduates or young adults who feel like they’re in over their heads in the working world, I’m telling you to just go ahead and fake it.

Start telling yourself that you are competent, successful, and independent, and you will start to become those things. The famous George Costanza once said, “It’s not a lie if you believe it,” and to be honest I’m starting to think there’s more wisdom there than I initially thought.

Believe all the things you want to believe about yourself. Need to go to church alone for the first time? Just believe that that’s what normal people do and march right up that aisle with Starbucks in tow. Have no clue what the educational term your advisor just used in an email actually means? Google it and reply as if you knew all along. Need to navigate a weird new city with psycho drivers? Simply believe you can merge with the best of them, check the mirrors often, hang on tight, and go to town up that freeway. Afraid to walk up the steps to your apartment by yourself? Believe you are a badass girl, check up and down the street, ready the keys between your knuckles just in case, and get inside without a sweat. Not sure what is going on at work? Believe that you are one of the most competent people in the room and present yourself that way. Stay engaged, take notes, dress more professionally than you should, participate when you can at staff meetings, and be a positive energy in the room – don’t be the new girl cowering shyly in the corner. This sounds so silly; it’s an odd idea to take extra care to go at the everyday things of life with an intentional gusto, but it works. It starts to rub off on your subconscious and you start to actually become a brave, smart, independent person.

My best days of teaching are those days when I believe I’m a good teacher. My best experiences with behavior management are when I make it clear to my kids that I am an adult who will not back down.

My most fun social gatherings with new friends happen when I believe I’m a fun person whom people will like.

 My most successful days of grad school are those when I believe I’m an energetic person after a long day of teaching, ready to learn something cool and new. They’re the days when I’m highlighting, note-taking, raising my hand, and forcing myself to nod my head.

 If you go through the motions of a confident person, you start to be that confident person. The more adults I meet in this work world, the more I realize we’re all the insecure 22-year-olds at heart; it’s not just you and me. This year I’ve seen 56-year-old professors get completely flustered in front of a classroom only to have everyone take a 20 minute break, I’ve seen school leaders break down into tears because of stress from district pressures, and I’ve seen coworkers say how they feel left out of the social scene at work. We’re all fighting feelings of inadequacy. Some people have just mastered the art of believing that they can. And so they can.

Believe me, for every one day I feel like an actual adult, there are seven others where I feel like a complete loser. I recently just wrote about the necessity to be real about your struggles and your difficult days. You need not always be an impenetrable wall of confident thinking and optimism. I just have found that, when put in sink-or-swim scenarios (and I can quite confidently say that was my scenario this past year), turn to confidence before you turn to cowardice.

This year has taught me that when they throw you in the pool before you learn how to tread water, tell yourself to swim, no, COMMAND yourself to swim, and you WILL. 

 Just don’t tell anyone you still need your rubber-ducky-arm-floaties to do it.

Transition

This post might seem a tad melancholy, and it is a little bit, but is not meant to be completely that way. Just more reflective. Today was spent going over lots of HR information, e-mailing with Teach For America AND Dominican University people about my licensing classes, and perplexing over how to set up my classroom with my co-teacher. It's that third thing that made me kind of do a double-take of my own self today.

I did a double-take because there I was, in a classroom with my co-teacher, who is extremely professional and good at what she does, and I felt like a big faker. Like I didn't have what it takes and that I couldn't shoulder my half of the work in making this first grade classroom a successful place. Sometimes I feel like a faker in this whole post-grad world in general. I feel like I'm actually still 14 years old and just masquerading as an adult. In this new apartment, driving my Volkswagen down new streets, attending new churches, and starting a new job. I feel like I have to overcompensate sometimes and be all, "Yeah! I'm totally great and I'm loving it and I'm really good at what I do and I'm on this adventure that is exciting and cool!" While all of those feelings are true sometimes, sometimes they're not. Sometimes I'm tired and feeling sick from 4 hours of sleep a night. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed. Sometimes I feel inadequate beyond measure. Sometimes I hate that I can't park wherever the heck I want to park. Sometimes I wonder why I haven't just called it a night on this whole Chicago thing and thrown in the towel. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be good at this teacher thing at all. Or good at this being-an-adult thing at all. I think that's the biggest one that weighs on me. 

But there are other times too. It's all mixed up, really. There are other times where I feel great about who I am and what I'm doing. 

