Eternal Company

 

I went to visit my aunt this summer. I've met her three times in my life. The first was when I went to Taiwan as a toddler. The second was when she came to visit us in Texas at our old house before we moved. I remember it being after my mom had just been diagnosed with cancer. My aunt had been diagnosed with an illness herself about a decade before. I remember loving the week my aunt came to visit us. She could speak English so we felt very comfortable talking to her. We moved the following summer and then my aunt came again to visit, this time, with my grandparents. That was the third and last time I saw her in person. 

My aunt always made it a point to show she cared about us. She sent us Christmas cards from overseas. She gave us small gifts and trinkets. I still have a key chain she made for me. She had drawn a design and written my name on the other side. 

 

My aunt died four years after my mother died. My dad didn't fly back when she passed. To give him the benefit of the doubt, I think he was torn. He was still working, and he had two children he was taking care of. On the contrary, he could have flown back if he really wanted to. I was a junior in high school who had a car and was driving myself. My brother was in college. He was already living on his own and I could have made it myself for a week or two if I had to - my dad could have left me some money for food and I would have been fine. But that's not what he chose to do.

(My dad has not been to visit his sister since she died. This, I can no longer give him the benefit of the doubt because it's been 18 years and he has been back overseas numerous times. I'm sure he has a set of "logic" which he makes his decisions by, but this is "logic" I will never agree with. )

When I told my dad I was pregnant with my daughter, I had told him my due date. The first thing he told me was, "That's your aunt's birthday." Mentally, I made a note how cool it was if she could be born on the same day as my aunt. (She didn't end up being born on her due date, but later, I'd find out for myself that my dad was wrong.) 

When we went back to Taiwan this year, we spent most of the time with my family. It wasn't a tourism visit. I knew we were going to be spending a lot of time with my family and doing "simple" adventures together. We visited a lot of parks. We walked various neighborhoods in the area and joked about buying houses to live as expats and raising our children overseas. We ate a lot of home-cooked food and shopped downstairs at the closest grocery store. 

One thing I almost forgot to do was to visit my aunt. My grandparents were more on the forefront of my mind because my grandma had just passed this year. But then, I remembered my aunt. Her resting place is in the same city as where my family lives. My uncle was able to drive us to go see my aunt. 

My aunt's birthday is February 20th.

 

When I saw her marker, the first thing I noticed was the Bible verse. It's written in Chinese, and it may be the only verse I can recognize and read in Chinese. It is the same verse that we picked for my mother. 

 

If you can read the characters, you'll see they match the ones on her marker. It's the last verse of Psalm 23.  I really couldn't believe two different people in my family, laid to rest in two different countries, unbeknownst to each other, share the same verse for their legacy. 

Happy Birthday, Mommy. I hope you're enjoying each other's company. 

Deja Vu

My kids are responsible for their own water bottles. They don't carry purses or wallets, no money or credit cards, but the one thing I've expected them to keep track of by themselves is their water bottle. About two and a half years ago, I met a friend at a Dunkin' Donuts and my son came with me. He did some homework and sat on the side eating donuts while I chatted with my friend. We left Dunkin' when I had to go pick up my daughter from school. I don't remember how much time had elapsed until I realized, but my son didn't have his water bottle anymore. That afternoon, I called the store to ask to see if they saw it. They told me they did not see a water bottle. 

His teal water bottle...that we almost lost. 

The day went by and I was completely baffled by where his water bottle could be. That evening, I told my husband I was convinced it was at Dunkin' Donuts still. He drove back to the store, and 'lo and behold, the water bottle was in the store on the chair at the table where we had sat that morning. The employees probably didn't see it when we called because the water bottle wasn't on top of the table and they didn't walk out to the area to inspect closer. I was impressed it was still there nearly 12 hours later. I guess not a lot of people sit at the tables and eat in.

*** 

My son has now had two more years to mature since this incident. But once again, I found myself asking him where his water bottle was. We had just gone to Braum's for ice cream and driven back home. I had opened the back door to put my purse and water in the back since I was driving my dad. It didn't even occur to me I didn't see his water bottle anywhere.

