My pathetic tastebuds also make it difficult for me to taste things and determine that something needs to be added, or what that something might be. (Pepper? Coriander? Glitter? I don’t know!)

The exceptions to my cooking-phobia seem to be baking and special events. Birthday cupcakes? Potatoes au gratin for a family dinner? Homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving? I’m totally in.

And in the summer I LOVE making deviled eggs. Sunday night was a perfect summer evening, so I decided to try out my aunt Carol’s deviled egg recipe. She makes delicious deviled eggs and I had her send me the recipe last summer. I haven’t had the chance to try them yet (once last summer, after I moved into my new apartment I bought all the ingredients to make them on a Sunday only to get home and discover I didn’t own a saucepan for boiling eggs. Apparently Brian kept that in the divorce.), so I thought I’d give the recipe a test-drive this week. They were AMAZING, so I’ve copied her recipe here for all of you to enjoy, as long as you all refer to it in your recipe books as “Aunt Carol’s Deviled Eggs.” I mean, really. She deserves the credit.

This recipe is for 6 eggs, but obviously easy to multiply. The secret ingredient? Pickle relish!

Hard boil 6 eggs and cut them in half lengthwise.
Whip egg yolks with:
1/4 cup mayo
3 tsp or so mustard
1/8 tsp salt
A glop of sweet pickle relish

Mix it all up until it’s a consistency and color you like. (In light of my earlier comments, it may not surprise you that directions like this usually drive me nuts, because I don’t know what consistency or color I like. However, I decided I’d just give it a shot, guessing about how much “a glop” was, and then taste it and see what happened. Turned out it was delicious without any adjustments! And that’s not just me saying that – I brought them to work to share and everyone wanted seconds.)

So try it out this weekend! Unless you’re coming to the same BBQ I’m attending on Saturday. Then just show up and eat some.

When I was cleaning today, I found a magazine my mom sent me months ago. I flipped through it and a couple clippings fell out. They must be at least 8 months old, because one of them was this obituary, cut out of the Missoula newspaper. My mom’s scribbled message at the top says, “This is the best obit I ever read! Too bad I didn’t know her.”

In case you don’t feel like reading the whole thing, here are some of my favorite parts:

“In an obituary, you generally give the timeline of a person’s life through a list of dates and geographic locations where they spent time. Grandma Fran represents the end of an era. She represents the end of a long cultural and family journey which begins in Ireland and ends in America and this type of ending must be marked with a large sound so that the descendants have the great comfort to remember who they are and where they came from and the ties that bind them. This type of death cannot be summed up in linear dates; it must be understood in the abstract chaos of the Irish.”

“She loved humor, blood relatives, canned food, the Democratic Party, and the sense that you’d better enjoy the moment due to the inevitability of bad luck showing its face. She detested the royal family, corporate greed and Republican dogma.”

“Grandma Fran had in her long life moments of great strength. She gathered the strength to leave her husband to protect her children during a period of time when women could not leave or support themselves.”

“Grandma Fran had in her long life moments of great blessing… Of all the blessings that she experienced in her long life, none were as important to her as her family.”

What an incredible woman.  I agree, mom – too bad we didn’t know her.

To the man who taught me
never to let the facts get in the way of a good story,
the importance of family,
and to embrace the fun and spontaneity of life;

To the man who instilled in me a love for
New York Times crossword puzzles,
musicals,
and afternoon naps;

To the man who taught me to appreciate
good design and gadgetry,
pilsner beers,
and a good joke;

Happy Fathers’ Day. Je t’aime, Papa.

Pete, Mego and Dad. Summer 2006.

*Q: On the wall in Lisa’s classroom is a poster from Krusty’s literacy campaign, it reads… (fill in the blank)
A (within seconds): “Give a hoot! Read a book!”

Pego and Mego – December 2007

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. Thanks for being so wonderful.

But that’s not to say we didn’t have our sibling moments. For instance, when my brother learned his middle name, Kurt, he didn’t get it. “Kurt” was not a word that he had heard before. It wasn’t a thing in his world. But you know what was? Curtain. So he started telling people his middle name was Curtain. Clearly my parents were just confused when they were saying Kurt. They meant to say Curtain.

