News Trend Asian Mangoes|Actual

Oops. If you look closely, you'll see that I crosshatched too aggressively and accidentally cut through the peel. The goal is to keep it in one succulently satisfying slice.

Of course, I'd eaten them several times at home, though to be honest, the American ones ripen poorly and often taste a bit sour.

Their Malaysian counterparts were properly tropically delectable but when peeled and sliced, I found them oh, so slippery to handle.

It wasn't until I ate fresh mango in the Vietnamese home of my friend, Song, that I fell completely, utterly and madly in love.

Her secret - which apparently to Asians is no secret at all - is to slice along the length of the mango with a cut that runs next to the long, flat pit. Repeat on the other side of the pit. Once the best bits of the fruit have been thus carved away, there's no need to peel it. Simply score the slices in a crosshatch pattern to create bite-size squares, leaving the fruit attached to the peel. Then pick up the whole luscious affair, pressing your fingers on the peel side of the slice to open the spaces between the squares, and bite off each delectable chunk.

Buttery soft.

Sunshiney sweet.

Refreshingly juicy.

Mmmm. Heaven on earth.

Once I got the hang of this presentation style, I went a bit wild. After snarfing down the two fleshy halves of my own mango, and gnawing around the remaining pit, Song couldn't help but notice my enthusiasm.

She offered me a second crosshatched mango, And then a third.

I kept eating until she ran out of fruit.

The next day, she stopped by the street market to buy more mangoes, and with a twinkle in her eye, sat me down in her kitchen for another session. This time, I sliced for myself.

And now, every time I eat a mango - as I did today - I cut it into proper Asian squares and give thanks for my generous and clever friend, Song.

News Trend Old Polaroids|Actual

Homeboy, circa 1980

No but what could make a weekend spent cleaning out the attic more worthwhile than finding old Polaroids of your better half?

This little gem dates back to the days before me and although he looks about fourteen years old, my husband insists he was thirty.

In any case, his bomber jacket is currently on trend and my in-laws' front lawn never looked better.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty solid weekend.

News Trend My Lilacs Are Blooming|Actual

Eventually, my mom planted some lilacs that came from my grandmother's garden. And now this bush, which came from my mother's lilac, lives at my house.

My lilacs are blooming.

Every year, when my lilacs bloom, my mind flies back through the decades to a precise instant in time.

I can't put a date to this moment, but most likely it was spring of my first grade year. As the Michigan snows faded into memory and warm winds dried the last puddles of melt, my whole world filled with wonder at the newness of spring.

Bare legs flashed pale in the sunshine

Breezes stirred through the classroom.

Grass grew green on our school yards.

And as if by the same mysterious script, students began to show up in the mornings with bouquets of fresh lilacs for my teacher.

Glorious handfuls of lush pink-purple blossoms

Twiggy stems wrapped in wet paper towels and plastic bags

Sweet scents filled the warm classroom for days on end.

At home, we did not have any lilac bushes in our yard so this creation was new for me. Anyway, I would have been too shy to bring gifts for my teacher. But as lilac season unfolded and each new bouquet joined the others lined up on Mrs. Newheart's desk (where did she get all those vases??) I was drawn deeper and deeper into their mystically fragrant and fantastically floral spell.

And this is what I think about each and every year when my lilacs are blooming.

News Trend A True Story|Actual

"It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense." -Mark Twain

Fact. I'd kept the check safe and secure for weeks, carefully placed between my keyboard and desktop monitor, waiting for a trip to the bank. Finally, the right errand day arrived and I gathered up this one hundred dollar beauty, tucked it into the depths of my bag, and headed out the door.

Fact. I always run my errands in a certain order: I head to the farthest destination first, and then slowly work my way back towards home. Sometimes I'll make an exception to that rule, and take care of a few right-handed stops on my outbound journey. Because logic trumps order. But on this particular day, I honored my process which called for the bank to be my last stop.

Fact. As I pulled up to the ATM, my right hand confidentlally dug into my bag to grab that oversize check.

Fact. It wasn't there.

Fact. "Whatttt. No. Of course it's there. You just need to look more methodically." This is the conversation my frontal lobe had with my freaked out limbic system. I'm a fan of self-talk.

Fact. After turning my bag inside out, emptying my wallet, and checking under all the floor mats, I reached a conclusion. The check was most certainly gone.

Fact. "Where did you last see it?" This is my husband's favorite question to ask me when I'm looking for something. Wait. That's not true. Usually he's the one searching for what I've misplaced because I hate to chase after missing things and he quite enjoys it. But in this case, I didn't mind the question because for once, I knew the answer. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I remembered feeling the check in my bag as I was fumbling for the key to look up my storage unit, which had been my second-to-last stop.

Fact. After almost a decade of putting up with an overcrowded garage, we recently rented a small storage unit to stash our collection of furniture that will someday go to live in our daughters' future homes. Best decision I've made in a long time.

Fact. Storage warehouses are busy places. And they are full of strangers. If I had indeed dropped my check on the floor in that building, that baby would be gone, long gone. Weighing my options in the bank parking lot, my first instinct was to drive back to the warehouse with a lead foot. But, my internal conversation continued, let's be realistic. The check had almost certainly disappeared. Maybe it was worth a call to the warehouse office to see if a kind soul had turned it in, but the best investment of my time would probably to call the person who wrote the check and arrange to have her stop payment and then cut me a new check net of the fees.

