This just in!

By no stretch of the imagination would I ever claim to like Scroll, but yesterday I was able to get a glimpse of why real journalists like their work. Because of the recent passing of President Hinckley, Scroll decided to do an insert in this week's issue (that came out today) about President Hinckley's life. This meant we had an extra five pages put on us at the last minute. We were scrambling all day trying to get the paper ready to go to press. We were able to convince our gracious printers to give us a deadline extention so we could do the extra pages, but that just meant we all (or at least copy and a small handful of editors) had to stay late. I think it turned out all right, but we were sure in a rush to get it done. And we still got it to the printers late.

So while I was in the Scroll office last night, we began talking about the Rexburg Temple dedication, and how that might be affected by President Hinckley's passing. He, as well as several other apostles, were supposed to be in attendance. We started having a long discussion about when the funeral would be, an item we certainly wanted to be able to print on the front page. Brother Warnick, the i-Comm advisor, said, "Who can we call? I'll be back." He came out of his office a few minutes later and said, "President Hinckley's funeral will be on Saturday, as per his request so that people wouldn't miss work to attend." So then the inevitable question of the temple dedication came up. Who would dedicated the temple on Sunday? Again, Brother Warnick left, this time for a little longer, and came back, grinning ear to ear. He hardly made it into the office when he burst out, "This just in! The temple dedication has been postponed until the following Sunday!" We all asked how he found out, and he said, "I have friends in high places." He is on a first-name basis with many of the Church public relations people. I'm sure that's how he found out. Anyway, it was a very busy but exciting night as we were among the first in Rexburg to know the news. I was excited to tell my FHE group that night something that I was positive they did not know yet. We went to our bishop's house for FHE last night, and he told us the news. When everyone said they already knew, he said, "How did you guys get word so fast?" I smiled and said, "I work for the newspaper."

We're still not sure how all the details will be worked out as far as who will be in attendance now, but we're still excited for the dedication. There may be some upset brides (the temple is already booked months out), but I'm sure they'll get over it. They have no other choice.

A Special Note

I decided since I haven't written for so long, I'd get it all out now, so forgive me. So here is how to read all of this: read this post first, then "Frostbitten," then jump down to the post entitled "Happy Deathday to Me!" and work up from there. I know it's weird, but that's kind of the flow.

I also added a new list of books that I have read this semester. So far, I would recommend all of them. I don't know what I'll do if I read a book I don't like. I'll try to keep this list updated as I finish a book (or maybe just once a week), for all of you looking for something good to read. Many of them are young adult novels from my young adult literature class, but some of them are also from my Christian author's class.

Frostbitten

Yes, I am alive! I know it's been forever since I've updated my blog, and I haven't been so great about keeping in contact with people. The guilt finally got to me, and I figure this is a much easier way of letting everyone know about my life than trying to track down everyone. Maybe one of these days you'll get a personalized email, or if you're really lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it), a phone call.

Rexburg has definitely seen its share of cold fronts, although we may not yet be done for the year. This last Tuesday I walked from my apartment to class in the Hinckley Building, a joyous half-hour walk, in -27 degrees, though according to weather.com, the wind made it feel like -36. The news stations were reporting that it hasn't been this cold since 1987. All the schools in the area were canceled--oh, but of course not BYU-Idaho. There is a group of students working on trying to make it so that when it gets to a certain temperature classes will be canceled, but I don't think anything will come of it.

If you haven't been in weather this cold, consider yourself lucky. I am grateful for layers and for the warm new coat I got for Christmas. Down is warmer than you'd think, though once you get down into the negatives, it doesn't matter what you wear--it's still just plain cold. Your fingers, toes, nose, ears, eyelashes--everything--feels as though it will fall off. Your hair freezes if it's close to your mouth. Your body groans, every inch in pain, and you're sure each step will be your last. No matter how many layers you wear, how long you bury yourself in the library, how many cups of hot chocolate you drink or bowls of soup you eat, you can't escape it. So far I have been able to dodge the frostbite demon, but I did have a few little scares a time or two.

For now, we have lots of snow, about two feet in the places where it hasn't been scraped or walked on, and the sun is out. Actually, we're lucky enough to be at 24 degrees right now! I'm tempted to put on some shorts! I almost didn't wear a coat to Scroll this morning. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. After it's been so cold, 24 degrees feels like summer.