After parking at my dad's, I was in the back seat grabbing my things when I realized his water bottle was nowhere to be seen. He wouldn't respond to any of my questions when asked so I looked up the phone number for Braum's and called to see if they had it just to be sure before I drove back. 

I asked them about a gray water bottle with a blue band around it. They looked and told me they didn't see it. In my head, I was thinking you've got to be kidding me. I'd literally experienced this exact situation just years before. I went back to the car and searched the backseat again, not that it was very big to begin with. I craned my head and peered under the two front seats to see if it had rolled. I couldn't find it. 

I ended up telling my dad and the kids I'd drive back to Braum's and just go look myself to see if it was there. Thankfully, it's not too far from my dad's. I parked the car in the same vicinity as we originally did just to make sure his water bottle wasn't rolling around the parking lot somewhere. Then I got out of the car and started walking toward the entrance. I saw the bottle on the table even before the sliding doors opened for me since they built out a glass window. 

Different water bottle. Same name band. Different year. Same situation. 

I walked in, grabbed the water bottle, and left, wanting to shake my head at how similar once again this situation was.

And then I remembered something. I called the wrong location.

If you don't live here, I have to give you some backstory. These two Braum's are less than 3 miles away from each other in the same city. They are located on the same street. It would be less than 10 minutes drive to get from one to the other. But there's one catch. The street name changes after you cross the highway. When I did my quick Google search to find their phone number, I only looked up Braum's and the city name. I failed to remember to check the street name because in my head it was the same street. 

So when they told me over the phone they didn't see a gray water bottle with a blue band around, they really didn't, and the water bottle in fact was not at their location at all. 

This was extra drama I really didn't need added to my day, but we had a happy ending.  

Sticky Rice Dumplings（粽子）

I have a vague memory of watching an old family video of my grandparents at their third to last house. We're in their kitchen and they're wrapping sticky rice dumplings. I'm probably no more than 2-3 years old. I've always loved these, but they're not an everyday food because of how labor-intensive they are to make. When I moved to China for a year, I remember wanting to find some. I flipped back through my scrapbook of photos from that year and I didn't find any photos of sticky rice dumplings. Honestly, I don't remember eating any that year. If I did, there's a high chance it was a sweet one filled with a date. 

Although by definition, it is still a sticky rice dumpling, it wasn't the kind I grew up with as a child. I wanted the savory salty ones filled with pork, peanuts, and mushrooms. A few years ago, I told myself I'd try making them. After reading some recipes and realizing it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment type cooking endeavor, I gave up on it. 

Last year when we went to Taiwan, we bought some sticky rice dumplings from a food market. We bought a few different flavors to try, and one of them was the kind I grew up with. For the duration of that sticky rice dumpling, I was teleported back to my childhood when I was able to eat this flavor because my grandparents made them. 

This year, I planned ahead and purchased ingredients to make my own sticky rice dumplings. 

• bamboo leaves
• cotton twine
• sticky rice
• split mung beans
• pork belly
• shiitake mushrooms

mise en place

 

To make these, I consulted various recipes including the ones from Woks of Life, Made with Lau, and a video to teach me how to fold them. Between these three recipes, I came up with a blended version of my own. Primarily from Woks of Life, I used their rice seasoning as well as meat marinade. I consulted Made with Lau on cooking time as well as other marinade variations. Then, it was time to get messy and get folding. 

 

I don't have great advice on how to fold these. It's pretty tricky at first. Once you get the hang of how to hold them and fold the leaves, it goes much better. I ended up using a mixture of two leaves and three leaves to fold depending on the size and quality of the leaves. The smaller leaves I used three just to be sure I could get a good seal on it. If the leaves ever cracked, I would just add another leaf on the outside as a "bandaid" to keep everything together before tying. 