Fact. Ugh.

Fact. In  a sudden surge of optimism, I decided to go look for my check.

So. I reversed my route and drove back a mile,

parked my car,

walked into the lobby,

climbed into the elevator,

punched in my codes,

ascended to the third floor,

exited the lift,

found the proper hallway,

then turned round the corner to look down the aisle toward my very own unit.

This I did not expect to see.

Fact. And, miracle of miracles, there was my check, just where I had apparently left it.

News Trend P.S. Her Name Was Shannon|Actual

Even though the sidewalk appears empty, in my mind's eye,

I still see my frisky red companion trotting along up ahead of me.

It happened again today.

This time, I was stepping off the corner of Chennault Beach Road and 107th Street SW, just about to cross the street into my neighborhood, when I heard a voice call out.

"Excuse me. Excuse me!"

I turned round to see a woman behind me, emerging from a car that she had clearly just pulled to the curb. In fact, I realized only seconds before, she had driven past me on the corner where I had been waiting to cross.

I paused. I didn't know this person.

"Are you the one who used to walk a beautiful big dog on a long, long (her arms fully outstretched in illustration) leash?"

Haha. Umm. Yes.That would be me.

Knowing where this conversation was about to go, I hesitated to answer the question as I walked back toward her, as she came toward me.When we met on corner, she took both my hands and looked deep into my eyes.

Remember, I have never seen this woman in my life.

Yes, that was me.

Her eyes filled with tears.

He died

She hugged me.

She told me how sorry she was to hear that.

She described in great lebih jelasnya my dog's sparkling spirit and spanking good humor.

She mentioned that over the years, she and her husband talked about my dog regularly, and lately have been worried about his absence. Her husband didn't want her to ask me about it for fear of upsetting me.

My eyes filled with tears.

Yes, he's gone. He was ready. He lived a good life.

She hugged me again.

She told me that she loved me.

I've never had anyone tell me they love me before they even tell me their name.

But you know, when you share life with a dog like Ranger, you get used to some pretty amazing things.

News Trend Looking Up: Mother's Day Edition|Actual

Now that's red hair.

I was a tiny little thing, much shorter than the towering round racks of clothes scattered across the sales floor of our local Arborland JCPenney. But I wandered among them confidently, knowing that I could easily spot my mother from any place in the store. All I had to do was look up. At 5'11" with waves of auburn hair, my mom stood out in a crowd and I never, ever worried about getting separated from her.

It's memories like this one - simple, straightforward, and full of security - that make my first Mother's Day without her a bit easier to bear.

News Trend Letting Go In Mexico |Actual

 Traveling south down the long, lean line of Baja California,

with the Gulf of California and the mainland of Mexico in sight on the left.

Last week I flew away to Mexico and spent five lovely days of pure, unadulterated leisure. I stayed with my two elder daughters at a resort in Cabo San Lucas, at the southern tip of Baja California, where the closest body of land to the south is Antarctica.

I had never been to a proper resort before, where all your needs are laid out before you, and nothing more is required than to lean back and enjoy. Quite a different experience than my recent international cultural immersion adventures, or the golden days of road tripping across the country with four children and assorted pets in a minivan.

I will confess that I struggled at first. Doing nothing is an acquired skill, and I had to make a concentrated effort to let go of all the things I could do - surfing! parasailing! painting ceramic bowls! - to embrace the fine art of sitting still.

And so I sat.

Golden squiggles mark the paths of dry riverbeds, a sure sign of desert terrain.

As if the never-ending brown landscape left any doubt.

Well. Technically, I did a lot of lying. On my chaise lounge.

And on my floaty as I drifted around the pool.

I allowed myself to take a lot of pictures, and to play at the beach.

And to eat fish tacos every day.

But that was about it.

And you know what? An amazing thing happened.

Little islands litter the eastern coastline.

And all I can think is that this is where grey whales come to have their babies.

I found myself not filling up with new ideas, new experiences, new plans, as I usually do on vacation.

I found myself emptying out.

All of the priorities and principles and pressing needs of my day-to-day life gently subsided.

I didn't forget about them. I just let them sit with me.

And then, at then end of my trip, I realized that I now had a choice.

I could pick all those things back up and carry them home to keep on with my life as usual

Or I could let some things go.

And that's what I did.

Back home again.

As we descended through the marine layers over good ol' Seattle,

the Olympic Mountains showed as a row of smiling teeth in the west.

I gathered up some of the fears, stresses, anxieties, and troubles that just don't suit me anymore, and I cast them off like so many messages in a bottle into the refreshing waters of the Sea of Cortez. They were floating off into the horizon as I turned and walked away. Next stop: the South Pole.

Since I've been home, I've been tempted - probably more from habit that desire - to pick those troublesome thoughts and emotions back up. But every time I do, I see in my mind's eye those imaginary glass bottles bobbing up and down in the water. They've surely been swept out into the wide open Pacific by now, and while I hope to never see them again, I certainly wish them well.

* * * * *

Read more about my trip to Cabo

Letting Go In Mexico

My Fish Taco Challenge

A Royal Journey

Missing Mexican Memories

The Sweet Little Bonito