My So-Called Life

Yes, I know the title is the same title as that '90s Clare Danes show, but it really does describe my life, or lack of life, right now.

To say that I have been busy this semester may be an understatement. I spend all of my time either at work in the Scroll office or doing homework. My classes have kept me busier than I ever anticipated. Late nights and early mornings, one meal of a bread bowl and soup a day in the McKay while I continue my endless reading, devouring stick after stick of gum, typing until my fingers hurt (just for the record, you'd think typing quickly would warm your fingers, but it doesn't), and bundling and unbundling three or more layers to walk 100 feet in the cold. This is a fairly accurate depiction of my life. Same thing day after day. Like I have said, my life is boring.

I have great roommates this semester: Melanie, Lizz, Tiffany, Marissa, and Brianne. I am the cynical "old maid" amid the jumpy, boy-crazy, over-excited "younguns." I let them do their thing, and they let me do mine. We get along very well. Although I'm still adjusting to all the questions like, "Where are you going?" "Who are you going with?" "What are you doing?" Last semester's roommates didn't care. The whole idea of roommates actually wanting to know where I'm going and who I'm going with is all new. I haven't had that since living in Colonial 501.

Although I don't do much with friends, I have spent a little time with Ashley, one of the Colonial 501 girls. I have also exchanged several text messages from Katy, my roommate from last semester, and I've seen her around campus a time or two. Of course, as many of you probably know, I've probably done more with my...older friends. Yes, the rumor is true. I saw Enchanted with two teachers and a spouse all over the age of 50 on my first Monday back in Rexburg. And strangely enough, it didn't feel strange in the least until I started telling my family about it and actually listening to the way it sounded. I thought, "Okay, maybe this a little weird." But that's okay. They still make good friends.

Of course in the few free minutes I get here and there, I check my family's blogs. I'm not the best at commenting, but I do read them as often as they are updated. I still refuse to join Facebook. It took me long enough to get a blog up, and even then I'm not very good at keeping up with it. Thanks for those who keep checking.

The Rexburg Temple

The temple is definitely in the air here in Rexburg. I went through the Open House on January 17. When one of the ushers was showing me where to go, he said, "Single? All by yourself?" and he shook his head. Thank you, kind sir, for reminding me of my pathetic single life. The temple was absolutely amazing. I had never been inside a temple before, other than in the waiting room or baptistry. All of the designs, motifs, and murals were created by locals. A common motif throughout the entire temple is wheat. The idea stemmed from the wheat fields next to the temple. Even the refreshments after the Open House are from Broulim's and Albertson's. The temple will be dedicated on February 3 at 9:00 a.m. My ward is assigned to meet in the Kirkum for the dedication.

I have also been involved in a temple art project with one of my English teachers who is an accomplished watercolorist. He made 24 Rexburg Temple paintings that now hang in the McKay Library. I quickly learned the virtues of art critiquing and was able to give feedback and suggestions for how to improve the paintings (I hope!). I also helped edit his artist's statement, which is a talk that he gave at the show's opening reception. The night before the show I joined his family (or at least part of his family) in hanging the paintings. It was a lot work--deciding the order of the paintings according to size, color, theme, etc.; bending and cutting the metal hangers so the paintings would all hang at the right height; leveling the paintings; measuring the distance between paintings; hanging placards; and then taking the paintings and placards down and starting all over again whenever someone would say, "I don't think that is going to work. Those two paintings can't go next to each other." Two-and-a-half hours later, I was tired and sore, but very happy with out how it turned out. I also attended the opening reception Thursday night, which was wonderful. Being involved in this whole process has been very educational and provided me with many opportunities to meet new people. After working so closely with these paintings, I was almost sad when Brother Samuelson said he'd already sold four of them. I think I'll take pictures of them all before the show closes in March. They are beautiful paintings.

I received two new callings last Sunday. Last semester I was the compassionate service leader, and I figured I would stay there. This semester, however, I was called to be the Enrichment leader. I'm not sure how this is going to work out--I've never been in charge of something like this before, and the thought is very scary. My other calling was one I kind of asked for. Our ward was assigned to fill five slots for weekly Rexburg Temple workers, and I volunteered to be one of those five. I'm not sure what my assignment will be, but I was assured that I don't have to be endowed. It sounded like I will be doing baptisms every week. The student stakes also will have a monthly cleaning rotation. It's so cool to see how the temple has and is drastically changing the entire community.