Today during our HR session all the new hires were together so we had to introduce ourselves, where we are from, and something that we are proud of. I had a moment of happiness when I had to think of all the things I'm proud of because I have many. I'm proud of graduating college. I'm proud of my English degree. I'm proud of being accepted into Teach For America and being hired by a charter school right after graduation. I'm proud of my friends. I'm really proud of my family. I'm proud of the people I love. I'm proud of how I put myself out there with people, even if it's gotten me hurt from time to time. I'm proud of being hurt by others and still being optimistic anyway. I'm proud of my sixth grade summer-schoolers. I'm proud of being a small-town midwestern girl. I'm proud of my faith. I'm proud of moving to a new city by myself and starting adulthood this year. 

Maybe that's how it's supposed to be in those transition times. The good and the bad stuff. The doubts that you have and the...we'll call them the prouds that you have. I'm still strapped for cash and racking up quite the debt with the Bank of Brian and Kathy. I'm still really scared when I think of my lack of experience at my job. And I'm still a little overwhelmed when I feel like I'm going through this alone. But I'm also hopeful, excited, and proud too. Maybe I have to find that balance between being proud of who I am and what I can do while also using my lack of experience as a motivator to work my tail off to try and try and try until I get things right. 

I know eventually I'll get some things right. I know that every truly good thing comes with a price. And I know that every time I grow or get something to work out, it hurts a little (even a lot) at first on the way to get there. And I know, parking tickets and rent checks in tow, everything will work out in the end. At least that's what I believe. So with that, right now I'm going to live in the tension between the doubts and the prouds and work as hard as I can to make them even out. 

Notes of a TFA-er: You're Gonna Miss This

Yeah, I linked a sentimental country song to describe my feelings, okay? Yeah, SO?

I almost feel like I haven't been updating this week because each and every day since Sunday has brought so much along with it. I'm missing a lot of things...not in a way that I want to complain about it, but in a way that I want to talk about how much I love the things I'm missing (or will soon be missing). Here's a list of what's racing through the mind of a TFA-er at the end of Institute:

1. I miss my summer school kids. Honestly, I do. It's not that I haven't forgotten the cuss words, the weird smells, and the BADitudes that accompany 6th grade summer-schoolers at all. I remember those things very well along with the other stuff that drove me nuts. But I also remember the larger-than-life personalities, the original rap lyrics, the funny jokes, the brilliant thoughts in their responses and essays, and the trust and understanding built in such a short time.

I remember E, one of the kids who tried my patience the most, who wrote a letter to the class and teachers as a farewell message:

My favorite parts: 1) He made a special note in saying goodbye to the teachers to say "I'm going to miss you guys and you woman." 2) How E closed the note with: "Love you all, no homeo." Classic.

I remember a group of three awesome girls who performed their original "New Girl Swag" rap song that could rival a Nicki Minaj verse.

I remember J, a girl whose eyes lit up when I told her I lived in Spain for four months, and how she now plans to study abroad and study photography in Spain when she goes to college.

I remember two star soccer players, A and I, each morning bragging up the fact that they scored 2, 3, 4, and even 7 goals in their games the night before.

I remember during one of our opening morning sessions when we asked students to contribute positive thoughts, how P raised his hand, stood up by his desk, and resolutely yelled out, "I'm black, and I'm proud!" and sat back down. So awesome.

I remember T, one girl who is bent on attending University of Chicago. T also has some major behavior habits that got her a conference with me for the first two minutes of the lunch period almost every single day. I remember how I was amazed that this daily punishment actually turned out to be the thing that got us to be really close by the end of Summer School.

I remember H, one of my favorite boys, answering a question after reading a book about a woman who was a fishing boat captain when most every other captain was a man. I asked him why he thought this book was important, and he responded: "Some girls think that just because they're girls they can't do anything boys do. It's important because I think girls should believe in themselves to do anything they want to do." 

I mean, do you sees why he's one of my favorites (okay I know you're not supposed to have favorites but whatever)? Life in Room 309 was full of moments like these.