 

We ended up making over 60 of these with the ingredients we had. For a first-try, I'd say it was quite successful overall. The first batch I cooked according to the recipe and boiled for 4 hours. This was way too long. We had already soaked the rice overnight so I think 4 hours yielded way too sticky of a texture for my liking. Even cutting off 1 hour would have made a big difference. The later batches we boiled, we cut down the cooking time to 2 hours and even without soaking rice overnight, I think they turned out fine. 

For loving sticky rice dumplings so much, I didn't actually know the story behind why these are eaten. My kids and I watched a short video summarizing the history of this holiday. In short, there was a Chinese poet named Qu Yuan. Due to corruption, he was banished. After this, he walked into the river holding a giant rock and was never seen again. Balls of rice were dropped into the river to prevent fish from eating his body. These balls of rice have evolved into the sticky rice dumplings eaten to celebrate this holiday. 

I personally don't think about the cultural reference of these very much. I just enjoy eating them. 

Yum!

 

Along with my own nostalgia after eating these, I got great feedback from sharing these with family and friends I view as family. The highest compliment came from an auntie friend of mine whom I view as a motherly figure. The closest translation of her response would be, "It was very similar to the ones I ate in Taiwan - very sticky and fragrant."

My dad on the other hand had a very different response. I had brought these over to eat with him for lunch and didn't say anything regarding where they came from. While we were eating, he asked me, "Did you buy these or did a friend give them to you?" I told him I made them. His eyes flashed wide for a split of a second and that was it. He didn't even tell me if they tasted good or not. 😂 Sigh. 

I'm not going to do the cost breakdown on these like I did last year during my Takeout series, but realistically, these are being sold at the store for approximately $4-5 each. Maybe one day if I get desperate, you may find me selling these somewhere...🤣

The Costs of Growth

In March of 2024, I blogged about two plants I had. One was an aglaonema I purchased in the fall of 2023. The other was a calathea I purchased in March of 2024. Here's what they looked like in the spring of 2024.

They're quite pretty. Or...they used to be.

My aglaonema is on the left. The calathea is on the right. Both looked great, had healthy leaves, and seemed to be on their way to a healthy life. I've never considered myself a plant guru, but I figured some water and light would sustain these plants.

In the last 2-3 years, these plants have tested me a lot. My calathea struggled constantly with spider mites. Leaves would grow and then die. My aglaonema had its own set of issues. I realized the big box store had planted them with plastic cages around the roots. Upon realizing this, I had to un-cage each root and then repot it. Both plants came with self-watering pots which I learned work for neither plant. They had severe root rot and their death was impending. 

You want to see what they look like now? You scared? Yeah, I was scared too. 

They're still alive!

 

My plants are a shadow of what they used to be. However, they are still alive. Yup, that's right. They are still alive. That's not to say they didn't go through near-death experiences to grow again. My calathea has "died" twice. After the spider mites and root rot, I realized I had to basically start over if I wanted any chance of the plant surviving. I moved her to a terra cotta pot to better control water absorption and ended up cutting all of the leaves off and letting the plant re-grow completely. Was this risky? Absolutely. I knew there was a chance she wouldn't make it. And yet, if I sat back and did nothing differently, it was guaranteed death for this plant. After she started re-growing, I got excited to see new leaves bud. Little did I know, due to watering errors, she was going to cycle through death again and re-grow new leaves a third time. This is the plant you now see. There are a total of four leaves and another one emerging. 

My aglaonema had a near death experience in April of this year. After dropping nearly all of her leaves, I decided it was time to do some major surgery. I had done some research and found that this plant propogates pretty easily from nodes. However, my plant didn't have any nodes on the stems. I ended up cutting the plants about 2 inches beneath the leaves on the stem, dipping the stems in rooting hormone, and planting them in soil. I kept them this way for about a month. When I was getting ready to leave for a two-week trip, I decided to re-pot all the stems in one terra cotta pot in order to make it easier to water. My dad was helping me care for my plants when I was gone and I had told him there was a chance this one may not make it. 

