Belize dat. This might be my first novel.

The first big trip I took as an adult – my first voyage to California, actually – took me 5 months to plan. The trip Mack and I just took to Belize? We spent all of 30 minutes on it.

Basically we decided we needed someplace warm, someplace where we could get by with English, someplace cheapish, and someplace we could fly to LA and Kentucky from that wouldn't take either of us a day and a half. Belize fit that criteria the best and won the honors of a visit from us. Belize is so lucky.

We decided to rent a car and drive inland for the first leg. I'd read about a cave where Mayans used to do human sacrifice and desperately wanted to check it out, and Mack wanted to lay on a beach and pretend he wasn't a med student for a week. I won... at first.

We hopped in our little Suzuki Sidekick and headed to San Ignacio. The highway was great and it was only a couple hours drive from Belize City. As I happen to do, I got hungry and decided we needed to stop and get some local snacks, so about an hour in, we pulled over at a little roadside market. I bought fried plantains and Mack was offered a special green juice from a toothless guy on the steps that guaranteed his penis would be bigger and harder, and probably faster and stronger too.

We got to San Ignacio just as it was getting dark. I always get a little nervous when it gets dark and I don't know where I'm going because, well, I'm blind. Mack started to cross a bridge to head into town AND THEN WE REALIZED IT WAS ONE WAY.

See, how lucky is Belize?

 
Some locals helped us save a little bit of dignity, and we eventually made our way to the Midas Resort, a little complex of huts in the middle of the jungle along a river. The place was adorable, but the best part of it was the breakfast, which is where we met Marie Sharp and her boyfriend the Fry Jack.

 

Marie Sharp's habanero hot sauce is HOT, and the Fry Jack is like a puff of unadorned doughnut, but when you put them together and sop up your black beans and eggs with them, commence addiction.

With full bellies we headed out to do some exploring. The side roads were a little rougher than the highway, but we figured we'd be alright with our trusty Sidekick. We took our time heading down Belize's backroads, and that is when we spotted them.

The Amish. On a horse drawn buggy. Just a riding down the road. Like it's Minnesota or something.

Apparently a group of Mennonites from the Netherlands went wandering around in the late 1700s and eventually decided Belize was awesome. It's probably a good thing too, because their little colonies feed a lot of the country with their farms and without them, there'd be no dairy. How anyone lives without cheese is beyond me.

We saw a sign for 1,000 Foot Falls and headed off the main side road like true adventurers. Mack was at the wheel and getting pretty good at dodging the major potholes and navigating through mud, so I just sat in the passenger seat like a happy idiot on vacation.

The thing about Belize and driving is this: everything is 4 times longer than it says it is. The 1,000 Foot Falls were supposed to be 7 miles off the main road, but I swear we drove 15 and... nothing. I knew we must be getting close when we saw another car of tourists on the road. Mack scooted the Suzuki to the far right to dodge the mud, and then this happened.

If you've never had the privilege of getting stuck in the mud with other tourists, let me just tell you about it. It's actually pretty wonderful. You don't have to feel like a total moron all by yourself. You don't lose your shit on your spouse because there's an audience. And there's a real sense of camaraderie that comes from trying to push a car out of the mud and getting splattered in the face.

After about an hour of feeling worthless physically, we started using our brains and paired our cell phone with their fancy resort to call for help. 

Once we were rescued, the only thing we wanted to do was drink a beer. We dropped the car at a car wash, popped open a couple of Belikins, made buddies with the car wash owner and his family, and literally washed down the dust.

At the end of that day, Mack was pretty fed up with my inland adventure and wanted to get to a beach. I managed to talk him into one more day to go on the cave hike human sacrifice adventure, and even though he started off mad, I know he absolutely loved it because he smiled ALL DAY LONG. This does not happen. See above.

The hike to Actun Tunuchil Muknal, which they kindly refer to as ATM since no one can say those other words, involved traversing three rivers with water up to your waist, skating down a mud trail, and learning how not to kill a whiny woman named Mary who insisted her husband John hold her hand ALL THE TIME. I'm not gonna lie, I kind of wanted her to drown.

Once we got to the cave, we discovered we'd have to swim in. Like can't touch the ground swim in. It was absolutely one of the most awesome things I've ever done and one of the most mysterious places I've ever been.