2. I miss my Trinity friends. It's weird that I'm going along through this intense process without my Trolls. I feel like although I'm only 30-45 minutes from most of them, I've been secretly living a life 10,000 miles away.  I miss waking up in a house of my best friends and never having to walk to dinner by myself like I do here. I miss knowing the exact daily schedule of my friends: when they are free from classes or when we can coordinate trips to Target and the mall together. I miss hanging out at the houses on the weekend nights. I miss knowing how all of their days have gone and whether they are having a good week or not. I sometimes miss being around people who think about the world in the same way I do. I actually enjoy being in the minority here at TFA in my religious and political views, but it definitely also can be tiring to remember where I really stand. The newness and independence of this awesome adventure is super exciting, but it's hard sometimes too. I know my college friends are there for me even when my schedule doesn't allow that much communication and face time, but still. I miss those little rascals. 


3. I'm going to miss my CMA group. So much. You were introduced to my CMA and CMA group already. These 13 people are awesome. In two short days we will all be off in a million different directions, off to take up our placement to begin our two-year commitment to TFA in different cities. Although it's only been 5 weeks, these people have been in the trenches with me since day one. As a way of coping, instead of seeing this as farewell, I'm seeing this as an opportunity to have free lodging when I visit St. Louis, Jacksonville, Milwaukee, Detroit, Seattle, and the Twin Cities. Stay positive, right? I have to say, it's going to be extra hard to begin teaching in a classroom without my collaborative of these three guys: John, Tray, and Zach. They make me laugh so much that I don't think it's allowed to classify our classroom instruction as work, but somehow we got away with it.

4. I'm going to miss Institute. Before I got here, I heard SO MUCH about Institute. I heard: "Good luck with that," "You're never going to sleep," "It's the hardest thing you'll ever do," and my favorite: "Institute is the worst." I can sometimes agree with those sentiments, but truly I've loved these five weeks. Don't believe the people who hate on it. I'm living the dorm life, not worrying about making my meals or grocery shopping, hanging out with tons of new friends, working all day with said friends, and getting to know the city in the process. I move into a new apartment on Saturday, live with new roommates (who are really great too!), start paying rent and buying groceries, and basically begin adulthood. Not to mention I'll be starting real-live orientation next Monday at my real-live job. Having my hand held by advisors, fellow corps members, co-teachers, and supervising TFA staff during summer school has been an awesome support system while doing my first teaching experience. I've grown as a teacher so much already and this process has been nothing but memorable and important to me. My first-graders will be sitting in front of me in 13 days on the FIRST of AUGUST (commence nervous twitching), and I have to be ready for them. Institute gave me the first HUGE push to get there.

Institute, obviously, is not just the experience but the people who go through the experience right alongside of you. I said often in Spain that it wasn't the places that made the semester great (although seeing the sights was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity) but the people who were there with me. If Institute is teacher boot camp, it's the people who have helped me survive. I'm off to embark on yet another step of independence next week and I'm not sure that I'm completely ready, but these people have helped me start to get there. They've pushed me, laughed with me (or mostly at me), and given me amazing examples of individuals who embrace their leadership to DO SOMETHING about the injustices that they see around them. If I could describe how I feel about these people I could say a lot of words, but the main one that comes to my mind is inspirational. I'm a lucky girl to even be here in their presence.

Now it's time to hug it out, pack it in, hang out, go out, move in, and gear up. August 1st is coming soon. 

Saddle Up

These past three days have sort of been surreal, because this big date, JUNE 13, has been looming for awhile. Today was wonderful. Full of Karley, Liz, IKEA, shopping, food, and Rudi's house. The top picture is very appropriate to my potential living situation (which should hopefully be finalized soon!), the middle picture is a great IKEA bathroom and kitchen (500 days of summer, anyone?), and the bottom picture is where we got our [delicious] lunch.  

Tomorrow I move into the Illinois Institute of Technology (ahh!) and start my crazy adventure with Teach For America. (again...AHH!!) I am scared, excited, nervous, curious, and overwhelmed all at once. I have five weeks of intense training, two weeks of professional development through my school, and the first day of school in the first few days of August. Since I'm prone to feeling sheepish before I take a big step like this, I've looked up what important people have to say about courage and manning up. 

Quotes on being courageous always should start with our friend Winston Churchill:

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts."

Then we go to my friend ee cummings for his offbeat and original insights: 

"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."

Then when we need to just dive right in, John Wayne is great for that extra shove: 

"Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway." 

It's time to be courageous, it's time to grow up, and it's time to saddle up! The adventure begins. 