After I came back from my trip, I saw new growth coming out of every stem. I wasn't expecting this because when I had re-potted the stems together, I examined them for roots. I had only seen roots on one stem so I was expecting at least 1-2 to die. 

Seeing new leaf buds brings me a lot of joy.

Taking care of my plants has taught me a lot about life. Especially these two. They have needs, but their needs can be particular. They need light, but too much, and the leaves will burn. They need water, but too much, and the roots will rot. Not all issues are visible from the outside. Root rot can only be found if you dig up the plant and look at the roots. Changes need to be made in order to foster new growth and better health. Research needs to be done so you can understand the signs your plant is communicating with you. Sometimes, change is drastic and risks the whole plant.  Sometimes, change is what it takes to help the plant grow healthier. All of this is work. It takes time and energy. 

It's a far away dream for me my plants will ever look the way they did in the first photograph. It's not impossible. If growth continues, they will eventually fill out again with leaves. Realistically though, it may take several years of continual healthy growth in order to return back to their original beauty.  For now, I'm focusing on keeping the growth going so they continue to grow new leaves. 

A Hairbrush

Who (women and ladies) just goes to the store and picks out a replacement hairbrush when it's time? If this is you, I commend your ability to do so because I cannot. I am far too particular to be able to just pick one. There are too many styles and types of hairbrushes out there.

When I say hairbrush, I just want a basic hairbrush to brush my hair with in the morning after I wake up. I'm not looking for anything to do fancy styling with or even a blowout brush. I really just want a basic hair brush that can be used for generally anything involving brushing my hair. 

About 10-11 years ago, I bought a hair brush to replace the one I had in college and have kept using it since. It met my needs. Since then, it has begun to die and break down. All the color which used to be on the tip of the bristles has disappeared.  The cushioning to which the bristles are attached to has cracked. Many of my bristles are missing in the corner with the crack. It started becoming common where I'd brush my hair and then see a bristle land in my sink. Or I'd hear something lightly ping on the floor, only to realize it was another bristle coming out of my hairbrush. 

A few years back I bought a replacement.  After buying this replacement, I learned a lot about hair brush materials and manufacturing technique. For my first hairbrush, the bristles were plastic. Each bristle however had a rounded tip. This tip was painted a different color, and the color wore off after years of use. But the tip stayed rounded. On my replacement hair brush, I saw a rounded tip which was also colored. After using it for a few weeks, I discovered that the rounded tip was not actually the tip of the bristle. It was a small drop of something added to the tip of each bristle which would fall off with use. This left an extremely pointed plastic bristle. Over time, brushing my hair with this hair brush felt like an intense scalp massage. Although I can see how some people may enjoy this, this was not the hair brushing experience I wanted every day. 

Because of the quick degeneration of this hair brush, I ended up simply going back to my original hair brush and the newer brush was left unused in my drawer. This went on for a while until my husband decided it was time to get me a proper hair brush which wasn't cracked and missing bristles and didn't feel like I was getting an intense scalp massage every time I brushed my hair.  

Oldest to Newest

The hairbrush he bought me was a one piece design. It is completely plastic. The bristles are integrated into the brush head which is connected to the handle. It's unlikely bristles will fall out of this brush, but I haven't used it long enough to see any true wear and tear yet. A few of the bristles have bent, but I think that is bound to happen given the materials and the nature of the function. This hairbrush is specifically not meant to be used with any heating tools or hair dryers because it is completely made of plastic. 

As I get older, I'm more conscientious about quality and materials. I've noticed changes in my hair texture and "personality." I've wondered if the type of hairbrush I use affects the quality of my hair care. I'm sure it does. I just haven't taken the time to really look into it.

My personality doesn't like to throw things away unless they are broken, dirty, or nonfunctional. I don't think my old hairbrush qualifies completely in either of these three categories which is why I've struggled to get rid of it. I did purposely save it long enough so I could capture an image for this blog and write about my hairbrush wisdom. There's a high chance when you are reading about these hairbrushes, I will have successfully trashed the oldest one.