We wandered through the cave for about an hour, and I showed off my amazing butt climbing skills. Eventually we came to a "cathedral," a giant dry part of the cave that's like an enormous room just asking for human sacrifice. We looked at some tumped over pots and learned that they were only used once and then even they were "killed"by breaking them or putting holes in them and arranging them a really special way. Then we saw bones. Then we saw skulls. Then we had to climb a ladder, Mary whined about it, I sacrificed her, and we saw an entire skeleton of a teenage girl who was like a princess who was sacrificed because, clearly, the Mayans were getting desperate and the convicts and children they'd been sacrificing were not making the gods very happy.

There are no words decent enough for this experience, no photos that really do it justice, but my god I am glad I got to do this in my life.

Feeling sufficiently satisfied by my inland adventure time, Mack and I headed to the cayes the next day. We hopped a ferry to Caye Caulker, a little strip of land with two dirt roads, no cars, and plenty of restaurants. It was a little touristy, but Mary and John were nowhere to be seen and that's all that mattered. Well, that and access to a hammock.

We managed to snag a room at Da Real Macaw for the night and sat on the porch looking out at the ocean while Mack won some kitty love from a little guy who'd been in so many fights his ears were round. There was a bar right next to our hotel that had swings, and that's when I discovered that the pace of life on Caye Caulker is equal to that of a swing blowing in the wind, preferably a wind scented by mojitos.

 

Having mastered the art of absolute relaxation, it was time for another adventure. We booked a snorkeling tour to the Hol Chan Marine Reserve. Not only did we get to tickle the belly of nurse sharks, pet green moray eels, snorkel with giant sting rays and sea turtles, and wander around a coral garden, we also ate fresh-from-the-ocean conch ceviche and finished 2 gallons of rum punch before the day was done. It was incredible.

Belize taught me that breakfast really is the most important meal of the day, getting your heart beat paced by the waves is pure therapy, and any time you can get a man in a snorkel to give you the "blue steel" look, do it. But most importantly, it taught me that 30 minutes of planning leaves you plenty of time to find the most extraordinary surprises.  Belize Navidad!

Tacky/FABULOUS

I recently met a fella named Michael at a gal named Seana's sweet potato-inspired birthday party. Leigh introduced us, telling me that Michael was the one who'd had that awesome Martha Stewarty Halloween party that we missed because we met the Terminator that night (and maybe did one too many of a shot called Treehouse). I was already feeling like a kindred spirit, and then he sealed the deal when he said he said he was planning a Tacky Sweater Christmas party.

You guys, I was at a party devoted to sweet potatoes! I was talking to a Halloweenster! There were plans for a Tacky Sweater Christmas Party!

In anticipation of this spirited affair, Leigh and I spent weeks scouring the thrift stores. I knew I wanted a knit sweater and not some crap with reindeer in a hot tub on it, so I ended up buying pretty much every knit Christmas sweater I uncovered. I also got the one with the reindeer in a hot tub on it, just in case.

None of them were maximum tacky, so I decided to enhance two of the finest with lights and jingle bells to really bring home the kitsch. Then I decided to add some flair to the other ones, and before you knew it, I had a full on collection... a perfect addition to the Hensley Family Christmas Traditions. 

Leigh and I got to the party early, and thank god we did.

Tacky sweaters just scream for awkward family photos.

I have never met a gay man who doesn't know how to make punch. Michael had built an ice cave, had anchored snowflakes to the ceiling, had a train track on his mantle, had a Christmas tree so beautiful it could have been in a magazine, but the poor guy thought you could make hummus with a cake mixer. What he lacks in cooking skills, though, he more than makes up for in hunting down extraordinary kitchy oddities, so after we got the food figured out, we toured his home museum.

This man has collections that make me want to collect, but where mine would look like a hoarder's paradise, his look like, well, like a gay man's decor. Snooping through his house (I actually asked for permission!) was fabulous, as was his sweater with names of some stranger's family members ironed-on in Scrabble fashion. There was also a Liz Wear sweater with quilt-like squares that had things like reindeer and sleighs and ALIENS?!! on it that was pretty amazing. That party was a blast.

And so was revealing our new tradition to my wonderful, and no doubt grateful, family.

Letters to Santa

These are just too freaking awesome not to immortalize here. This is why I leave warm, sunny Cali and head to where the babies are for Christmas.