Risk

No, not the board game. Although I have spent many Christmas/New Year holidays with our family friends playing the game of strategic conquest (when you get two older brothers and their friends together, you're not playing Boggle, I'll tell you that much). And if you're any kind of Seinfeld fan at all, you already love this scene from the label maker episode. "The Ukraine is weak!" 

For this post I'm thinking of risk more in terms of putting yourself out there. In terms of exposing yourself to possible downfall or heartbreak or letdown or danger. This kind of risk is not a game...real people are involved in this one.

This idea of risk started to bounce around in my head ever since my brother Alex, who is a lawyer, brought up the concept of "Assumption of Risk" a long time ago. Maybe it was his first year of law school, I don't know, but it stuck with me. Apparently it was in a torts class (I guess that's a category of laws, but to me it sounds more like dessert) and basically you can cite "Assumption of Risk" as a possible defense to not get the pants sued off of you. Hopefully I'm understanding it correctly. For example, if you're playing a soccer game, someone slide tackles you, and you tear your ACL, the slide-tackler does not have a responsibility to pay for your medical bills. By suiting up in that soccer jersey and stepping on the field, you assumed that playing the game involves a certain level of risk. And since you love the game, you happily accepted and played in spite of that risk. You take responsibility for the fact that it's your own fault for joining in if you get hurt during the normal play of the game.

I also think of this with playgrounds. By climbing up on those monkey bars, you are taking on that Assumption of Risk. You might fall (and dang does hitting those wood chips below ever hurt!) but you also might finally conquer that farmer's flip you've been perfecting for your entire kindergarten career.

People are like monkey bars. You need to acknowledge the Assumption of Risk when it comes to people. Anytime you have a friendship, relationship, or interaction with another human being, you're risking something. The closer you get, the more you jeopardize in the process. The possibilities for love and friendship are worth it, and so most of us see fit to take that risk. But what happens when it all blows up? We all know the feeling of free-falling to a thud on the ground below the monkey bars, only to have the wind knocked out of us once we get there. It's not pleasant. People can hurt. People can leave you gasping for air. When that initial impact passes, do you yell curses up at the monkey bars? No. You pick yourself up, walk it off, and try that farmer's flip again. When you open yourself up to people, you take that risk. It's not anyone's fault, it's just never a sure thing with people. You give them the power to knock the wind right out of you. Hey, remember that you can do the same hurt to others when they trust you! But the beauty of it all is that next time it might not end up that way. You can learn from every single fall and every single scrape and bruise those wood chips leave on your knees. You risked it, it didn't work out as you'd planned, but you're still going forward better, smarter, and readier than before.

One of my all-time favorite literary characters is a sad little guy named J Alfred Prufrock. T.S. Eliot wrote a whole poem from his sad little perspective. J Alfred is so consumed with his fear of taking risks that he is completely paralyzed. He says he measures his life in coffee spoons and obsesses over the question: "Do I dare eat a peach?" Dude, when you start to have an existential crisis over fruit, you know you need to lighten up.

What I'm trying to say here is that we can't end up like my friend J. Alfred Prufrock. I can't sit on the sidelines of friendships and relationships for fear of getting burned or getting my feelings hurt. We can't sit on the grass while the rest of the world is playing on the jungle gym. I read somewhere that "life is between the trapeze bars," that in order to really live, you have to risk a little too. I'd rather have my life measured in jumps and falls than in coffee spoons. Safe is nice, but safe can become a crutch.

I'm working on facing those monkey bars again. The world is just too full of interesting people and exciting opportunities to not climb back up that ladder. And if I do say so myself, I can execute an outstanding farmer's flip.

That Tim Allen is Full of it Man

(Yep. Dumb and Dumber reference.) We had plans this weekend. BIG plans.

Karley, Karyn, and I had plans to set out on Friday after class for Hudsonville, Michigan and see the beautiful Liz VanDrunen herself. Then on Saturday we were going to watch Trinity's track team rock the house at a meet at Grand Valley State University. And THEN we were going to watch Calvin's air band lip sync competition with one of my faves, Ann Marie, with the possibility of seeing my other high school friends later that night. Well. All of those plans and dreams kind of crashed and burned. Due to storms and snow Friday night, we decided to leave early Saturday morning (Write this down...I woke up at 5:45 for that!). We left with high hopes of Pure Michigan from all those Tim Allen commercials. He's the tool guy, after all. You should be able to trust him, right?!