If you have a hairbrush you absolutely love, please tell me which one it is! It just might be my next replacement 😉 

The Crippling Side of "Knowledge"

I'm going to write this blog as an entire hypothetical math/science problem because that's the simplest way I can explain it. All numbers are hypothetical and not meant to be informative or correct. 

**** 

We have ABC Soap. You saw this cool video online showing you how make DIY foaming soap. You were told to use 30% soap and 70% water.  We mix 30% of ABC Soap with 70% water. We put it in a foaming dispenser and dispense it. It works. Yay! That was so easy! You can make your own DIY foaming soap and you don't have to pay a premium to buy the foaming one from the store.

Fast forward 2 years. You ended up having to move to a different state because your job relocated you. The store doesn't carry the brand ABC Soap. You find XYZ Soap which is a similar product. You go home, make your 30/70 mixture of soap to water, fill it in your foaming dispenser, and you have your foaming soap again!

Foreshadowing: XYZ Soap is less viscous than ABC Soap.  

Now, you invite some new friends over to your house as a housewarming party since your move. You're having a great time, but suddenly, one of them approaches you and says, "Hey, your foaming soap isn't really working. I can't get the chicken wing grease off my hands. What's going on with it?"

I asked AI to generate me an image and I got a kitchen sink basin in a bathroom setting.

You immediately get angry with this friend because it's your trusty DIY foaming soap method. You followed the instructions and immediately cancel this friend in your head because she doesn't like your soap. She's not getting invited back to your house ever again. Little do you know, the rest of the guests at your party are also not fans of your foaming soap, but they didn't bring it up to you. 

**** 

If you're reading this and your brain is cranking, that's great! There's so many things to think about with regard to this story. First off, let's start with the soap. Did the video use ABC Soap when teaching you how to make foaming soap? Regardless if they did or didn't, there's a margin of error. What if you used a 35/65 ratio? What if you used a 25/75 ratio? Would they still have worked? Did it have to be that perfect 30/70? 

The biggest shortcoming in this story is that the main character ended up buying a different brand of soap after the move. Even though they followed the original ratio, if someone says she can't get the chicken wing grease off after washing her hands with soap...I think the logical conclusion is that there is something wrong with the soap. Of course, we are under the assumption that she isn't lying, used soap, and washed her hands correctly. If all of those factors are true, then all signs lead to the soap.

The main character refused to acknowledge the soap as the problem because the same ratio was used in making the foaming soap. But did this person think about the viscosity and feel of the soap before and after making it foam? Making your own foaming soap is not as easy as it seems because it depends on what your starting point is. The internet can only give you generic information because it is trying to appeal to a wide audience. If your liquid soap is more watery to begin with, you will need to add less water to make it foam. If your liquid soap is more thick to begin with, you will need to add more water to make it foam. The most important factor here isn't the percentage of soap to water at all. It's actually the dilution factor. Nobody labels dilution factors on packaging because if they did, we'd all feel scammed by how much water is in liquid soap.  Even though this character followed the instructions given, it wasn't enough knowledge to successfully accomplish the goal at hand. 

****

I've used foaming soap as an example here to represent how someone can follow instructions and believe everything is "right" while still ending up in the wrong.  Our intelligence, however strong, still has to be coupled with experience and the ability to analyze. For this situation, I would ask this main question: did you use your own soap and experience its washing capabilities? 

Playing Cards

My kids have gotten into playing cards now. They love playing Go Fish, Crazy 8s, 3 Up 3 Down, and War. It's actually a lot of fun to play with them but I wish I had more energy. For some reason, sitting on the couch with them playing cards induces a sleepiness I never knew I possessed. I think the most logical explanation is that I'm constantly "on alert" as an adult, so for me to sit down and relax allows my body to feel tired, hence the sleepiness. Reading books to them used to do the same thing to me, but now that both my children know how to read on their own, I haven't read a book to them...in a while. 