Renee's, as dictated to my dad, says: "Dear Santa & Ms. Santa, We have a present for you from Gigi & Dude. I love you Santa. Please bring me babies that go on people's backpack. I have been a good girl. I want to ride on your sleigh sometime. That's all. I love your reindeer Santa Claus. Will you meet me at the beach sometime and at the zoo sometime to feed carrots to your reindeer?"

Ben's, as written by the kid himself, says: "Dear Santa, Thank you for the good work!!"

And so it continues...

Laila and I once again set out to do some baking this Christmas.

This time we tried making cake pops. I'd never made cake pops, but I knew they involved icing and cake being rolled into a ball and dipped into a coating.

I also knew they were delicious because Laila and I wolfed down a couple at Shahin's Christmas party a couple days ago. I may or may not have also become addicted to the Craps table there.

Anyway, since icing is full of trans fats and I couldn't in good conscience give people heart attacks, I bought organic frosting mix from Whole Foods to use for our cake pops. Let's just say things didn't exactly work out, and it could be the organic frosting's fault or it could be the improv coconut flavoring we added, or it could be that we dipped them in chocolate instead of candy melts, or it might even be an internal aversion to making good cake pops that I wouldn't be able to stop devouring that's to blame.

Luckily, they sell gingerbread house kits with everything you need to look like you baked.

Laila "helping."

Success!

What they call "Sweet Success"!

Diagnosis: Pie Madness

Between an exam on cardio that almost scrambled my brain and Thanksgiving weekend, I lost my mind.

Luckily, my delirium usually manifests itself in something to eat, and this time that something was pie.

Or, pies rather.

It all started when I got an issue of Better Homes & Gardens that featured a pie cart in a Thanksgiving article. That pie cart had pies on it, of course, but it had pies of varying sizes. Which is to say it had MINIATURE pies.

Commence the madness.

All the pre-made pie dough you can buy usually has trans fat galore, so pie madness got started by making pie crust. I use trans fat free shortening from Whole Foods and follow any pie crust recipe for my crust, but even though my method is the same and the recipes are generally identical, my pie crust is all over the map. There's some recommendation that people have that involves ice and not overworking the dough, and I try every time to follow that recommendation. The pie crust turns out fine... not perfect or award winning, but just fine. And then I get to fill it!

This year I made Paula Deen's Pumpkin Pie, Pioneer Woman's Pecan Pie That'll Make You Cry, an improvised Cherry Berry Pie inspired by blending this recipe with this one (mine used cherries, strawberries, blueberries AND raspberries), and Judy's Run for the Roses pie. I kept ending up with extra filling, so I kept making extra pies, and by the time the 2-day fit was finished, I had 20 pies of various sizes.

The verdict? Fruit pies usually do it for me, especially cherry, but this time, I think the pumpkin may have been the best surprise. Ginger, half and half and cream cheese will do that to a pumpkin pie.

I'm giving a close second place to that Pecan Pie. I usually don't LOVE nut pies, but that nut pie literally left me licking the bowl and on the verge of tears from a blend of happiness and shame. I hate to say this, but the cup of corn syrup I almost got a seizure pouring into the mix may deserve some credit for how delicious that pie was.

The Cherry Berry earned third place, a very delicious third place. There was an issue with soggy crust at the bottom (cook's error, I'm sure), but the flavors were still delicious and tart and everything you want from a fruit pie.

Last place goes to the Run for the Roses pie. It was soooo good and chocolatey and nutty, but the way it settled out when it was baking made it more like a cookie bar than a gooey, irresistible chocolate pie. I was wanting a not-Derby pie like that one Mack and I devoured at Ramsey's with a side of vanilla ice cream one cold night last fall, but this recipe was not it. Maybe if I had heated it up before wolfing it down I would feel differently.

I have no restraint.

The little baby pies were great for the kids. Thank goodness I had two little Run for the Roses pies because Ben and Renee each called dibs on those. Renee was a little sick and had crashed in Leiah's bed after dinner, and when Charles went to wake her up and tell her it was time to go home, the first words out of her mouth were, "But I didn't get to have any pie." So she got to curl up on the couch with her personal pie and finish her Thanksgiving the right way.

The mid-sized pies were great to have to send home with people. Betsy took a cherry berry with her for a road trip that night, and we were able to send Matty G. home with a pumpkin one. I ended up regretting giving away that pumpkin one...