We were going along, singing Taylor Swift, minding our own business, when suddenly, about halfway there,  this is what our drive looked like:

Bear in mind, we are three lame college girls who aren't very useful in most emergency situations. We turned Taylor down to a 3 on the volume knob (that's when you know it's getting serious), stared silently ahead for outlines of the road and other objects, and kept cheerfully (but nervously) telling Karley (who was driving) that we can totally figure this one out.

This is the first time in my life I've been happy to be stuck behind a semi truck because those were the only vehicles we could actually see through all that lake effect snow. We inched along at 0 miles per hour (I know it sounds impossible according to the laws of physics, but that's what happened. Just telling you the facts.), past countless cautionary tales that ended up in the ditch on either side of the highway and even seeing an accident happen a few hundred feet in front of us. Finally, after 3 miles and 30 minutes, we took the next exit, happily into the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel. How fortunate, we thought. Now THERE is a place in which we could spend all day! (That was a joke. Kind of.)

Karley beat the game! 

Their great candy selection. So colorful! 

As you can see, whilst in Cracker Barrel we had breakfast, played old Amish games, and looked at their beautiful selection of delicious candy. The other thing we did was call our trusty sources for advice. I called my brother Rudi, who looked up the weather (huge warning telling people to only travel in emergencies) and told me that turning around would be a good idea. We got the same advice from Karley's dad, my uncle, who is a truck driver himself and familiar with this stretch of driving in the winter. So we borrowed a shovel from the nice Cracker Barrel Candy Lady, shoveled our way out of our parking spot, got super brave, and headed back home, thus ditching our friends, our exciting plans, and all that colorful candy.

Shoveled out and ready to go.

Karley and Karyn

The cousins, ready to turn around for home again.

Back in Palos, catching a flick. 

And there we were at 1:15 in the afternoon, weekend plans kind of down the drain, but laughing due to the series of events that brought us back to Palos Heights 6 hours after we left it. It's funny though, because while you would think that we were in a terrible mood, going through that together was one of those odd bonding experiences. Like living in South Hall with no air conditioning in August as a freshman in college. I now know I can survive a snowpocalypse. Look, Dad, I'm building character! To salvage what was left of our free day, we decided to go see The Vow in the nearest movie theater to catch a matinee. (Sorry everyone, I thought it was awful.) It turned out to be a great weekend anyway. In the last 24 hours I've lived and learned one thing: Tim Allen is not to be trusted.

Tastes Like Chicken.

That's because it is chicken. I am about to share with you, my friends, one of the best recipes on earth. Sole credit goes out here to my mother, Kathy Gesch, or Special-K as I like to call her. Every time I call to tell my parents I'm coming home I expertly weave it in the conversation somehow that it would be swell to have this dish and my mom always delivers. I called her today whilst wandering listlessly through the spaghetti section in Jewel for new ideas and she gave me the down low on this recipe. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: Dijon Parmesean Chicken. 


First things first. Let's get all your ingredients in order.

Here's what you need:
Boneless skinless chicken breasts
1/3 cup melted butter or margarine
3 Tbsp dijon mustard
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp worcestershire saurce
2/3 cup seasoned breadcrumbs
1/2 tsp paprika
1/4 cup parmesan cheese
2 Tbsp parsley
1 9x13 pan and 2 smaller pans for dipping
A good attitude and some fab background tunes (almost the most important ingredient)

This may be a good moment to let you know of my utter repulsion to touching raw meat. It feels like you're touching something dead. OH WAIT. YOU ARE. How do all you moms who cook every day get over that fact?! You guys are brave. But I figured, Anna, you gotta man up and do it for the sake of the delicious chicken that comes at the end of this ordeal. So I got brave and took it like a Gesch.

You set up your stations, like pictured above. You have your (rinsed off) raw chicken friend (gross) first, followed by a pan of the mustard, worcestaeroiajsdf sauce (it's hard to spell okay?), melted butter, and salt. The second pan is all the other ingredients for the outside breading. You go assembly-line style, first dipping it on both sides in the mustard mixture pan, then rolling it around so it's well coated in the breadcrumb mixture pan. Then you throw that baby in the 9x13. BadaBINGbadaBOOM. Repeat until the rest of his raw posse is properly coated and breaded. Like so:

Oh and by the way, your hands will look like this:

Gross. So now, all you have to do is throw it in the oven for 45 minutes at 350 degrees. That's farenheit, not celsius to all my European readers (ha.ha.). Today I prepared it earlier and then covered it with saran wrap in the fridge to pop in the oven when we were ready to eat. My mom took specific care to remind me to take off the plastic wrap before you put it in the oven. That may seem stupid to you guys, but that is something I probably need to be told from time to time. I need more, as my dad would say, Situational Awareness™ sometimes. Yes I just claimed that my dad trademarked the term. He may as well have. 