Happy Deathday to Me!

I know it's been a month since I last posed. Things have been so crazy for me. My life really is very boring, which is probably why I haven’t posted for a long time. I haven’t had a chance to write anything new. So I guess, for those who are curious, I’ll give an update of my boring life, but I’ll do them in different posts so that they are separated by category. You know me. It’s always about organization.

Many of you probably don't know this little fact about me: I am a poltergeist. That's right. I died. Two years ago, my roommate Andra scheduled my death for January 26. The poll on Mugglenet that week happened to be "How far would you go to see that J.K. Rowling finishes the seventh Harry Potter Book?" I said I would take a bullet for her so that others could enjoy the book. So at 11:59 on January 26, I died, taking a bullet for J.K. This year is my second deathday. I think I'll have a party. Maybe I'll get some sparkling cider--Champagne Thursday twice this week, or something.

Eating Like an Ausey

This is the last piece I have written that I will post on here, so everything after this post will be new stuff. Which means it may be awhile, but I'll try. Contrary to popular belief, I don't just sit at my computer all day writing essays and poems and such. Each on of these pieces I've posted are evidence of weeks of stress and sweat and pain and irritation and moments of nearly tossing my computer out the window. Writing is hard work. It never just comes, and when it does, it is usually among the first thing to be thrown out on first revision.

I wrote "Eating Like an Ausey" for my creative writing class last winter semester. I don't know that it's my finest writing, but it was one of those "inspired" pieces that I wrote the night before it was due.

"Eating Like an Ausey"

I’ve been taught from the time I was in nursery that family history work is among the most important ingredients in building God’s kingdom. I didn’t think too much about it, for I figured quite a bit of my work had already been done by my relatives, and I’ve always felt I was doing my part to live up to my family’s heritage. It wasn’t until I took one look my mom’s pedigree chart that I realized how little I know about a unique line on her mom’s side of the family.

To look at me, one would think all my family comes from Europe. Perhaps it is my pale skin, freckles, red hair, and blue eyes. A large portion of my family, however, traces back to Lebanon only three generations before me: the Ausey’s. They were one of the few Christian Lebanese in their day, which created much turmoil for them, yet they refused to deny their strong belief in Christ. My great-great-great-grandfather hid the family Bible under the floorboards in the porch to save it from the Lebanese soldiers who were burning all the Bibles in Lebanon. My great-great-grandfather sought religious freedom and wanted to come to the United States so badly that he stowed away on a ship bound for America. He only got as far as Turkey before he was found and kicked off the ship. There he worked until he gained passage to America. In North Dakota, by now in his twenties, he bought land and earned money, then sent for his betrothed. She came to America at the age of thirteen without knowing a word of English to marry a man she hardly knew and didn’t like. She had three children, one of whom was Sophie, who married and had five children. One of the five was Yvonne, who married and had Annette, my mother. Through this line the Lebanese recipes have been passed, some of which, particularly the fataya and cabbage rolls, haven’t been written down in years.

A frequent reminder of my Lebanese ancestry comes when my mother cooks one or more of the several Lebanese dishes that have been passed down through my family for generations. These meals have become such a regular part of my life that I sometimes forget the significance they hold.

Kibbi is a main Lebanese dish that slightly resembles meatloaf. It is usually made with lamb, though through the ages, our family recipe has adapted to the American culture and now calls for beef. Mom also swears the meat was eaten raw, but while my family gets meat from the local grocery store and not from a cow they raised themselves, we stick with cooking the meat before we serve it. Although I don’t like walnuts, kibbi is the one food I can eat without picking the walnuts out one by one. Mom has always made sure the kibbi is full of walnuts, probably to keep us from bothering to waste so much time separating the meat from the nuts. The walnuts hardly bear any flavor, however, because the cinnamon mixed with the meat has such a strong flavor. Strange, I know—beef and cinnamon. But kibbi is not kibbi without cinnamon.

For some strange reason, Mom has always cut the kibbi diagonally so that the pieces of meat are not square like a piece of cake, but rather take the shape of a diamond.

“Why do you have to cut it like that?” I asked not even a year ago.

“I don’t know,” Mom replied. “That’s just how we’ve always done it.”