Chinese food knows me so well.

Also wanderlust.

Address Is Approximate from The Theory on Vimeo.

Traditionalists

True to form, my family spent this Thanksgiving doing what we do best -- cooking and laying around. My mom busted her ass getting all the food prepped, my dad accumulated so many grocery lists we probably ended up with more sticks of butter than any family needs, and my sisters and I soaked in the spoiling that comes with having the most awesome parents in the world.

Shout out to Mom & Dad: Me? Grateful for yous. ;)

Charles made his famous stuffed pumpkins!

Mom's Leek Stuffing beat out her Pumpkin Stuffing this year.

Yes, we managed to eat all of that.

Matty G. is officially a part of the Thanksgiving tradition.

Ben & Renee got to choose decorations for their table. A bear with a tiara, Sherriff Woody, and a light up Snoopy. Obviously.

Lots of Black Friday ambition, but guess how many of them actually went shopping?

Betsy managing to fall asleep in the middle of the living room floor? Another Thanksgiving tradition.

Renee had a really bad cough, one that sent me back in time to when I was five and would get a cough so awful I had to sleep sitting up, one that plagued me into my 10th year of my life when my mom was so exasperated at trying to contain it she finally taught me how to do a shot of Bourbon, one that followed me into my 20s that would wake Shannon up from sleeping in the next room and compel her to fix me some tea just to shut me up.

Renee did what I used to do when a coughing fit steals your breath -- cried. And it broke my heart. So I scooped up the little petri dish, rubbed her back, kissed her head, and tried my luck.

Lilly also had some disease, but hers involved faucet nostrils and chronic diarrhea. I hate snot, which is probably why her face is raw today. I was pretty diligent about washing my hands since 1) I already contracted the Vomit Disease of October from that little petri dish, and 2) I was playing soux chef for my mom.

Alas, those little contaminants got the best of me.

I managed to eat the Thanksgiving feast, complete with four pieces of pie (yeah, I came down with pie madness), and got to watch three episodes of Dexter before I was bombarded with Children Afflictions. When I say bombarded, that is no exaggeration. It was a sweaty-toilet-trash-can-combo kind of purging. It was so bad I cried.

On the bright side, I'm not feeling so guilty about those four pieces of pie now. I'd prefer not to have nature's bulimia, but if it's got to happen, Thanksgiving is a good one to bulim.

Thankfully, it only lasted a day, a day that I spent in a Phenergan-induced coma that made consciousness feel like swimming in sausage. By Saturday I was good as new, so Mack and I took his new remote control airplane to Jacobson Park to do loop de loops and soak up what was probably the last bit of sun we'll see until March.

Dulywed: Year 5

Mr. Thomas,

Holy shit. Can you believe it's been five years since we had a 3-minute-and-16-second ceremony that committed us to each other for infinity?

The last couple of days have definitely tested your devotion regarding the "in sickness and in health" part, but you have taken such good care of me while I purged Thanksgiving from both ends and barely managed to keep my eyes open for three of the last 48 hours that I'm no longer worried about the bedside manner you'll have as a doctor. You amaze me with the extent of your caring, and even though I've seen it when you rescue spiders and crickets, I'm usually too resistant to being vulnerable to accept it for myself.

What a lovely surprise to see that beautiful heart that lives under your hard exterior, and what a blessing to have it getting me G2 and ice and phenergan and ibuprofen and vegetable soup every time I whined for it. I felt so bad at one point all I could do was cry, break apart, fall to pieces, but rather than let your annoyance for emotional outbursts take over, you responded by picking me up and putting me back together. Thank you for packing up all of our stuff, for loading the car all by yourself, for putting away the beds we slept on at my parent's house, for bottling up your emotions, for excusing mine. Thank you for helping me get better.

Five years doesn't seem like a long time, but when we were looking thru the old blog archives the other day, I was amazed at how much we have done in five years; the places we've seen, the people we've met, the experiences we've shared. I realized five years is a lifetime, specifically Ben's lifetime, and seeing how much he has seen and grown and learned shows the potential inherent in half a decade. I think we've done a pretty good job helping the first five years of marriage reach their full potential.