Being older, wiser and bossier, I made fun of him for this. The kid voluntarily named himself after drapes. I was his older sister. I knew my role.

However, he apparently knew his, too. So my smaller, cuter and more annoying brother started calling me the one thing that drove me nuts: “Little Megan.” Anyone who knows a young kid knows that calling them a baby or a little kid is the worst thing you could do. And to have the insult come from your younger brother was just too much.

At some point, you’d think we’d tire of such things.

Fast forward to 2008. Pete’s birthday is coming up, so I ask him what he wants. He says he’d like a subscription to The New Yorker. I order him said subscription, send it to the apartment he shares with two of his buddies, and address it to Peter Curtain. I giggle to myself as I imagine his roommates reading the address label and asking him how he pronounces his middle name, and is it Irish? (Who am I kidding? They’re dudes. They probably laughed out loud and asked if his parents were drunk when they named him).

Mego: 1. Pete: 0.

Okay, one more leap in time to last weekend. I recently had a birthday. And I received a Powell’s gift card in the mail:

That bastard tied the game up.

Galen is lucky enough to have some family members (grandma, uncle + family, sister + family) who live in the Portland area, so he/we get to see them fairly often. His mom comes to Portland about once every couple months, too, so everyone stays well-connected. Recently, I’ve also been able to spend some additional time with Galen’s sister and her family, which has really been wonderful. (She has two awesome little kids that I absolutely adore, conveniently…). One weekend last month, Galen’s uncle was in town from California as well, so I got to meet more great relatives.

However, no one has as many relatives as I do. Or at least, that’s how I feel.

The reason for the “Family February” designation is because I was lucky enough to have not one but TWO of my cousins come to Portland last month. President’s Day weekend, Emily and her man Arthur drove here from Missoula to sample some of the wonderful things the Rose City had to offer, including VooDoo Doughnuts, good coffee, delicious microbrews and bike rides in the rain. I was out in the sticks visiting Galen for most of the weekend, doing couple-y things for Valentine’s Day, but got to catch dinner with E & A on Friday night:

(Photo by Arthur – www.arthurinthesky.com)

Then, the following weekend, my cousin Kevin, his wife Jen and their new baby Molly came to Portland, escaping the Snowpocalypse in the East and catching some unseasonably warm sunny days in Oregon in February.

Molly and I bonded while her mom and dad shopped at Powell’s.

She is so cute you just want to eat her up.

(Photos by Jen – www.jennifermcmenamin.com)

Thanks so much to all this year’s participants in Family February! You are all welcome back to Portland anytime. (And for the rest of you – come visit soon!)

I’ve got an idea.  You know that terrible nickname you gave your brother or sister when they were younger that still embarrasses them to this day?  Teach your kids to call them that.

Believe me.  I’ve got an Aunt Tuna.

Yeah, you read that right.  My mom grew up calling her sister Tuna after a mysterious incident involving a cheerleading uniform that both of them still laugh about but refuse to retell.  My aunt has a real name that sounds nothing like Tuna, but I only learned that when I was about ten years old.  It still weirds me out when other people use her real name.  My mom calls her Tuna.  My brother and I call her Aunt Tuna.  My step dad calls her Tuna.  You get the point.

Recently, I asked my mom if she had a bit of a “gotcha” moment the first time one of us said the words “Aunt Tuna,” as if this was some type of retribution for all those years of annoyance and frustration her younger sister put her through.  (Can you tell I’m the older sibling, too?)  She thought about it for a minute and then said, “I’ve always called her Tuna.  I can’t imagine calling her anything else.  So why would I teach you guys to?”  I suddenly wished my younger self had come up with a better nickname for my little brother than “Bud.”

________________

In early December, we went to Tennessee to visit Aunt Tuna on her farm in the mountains.  I hadn’t been there in ten years, so it was interesting to see how many things were different and how many were exactly the same.  She has the same horses but not the cows; she lost three dogs but got a puppy and a new cat.  The house was just like we left it, although I had grown so it seemed to have shrunk.  It was also the first time I could remember being there in the winter.  There’s something fascinating to me about frozen mud and kudzu vines that survive the frost.  These are not winter concepts I am familiar with.