Having my children playing cards resurfaced an old memory I had from a card game my grandfather taught me. He would deal out the cards in a Solitaire style with seven wells. The first well only had one card face up. The second well had one card face down and one card face up. The third well would have two cards face down and one card face up. Once 7 wells were dealt out in this same pattern, the remaining cards in the deck were all dealt face up evenly distributed between wells 2-7.  

Game Set Up. 

The cards are then linked by number and suit in order. Whatever cards are underneath the card to be moved must follow the card as you move cards between the columns. Face down cards can only be flipped if the whole column of face up cards are moved to connect into a different column. For the photo above, some viable moves would be moving the 8 of spades from column 2 underneath the 9 of spades in column 3. You can also move the Jack of diamonds from column 6 underneath the Queen of diamonds in column 4. Both these moves would result in being able to flip a card from the wells in column 2 and 6. Once a column was empty, you could move Kings into their place, but the maximum number of columns was 7.

I never learned the name of this game. It might be a Chinese name. But I loved playing as a child. The winning percentage of this game is extremely low. By a completely random shuffle, the odds of winning were less than 10%.  

Because this game was so difficult, I would sometimes continue the game by moving Kings into extra columns just to see if I could win the game that way. If I won with extra columns, it was nice, but it didn't feel as special. For the games I was able to win playing according to the actual rules, I made a wish.  

No more moves.

 

The closest game to this one I've found is a card game called Scorpion. The initial deal and playing rules are the most similar I've seen to the one my grandfather taught me. 

I can play Scorpion online if I wanted

 

I taught this game to my daughter one day when she said she was bored. It's a little too much for her to handle right now, but I hope one day she can enjoy this card game by herself and have fond memories of playing cards. 

Our House is Special

We've been in our house for 11 years! The journey of our house was a long five months, we lost a lot of houses I really wanted, but I believe we got the perfect house for us in the end. 

My daughter and I went on a walk after lunch recently on a Tuesday afternoon on one of her home school days. I wrote about why I love the school we go to, and being able to take walks with her in our neighborhood during the week is an example of the extra time she and I have gotten to spend together. On this particular day, we ran into a neighbor one street over.

This neighbor is an artist and she showed us her latest charcoal drawing. She talked to us about the birds in their yard, the flowers she planted, and we had a nice chat together. After saying goodbye, we kept walking. I waved to a neighbor mowing his lawn outside. I don't personally know him, but we frequently see him outside working in his yard.

As we came back around to our street, we walked about halfway home and ran into a neighbor, J, who has shared so many plants with us.  

She dropped this off for us this past Christmas.

As we got to her house, the neighbor across the street had just parked their car.  J called them over to our side of the street and introduced us to each other. After our brief meeting, J explained to me how they got into the neighborhood. Their parents and siblings were down a few streets over in another part. This house was the closest they could find for their other son whom I had just met. 

J and I talked and shared some life moments. I gave her the 5-minute synopsis of my latest and ongoing family stress. She shared with me her mother had just passed. We bonded over an eternal joy and hope which helps us to keep our eyes on the prize.  

As our conversation wrapped up, the neighbor who lives next to us was walking his dog by. I noticed only one dog. I asked if they had to say goodbye to Allie. They did. She was 15. After a brief conversation about plants, we both said goodbye to J and walked down the street to our houses. This neighbor is 79 and turning 80 in June. 

By the time my daughter and I returned home, it was nearly 2:30. Being that I start work in the afternoon and work through evening hours, I have to watch the time on my "fun" to make sure I can get to work on time. Although I wasn't late by any means, it was much later than I had anticipated on making it back home. Our walk lasted nearly an hour and it was getting hot outside. 

Although I returned home physically tired and a bit stressed at having to teach 4 hours of lessons that afternoon and evening, it was joyous. I love getting to walk through my neighborhood and smile at neighbors I know and have conversations with them and share life. I love feeling the comfort my neighbors bring when I see them and being able to enjoy their company. I don't take this for granted because I know not everyone has this or feels this way. I know I didn't grow up with it in either of the houses we lived in when I was a child. 