There was the time we laid on the bed in a beach cabin in Beyin looking out at the ocean while listening to Beethoven. The time we stood under the stars in Negril and you told me I looked beautiful. The time in Venice when we drank coffee on the boardwalk and watched the bird man have his Sunday service. The time we swam off the coast of Mexico with the ancient Mayan ruins on the bluff overhead. The time we watched the elephants dunking each other and spraying water through their snouts in the lake in Mole. The time we rode the Boughaz ferry into North Africa under the moonlight. The time we hiked out of Topanga Canyon in the dark holding hands. The time we took your new remote controlled airplane to Jacobson Park and you became a 9-year-old in a 32-year-old's body. These have all been pinch-me moments in my life, moments that I hope flash before me just before I die, moments that have happened since I met you, that I have shared with only you. These moments are what marriage is all about for me. These moments make all those moments where I think about poisoning you fade into the background.

This anniversary is supposed to involve gifts of wood or silverware; wood because a marriage is considered strong if it makes it five years, and silverware as a reminder of the connection formed over meals together. To be perfectly honest, I don't think a marriage is strong until it hits the 40th anniversary, and since most of our meals are enjoyed with a side of Millionaire Matchmaker, silverware isn't really an appropriate reminder of our connection either. How about a trip to Belize instead? Awesome.

I know we've got an endless amount of work to do until our relationship deserves wood, but I'm proud of us for getting this far. I am getting better at accepting your cup gardens and am trying to see how saying "No" to some things that sound really fun is saying "Yes" to spending time with you. I am learning how to argue according to your linear map, and I am almost there when it comes to not taking things so seriously. You've still got a long way to go with saying "I'm sorry" and resisting the urge to shut down the conversation and giving in to negativity, but I know somewhere deep down inside, close to that place in your heart that you accessed to take care of me the last couple of days, you're working on it. 

Mack, I love you. And I fully accept that love is a pain in the ass, that love is sometimes the very root of unhappiness, that vowing to love someone for forever is setting yourself up for failure. But when I look back at the past five years, loving you is the best thing I have ever done... definitely not the easiest, but indisputably the best.

Happy anniversary, cake.

Halloween. Also known as Therapy.

I spent most of my weekend assuming an alernate persona and doing devilish things, so today I'm just wearing a t-shirt with a bat and a creepy tree on it.

Leiah came to Lex for the festivities and dressed up as a corpse bride. We only got a TINY bit of satisfaction destroying her old wedding dress, and running over it in the car was totally Leiah's idea. I swear she spent 20 minutes dragging that gown up and down the sidewalk, and there may have been a knife involved in the destruction process. See, Halloween is therapeutic.

Leigh is terrified of clowns, so she also used Halloween as a therapeutic tool, in her case immersion therapy. From the top hat on her head to the striped stockings on her toes, she dressed the part and ended up being too cute to be scary.

I'm still not sure what I was doing this year. I just wanted to be infested with spiders and discovered my hair's extraordinary ability to be teased into unbelievable heights... let's just go with Spider's Nest. I think this was my subconscious inspiration.

This year was the first year I made wounds out of latex and toilet paper, creating spider boils on my face and hands, road rash on Leiah's back, and rotting flesh on the side of Leiah's face. I sort of want to play with latex all the time now.

We didn't host a party this year (it is on for next year though since it will be our last Halloween in Kentucky), but we did go to an awesome Bridezilla party hosted by a lesbian couple who just got married.

After that party we hopped on the trolley and headed downtown to investigate other alter egos unleashed by the Halloween spirit. I feel like the trolley is my own personal taxi service because no one is ever on it, it's absolutely free, and the drivers are so nice.

One of my favorite encounters was with the Terminator. Leiah, of course, wanted to eat him. We also ran into a crawdad, a cowgirl, Maverick from Top Gun, (a young and much sexier) Hugh Heffner, the Hamburglar, a rag doll, a mouse, and, scariest of all, a bald Republican in a Polo shirt. They were pretty good costumes, but nothing like a Spider's Nest.

Any Random Weekend

One of my favorite things about being a grown up is the weekend. Or rather, one of my favorite things about being a grown up without kids is the weekend.

We generally make no plans on the weekend. Sometimes we'll schedule a trip to Louisville to snuggle babies and eat yummy food made by my mom and dad, but usually we just let Saturday and Sunday take shape however they want. I'm always amazed at how easily they fill themselves up, and not just because we sleep until at least 10:30.