Aunt Tuna’s house (in summer):

Aunt Tuna and Toby Kramer (the gigantic puppy):

Other photos from the farm…
The most inviting chair in the world:

Snow! And kudzu!

The tin man sits on the covered porch of a southern home, admiring the fresh snow.

Last but not least, my mom sent me this photo of us on a hike.  From left: my brother, me, my mom, Aunt Tuna (notice the dress with leggings and red rubber boots.  Always a fashion plate – even when the rest of us are bundled like the kid from A Christmas Story, add hiking boots).

My oldest cousin, Molly, passed away suddenly four years ago.  Since then, I’ve tried hard to hold on tight to every memory I have of her.

…One year at Waterton, she rented a surrey with my cousin Emily and I, who must have been about 10 and 9 at the time.  We weren’t quite tall enough to reach the pedals, so she had to do most of the hard work.  She knew we really wanted to go for a ride, though, and we needed a grown up to take us, so she offered.

…She always made me feel special when I was younger by telling me how cool it was that we had the same initials.

…Molly was the first person to explain divorce and step-parents to me, long before I gained firsthand knowledge.  Looking back on our conversation now, I know how hard it must have been for her to explain to someone so young what it’s like to have two families, and I’m particularly grateful for her patience with me.

…I remember when she explained to me what an Irish claddagh ring was, what it symbolized, and I bought one soon after that because I wanted to be like her and wear it all the time.

…She came through Missoula one time when I was in high school and visited us.  She had just been in the hospital for what sounded like a stroke and had just started taking blood thinners.  She had a few bruises on her legs and arms and I remember thinking how incredibly upbeat she was.  She told me the bruises were a little annoying but she felt like a million bucks.

…In every single memory I have of my cousin Molly, she was happy, laughing and overflowing with charisma.  I thought of her as someone who was always looking for the next adventure and I admired her in so many ways.

On December 4th, just ten days ago, my cousin Kevin and his wife Jen had a baby girl.  And they named her Molly.

As my cousins have started having kids, I love spending time with the babies and talking to their parents about what life is like with children.  I look forward to many years of being the fun older cousin who teaches the little ones new games and buys them ice cream when their parents aren’t looking.  I’m sure I’ll tell them stories that will bore them to tears sometimes, but hopefully I’ll also be the person they invite to sit at the kids table at Thanksgiving because the rest of the grown ups are so boooooring.

And I hope with all my might that Molly, Eamon and Liam (who are all babies and toddlers now) are there for my kids when their feet can’t reach the pedals.

Motivational Fitness Video.

I thought the whole email prank was so funny that I lay in wait for the perfect time to pull the same stunt with my friends and/or coworkers.

Much to my delight, within a week or so, our HR person sent out an email to the entire company saying she wanted to decorate the first floor bulletin board with photos of “how the employees of The Foundation spent the 80′s.”  She said there would be a contest for the best photo.  Her email went to the entire company.

I almost immediately responded and chose three of the (very few) men I work with to call out.

I know how Matt, Sean and Dave spent the 80′s, I said, because there’s video of it. Then I included a link to the video and all its spandex and aerobic glory.

It was about 4:30 on a Friday when I sent the email, and Matt and Dave were both already gone for the weekend.  (Sean responded almost immediately, asking if Dave had told me about the Reunion Tour ’09 plans that were in the works.)  After sending it, I got a little nervous that the guys might not think it was as funny as I did… so I sent a separate email to them saying that I chose to pick on them because I knew they could take a joke, and I hoped they weren’t offended.

Which brings me to today’s story.  I felt that since I threw Matt, Sean and Dave under the bus for a good laugh, it was only fair that I embarrass myself in front of our coworkers to make the playing field even.  Being an 80′s baby, I have access to very few of the photos of me from that decade.  However, I do have the electronic copy of this gem:

That’s right.  This is a photo of me wearing panda earmuffs that match my brother’s slippers, with a fake plastic stethescope in my belt loop (funny, considering how many real ones I had available to me), strangling my brother with a look on my face that says, “Nothing to see here…”  I mean, when he was strutting around with cheeks like that baring so much diaper-midriff, how was I supposed to compete for attention?