Our house is very special. 

It Ends With Me

Eating brought a lot of trauma for me as a child. I never thought of it as trauma until I became an adult and started to develop concerns with my own children's eating habits. Growing up, when I didn't finish my school lunch, I was reprimanded for something which was only partially in my control. I didn't have enough time to eat for one. I was a slow eater as a child. And what second-grader wanted to sit inside during recess to finish her lunch in solitude with a teacher? Um, no. It wasn't until 8th grade when I clearly remember being able to eat and finish my entire lunch at school. 

In elementary school, I'd arrive home after school and get grilled on how much of my lunch I finished. I bought school lunch so there wasn't a lunch box full of leftovers to be pored over. I used to draw pictures for my mom to show her how much of my lunch I had eaten, and most of the time, she'd always be disappointed, even when I thought I had eaten a good amount. 

These were the drawings of my childhood.

 
Now, my own child brings a lunch to school and I ask her in the car on the drive home if she finished her lunch. Most days, she tells me she did. Now, we pack her lunch so we're aware not to overload her with giant portions she can't finish in 20 minutes. Most of the time I expect her to finish her lunch because I know it wasn't actually a lot of food. 

Every now and then, she doesn't. One Friday, she told me she didn't finish her lunch because she had a birthday treat to eat. I asked her what it was: ice cream, in her favorite flavor, chocolate. Even without looking back at her (because I was driving) I could hear the joy in her voice as she told me about eating chocolate ice cream at school as a birthday treat. 

I actually felt it inside me, disappointment, as a parent, because she didn't finish her lunch. But hearing her talk about her ice cream was so special. I couldn't quash this moment for her. I didn't want to mar it with disappointment and sadness. So I didn't say anything. But I felt the pang of emotion - the emotion of wishing my mother had spared me from this trauma that lingers even decades later and knowing that holding myself back and not saying anything is against every fiber of my being. I can't change the way I feel about things like this, but I can change how my children will feel about these things years down the road.

Vintage Memories

For the Christmas of 2002, I received two Barbie dress sets. I had actually picked them out myself prior to Christmas. They were wrapped up and I opened them as my Christmas presents to partake in the joy of opening gifts on Christmas. 

Christmas 2002

 

I never actually liked Barbie dolls. I just wanted the accessories. For many childhood birthdays growing up, I picked Barbie play sets as my gifts. Instead of dolls, I used my stuffed animals to play in the play sets. The one aspect my stuffed animals couldn't truly experience was the Barbie clothes. Built for a slender-figured lady and not a round bear full of stuffing, I couldn't actually put my Barbie clothes on anything. Nevertheless, I still wanted some beautiful sets of Barbie clothes. I have the Barbie rotating closet, the one which came out in 1998. I have many articles of Barbie clothes stored in there as well as some accessories. However, there were three Barbie gowns/dresses which wouldn't fit into the closet because they were too long. 

 

My mother and I sat down one day and made our own mannequins for them out of clay. We used the plastic mold that came with the original packaging to mold three busts for the dresses. A chopstick was inserted into the bottom of the bust and attached to another mound of clay for the base. Inside the base, we added a coin for some weight to make sure the mannequin would stand up properly.  

 

 

 

Considering our net cost was basically zero (maybe cents if you count in the money used for weight...) since we already had all the materials, this was a fun solution for my childhood. However, nearly 25 years later, these Barbie dresses are now vintage. I wanted a more permanent and protective solution to display them. 

Even bringing these mannequins back to my own house, they would have been 
displayed out in the open which doesn't protect them enough for how old they are.
 

I asked my friends who have a 3d printer if they could print me 3 custom hangers for these dresses.  I was so excited when they arrived because they were so cute. I was also ecstatic because they fit. I had drawn up a sketch and provided measurements by using one of my children's fidget toys as a guide. The fact that they fit perfectly with my less than perfect geometry angles and measuring skills was a great surprise. (Maybe my math skills haven't rusted as much as I thought...)