One Sunday we took a walk downtown and ended up stopping at the Kentucky to watch a movie. Another Saturday we ended up on a 25-mile bike ride along the Legacy Trail and back. And there was that one time we took an impromptu tour of thrift stores for no good reason. We never know what we're going to get into, and even if it's just our pajamas and schoolwork, it's always more relaxing since it's unplanned.

A few weeks ago, though, was the most random Saturday ever. Mack had a test to study for and I had my boot camp consultation, so I left the house, got Leigh, and went to the park for our evaluation.

Well, the trainer had the puke disease that I'd picked up one random Saturday at Bike Prom, so our morning plans were squashed. We had a chunk of nothing to do, and then Leigh said, "Batting cages."

We were off.

That is how random is done.

Yeah, do NOT do a Google image search for giant squid.

Patrick of SpongeBob SquarePants? Okay. Kitteh shafting a squid toy? I get it. Giant squid engaged in a wrestling match? I can even understand that. But topless Asian lady? Where the hell did that come from?

We all go a little crazy sometimes.

I've started taking a boot camp fitness class. And it's all because of this.

Nooo, it's not because I'm becoming a lesbian.

I visited Heather a couple months ago and she started showing me all these pics from Tough Mudder. Because I really only enjoy playing volleyball, riding my bike casually, or taking walks to get a beer, I had no idea these new mud/race/obstacle courses were all the fitness rage. FINALLY. A fitness rage that actually sounds fun.

While Heather and I have a lot of differences, we both love a challenge, we both love spending time together, and we both love getting dirty. Our preferred quality time activities include cabinet installation, bedroom renovation, and compost distribution, so doing a muddy obstacle course was right up our alley.

We got to work training and kept each other motivated by sending before texts and after pictures.

The Hotness Collection

We thought about doing a Warrior Dash instead of a Tough Mudder, but we ultimately signed up for a Rugged Maniac. I told you this was a fitness rage.

For race day, Heather outfitted us in customized electric pink shirts with magical wicking power (something I never knew about) and pink camo bandanas. I added some hot pink nail polish, neon lip gloss, and pink mascara. Sufficiently geared and glammed, we were ready to get messy.

That Rugged Maniac was one of the most fun things I've ever done. The goal was just to finish, so we didn't exhaust ourselves running the whole thing. We just did our best on all the obstacles, completed every single one, and tried to help other people when we could.

Highlight of the whole thing for me? When I scaled that 8' wall all by myself. Low point? My first attempt at scaling that 8' wall all by myself when I fell on my ass and into a backward roll of awkward. Favorite part? Going down that water slide, holding hands with Heather, plunging into an icy, muddy pool, and coming up breathless and laughing.  If every 5K can be like that, sign me up.

Meet the New Neighbors.

The fatties who used to live upstairs moved out, and a pair of granola, earth-loving DJ sisters moved in. Instead of waking up to whale sex at 5am, I wake up to Katie playing her viola because, unlike Fatlock and his pursuit of a law degree, she's majoring in music.

Also, this lady moved in. She's been on our back porch all week, coming out at dusk, cleaning up her quarters, and keeping us in awe of her ability to pull a house out of her ass. I hope she stays all month and have mounted !Spider Alert! signs both inside and outside to make that happen.

Those of you who love Jesus might appreciate the crucifix on her back, which is how she got the name Neoscona Crucifera.

This sent me on quite a stroll.

Mmm, mmm, good.

Cold, rainy days need warm, hearty soups. This one is from my mom's Skinny Soups cookbook, which means you can eat a giant bowl, get cozy on the couch, and resist turning into Jabba the Hut. (Skinny Soups gets credit for the chilled strawberry soup at Jen's baby shower and for a chicken rice soup that can cure any sickness, except mine because I don't eat chicken.)