When you take it out of the oven, it will look like this: (And smell even better)

And the last ingredient that I forgot to add above is: your roommates! They help you eat stuff that you make. Otherwise I'd be eating this recipe for a week straight. I mean, I wouldn't mind eating it every day all that much to be completely honest. I tend to go at things a little too strongly. Example - the latest in our house is a blueberry obsession and there are currently 6 boxes of blueberries in our freezer that I snack on every single chance I have. But I'm trying to be a normal human being and eat in a somewhat balanced way. Ahh my friends together for dinner. So choice. 

Why I Walked

Well...I guess it was technically a march. But there wasn't much of that going on - someone with my lack of coordination can't keep a good march going. So I'm going to say I walked.

On Monday I had the privilege to take part in the annual Right to Life March (or walk in my case) in Washington D.C. to protest on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, which legalized abortion in all fifty states. I'll supply my fun times, pictures, and touristy adventures soon, but I think it's important to take a minute and tell you why I did this thing in the first place. It's important and I'd love to hear your thoughts, whether you concur or not.

Braving the rain

Ahhh. Where to begin. Well let's start by saying abortion has always been something that has caught my attention. I wrote a research paper on it for a history class, presented on it for a political science class, and wrote an essay on it for an English class. I interned at Bethany Christian Services, an adoption agency, this summer because I strongly believe in their mission to be there as a positive, loving option to young mothers in difficult situations. But the reason I did the walk is a little stronger than just an area of interest.

My partner in crime for the walk

Before I go on, let me say: I realize the stereotypes that come along with being an advocate for the pro-life cause. Some of the things I don't mind, some of the things I really can't stand. I understand that in every large, opinionated group of people there will be those on the extreme who don't do things with tact. I realize that when I tell some of you that I went to D.C. for this reason it might seem annoying and naive. I realize that women in difficult pregnancy situations need a loving community, not angry threats. I see that there are people on the other side of the argument who are very intelligent. People who know a lot of things. But there are a few things that I know too.  

I know that I was made for a purpose. I know that you were made for a purpose. Everyone has a purpose. 

Every life has a purpose. 

I know that when I didn't value my own life, there was someone else who did. That someone valued my life so much that He gave his own to pay for it. 

I know that because of what He did, now I think life is the most valuable thing in existence, and the only way to treat it is with love. 

I know that it's my job to spread the word. I have to tell people this thing that I know: that love is the only way to deal with a life. 

I know that someone fought for my life when I couldn't on my own. I know that I was in death's grip until someone took me back and proclaimed my life to be important. To be worth it. 

And so I guess I walked for a lot of reasons. But I kept feeling this particular one coming up in my mind: 

Anna, you gotta stand up for those lives because someone else stood up for yours.

If I don't stand up for life, what does that say about my relationship to the one who died for mine? My relationship with Him compels me to do something. Say something. Because the love of life is so integral to who I am, it's like it was programmed on my heart. And being silent or passive on the issue would just be a lie to myself, a lie to those precious lives that are being thrown away, a lie to those mothers who have strength and purpose beyond comprehension, and a lie to the one who started it all - the one who had the courage to love life first. 

Fear Factor

Okay, not really. But last night, I accomplished something. I ate an oyster. These are slimy, raw, gelatinous little creatures that are fastened tightly to their shell. You take a fork and unfasten them so they are just chilling in their gross juices. And then you slurp it up, and swallow it whole, like a shot. I added some tabasco sauce for my personal preference, my sister-in-law opted for horse radish. Here's a vid. Ate those oysters like a boss.



This is what they look like up close:

And here are the other, more aesthetically pleasing things I've been consuming on this Florida family vacay:

Blue coconut margarita

Not food. My dad and I. 

Coconut shrimp with a raspberry dipping sauce. I guess I was
in a coconut phase. 

Sesame tuna. Mmmm.

Just delish.