And perhaps that is the answer to how we cook most of our favorite Lebanese dishes.

Steaming ground beef mixed with onions and garlic, hidden inside a triangular pillow of fluffy, golden bread—this is fataya. The juices of the meat create a kind of gravy and soak into the bread so that even after the meat is eaten, the bread still tastes of beef, garlic, and onions. The bread is so soft that I rub it against my lips before taking a bite; it is like a baby’s cheek—round, smooth, unscathed by hungry jaws. Although each fataya is slightly larger than my palm, I cannot make myself eat just one. Each time we make fataya I eat three or four, and even then my mouth is never satisfied. Dad squirts ketchup on each bite, but I eat it plain, for I have heard that the Lebanese prefer the taste of the herbs, seasonings, and fresh ingredients to the sauces and dips of many other cultures’ foods.

Several meals my mom has cooked over the years have included Lebanese food without me even realizing it. I would have never thought, for instance, that cabbage rolls would be Lebanese. Dad’s mom always made cabbage rolls she called halukis, but I always knew them to be Yugoslavian. They were big, about the size of a sub sandwich roll, and packed with bitter herbs that always made me gag in my youth. I would eat them every Christmas just because everyone talked about how good they were, but I never liked them. Mom’s cabbage rolls were different, however. Lebanese cabbage rolls are small—the size of a finger—and, like many of the Lebanese dishes my mom makes, contain a hint of cinnamon.

“They’re supposed to be made with grape leaves,” Mom tells me every time she makes cabbage rolls. “That’s how my grandma used to make them.” Mom wraps the meat and bulgur wheat in cabbage and squishes them in a pot as I watch, taking mental notes so that one day I can make cabbage rolls just like her.

Of all the Lebanese dishes Mom makes, the most common is lubia and rice. As a little girl, I hated the chunks of tomatoes in the lubia, and I hated green beans, yet I always said I loved lubia because it was Lebanese food. Whenever Mom made lubia and rice, I’d pick out the chunks of hamburger to eat, and then sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on my rice, a tradition that stemmed from my Russian ancestors. Years later I acquired a taste for the lubia, and I stopped dousing my rice in cinnamon and sugar, but even still I did not eat the meal the way it was meant to be eaten. My lubia always went beside my rice, never on top the way the rest of my family would eat it. Although I would put both dishes on my fork at once to eat them together, I never put my lubia on top of the rice.

“Why do you eat it that way?” Mom would ask every time we had lubia and rice and for dinner.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “That’s just the way I’ve always done it.”

I have learned that in Arabic bread is called “esh,” which means “life.” All Lebanese meals include bread, which is quite often flat bread, like a pita pocket. Unless fataya is part of the meal, we eat our Lebanese food with pocket bread, which, although it doesn’t have much flavor, it is one of my favorite types of bread. It sometimes serves as a kind of utensil for lubia and rice or kibbi. But more often than using it as a means to eat some of our favorite Lebanese dishes, we spread peanut butter between the folds of the bread. Mom refuses to participate in such a ritual, swearing that “Grandma is rolling in her grave right now.” The tradition of peanut butter in the pocket bread during a Lebanese meal started with my grandfather, but it has somehow seeped into our family and taken root so strongly that although peanut butter is not part of Lebanese cuisine, it has become part of our Lebanese heritage.

After the dishes are done and the burners on the stove have been rubbed clean by a scouring pad, the Lebanese food is no more than another meal that Mom makes occasionally. I don’t think of those Lebanese ancestors to whom I owe my life. So what is the point of these family recipes being passed down from generation to generation? What sets the cabbage rolls apart from halukis? What makes kibbi so different from meatloaf? I never understood, nor did I care to ever find out.

Only once I started researching Lebanese recipes on the Internet and showering Mom with questions about my Lebanese ancestry did I realize that the dishes Mom makes are unique to my family. Not one kibbi recipe mirrored my mom’s. I never even found a recipe for cabbage rolls, and the fataya recipes I found don’t compare to my family’s recipe. But these recipes were passed down to Mom from Grammy, who got them from Grandma Sophie, who got them from her mother. The legacy of unique Lebanese food continues in my family even now.

Without realizing it, every time I eat Lebanese food, I am eating religious freedom. I am burying my Bible in my porch. I am stowing away on a ship. I am marrying a man I do not know or love. But I am doing it for posterity.