CREAMY BROCCOLI-POTATO SOUP (makes 6-8 servings)

• 4 medium-sized leeks (about 1 lb)
• 2 tsp non-diet, tub-style margarine (do your heart a favor and use Smart Balance)
• 3 c. chicken stock, divided (I used veggie stock)
• 1 1/2 lbs boiling potatoes, peeled and diced (3 1/2 cups diced)
• 4 cups broccoli florets (I used 4 crowns because I hate measuring)
• 1/4 tsp white pepper
• 1 1/4 c whole milk
• salt to taste
• 1-2 tsp chopped chives as garnish (I used scallions)

Since sand and dirt collect under the leaves of leeks, clean them very carefully as follows: Trim off and discard root end and all but about 1 inch of the green tops. Peel off and discard 1 or 2 layers of tough outer leaves. Then, beginning at the green end, slice down about 1 inch into leeks. Put leeks in a colander. Wash them thoroughly under cool running water; wash again to remove all traces of dirt. (This was a leek education for me!) Set them aside until well-drained. Cut leeks crosswise into 1/2 inch pieces.

In Dutch oven or very large saucepan, melt margarine over medium heat. Add leaks and 3 tbsp of stock and cook, stirring frequently, about 10 minutes until leeks are tender but not browned. If liquid begins to evaporate, lower heat slightly and add more stock. Add remaining stock, potatoes, broccoli, and pepper.

Lower heat, cover, and simmer about 11-14 minutes or until potatoes and broccoli are tender. Remove pot from heat and let cool slightly. In batches, puree mixture in a blender on low speed for 10 seconds (I used my immersible blender that my culinary genius momma got me). Then raise speed to high and puree until completely smooth (I left some chunks in mine because I like using my teeth). Return puree to pot in which it was cooked. Add milk and stir to mix well. Simmer an additional 4-5 minutes. Add salt if desired (I definitely desired it).

Serve in medium-sized bowls. Garnish individual servings with sprinkling of chopped chives if desired (I recommend desiring). Soup keeps 2-3 days in the refrigerator.

calories: 163          fat: 2.8g          % cals from fat: 15
sodium: 219 mg    protein: 6.7g    cholesterol: 5mg      

Nurse Google

Yesss, I'm still in nursing school. Noooo, I'm not positive I want to be a nurse when I grow up. Buuuuut, no one will pay me for party planning. Soooo, I get to tell stories like this.

I started this year in a mental health rotation. Having grown up in my family, I learned to love me some crazy. Got anxiety and depression? Yay! How about childhood trauma? Woo hoo! Can I get some substance abuse? Oh yeah. Violence as common as family reunions? That's what I call a party.

To be fair, I think I love me some crazy because I've always just been on the periphery of it. Sure, I've had to pack my grandma's stilettos in a garbage bag so she could flee a fever-ravaged psycho killer, but my family family -- my parents and my sisters -- was at its worst Roseanne-caliber crazy. We weren't the Huxtables, but we weren't the Bundys either.

For me, crazy people are as fun as a good episode of Cops. Or Intervention. Or Hoarders. Or Bad Girls Club. Maybe it's time to tone down the TV watching...

I think my appreciation for crazy people comes from a place of compassion more than a need for entertainment at other people's expense. Although, come on, if someone ever told you they used to hang out with Chuck Norris and were waiting to collect their fortune from Crime Stoppers, could you resist being entertained by the story they were spinning? Even television isn't that good.

My first day on the unit, I was mostly curious, but I was also a little bit afraid. I know my mood disorders, am pretty good with my personality disorders, and am basically an expert with substance abuse, but I had never been around schizophrenia more than as a passerby on a street corner. I had never had to interact with someone whose brain was really, truly betraying them, making them believe things as fully as I believe my perception of the world. To probe those minds even a little bit was completely fascinating sprinkled with a little bit of terrifying. You see, they're not stupid. Their intellect is intact, moreso than some people I go to school with. Some of the things they said, some of their insights, some of their feelings about strangers, while they were completely bizarre at first, they sort of had a psychic transcendence about them after a double-take.

My most memorable account, however, was just plain crazy.

My class was lined up against a wall and a guy walked past us and locked his eyes on mine in such a way that I needed a shower. I tend to think I imagine things, so it wasn't until a fellow student said to me, "I think you just got eye-raped," that I gave that feeling some credence. Not wanting to provoke him, I sort of looked away, then looked back to prove I wasn't afraid of eye contact, and then looked away again. That's called non-verbal communication. Dogs do it, too.

He made another round, and this time he asked my name. I answered him, and then he explained that he had dated two other girls with my name before. Apparently, one had a smell he liked and the other didn't. And then he asked me the weirdest question I've ever been asked in my life.

"Can I smell you?"

How exactly are you not supposed to find that hilarious?