 

Hangers!

 

Before I put everything together in the final display I was going for, I had to do some minor repairs. I had an old Barbie pearl necklace which probably doesn't actually go with any of these sets. However, I've included it with this dress because I don't have any other set it would pair well with. The elastic on this necklace was completely stretched out and ineffective. 

You can see how much extra elastic there was from where I cut it. 
It basically turned into a basic string.

 

I had so much extra beading string and wire from my daughter's hobbies so I took some clear cord and restrung these plastic pearls back.  

 

Good as new. Don't mind my leftover knot cord. 
I'm just happy it's secure and not overly loose. 

 

 

I purchased a shadow box frame to display all of these dresses in. This way, I had space not only to hang and display the dress, but I could also add the accessories to the side and keep the sets complete. Displaying the shoes was a little tricky. My first thought was to use the pins and hang the shoes off of them. While this worked for two pairs because of the straps on the shoes, It wasn't the most aesthetically pleasing.  

 

Our final solution was to use clear thumbtacks and clear museum gel to secure the shoes to the thumbtacks. After letting the gel cure properly and readjusting the shoes a few times during the curing process, they stayed upright!

 

 

Left: 2001 Barbie Fantasy Princess Gown 47605

Middle: 2002 Barbie Bridal Collection 68065

Right: 1999 Barbie Fashion Avenue 25755

This project turned out exactly how I thought it would. I'm so glad to be able to display these three complete sets and keep them protected for years to come. As I was going through this process and thinking how I wanted to update the displays for these dresses, it occurred to me that my mother isn't physically a part of any of the new display anymore. By removing the mannequins we made, it would be removing the final aspect linked to these dresses that she physically had a hand in. 

Although it is bittersweet to think about this project from that perspective, I think prioritizing longevity and protection of these dresses needs to take precedent over keeping the exact materials we used over two decades ago. Simply taking the mannequin stands and throwing them into a display box would not have done the sets justice in my opinion. This is why passing on the stories of the items we choose to keep and preserve and pass down are so important as well. When I see this display box with the three Barbie dresses, I see my mother. I remember the mannequins we made. And I remember how special she was and still is to me. Nobody else in the world can value these the way I do, but I can share the story to make this more than just a display. It's a memory.

Twice

My maternal grandmother died twice in my life. Let me explain.

During the year I lived overseas, my dad had called me one evening and told me my grandmother had died. I froze and said, "No, this can't be right." I freaked out and started emailing, calling, and texting various family members (besides my dad) from the internet. It took two hours, but I confirmed my grandmother was in fact still alive. I even managed to call my grandmother and talk to her. What actually happened was that my sister-in-law's grandmother had died. My brother informed my dad he was going to New York for the funeral, and my dad misunderstood it as our maternal grandmother as she lived in that same area. 

But in my heart, I felt it. For approximately two hours, I was living the grief of what I would feel when she died. This was the first time. 

The second time, she actually died. 

I was getting ready for bed that evening and I went to close my computer. In the corner of my email, I saw a chat message pop up. It was from my aunt. She told me my grandmother had died. It was May 1, 2014, ten years from the day my mother had died. 

When my grandfather died, I missed his funeral. I had told myself I would do whatever I could to make it to my grandmother's funeral. I missed her funeral, too.

It was a decision I made on my own, and sometimes, I wonder if it's something I truly regret. At the time, I was working as a special needs assistant to a kindergarten-aged girl. I was hired privately by her mother. Her mother was a preschool assistant at another school. If I took any days off, her mother would need to take days off to take my place with her daughter for the day. 

This put me in a hard place when my grandmother died because if I had taken the days off to go to her funeral, the mother would have had to take the same number of days away from her work to assist her daughter in my place. I had already taken one day off, the day after I found out about my grandmother's passing, because I had stayed up most of the night crying. I would have been very ineffective had I gone in to work.  

In lieu of going to her funeral, I made a video sharing my words which was played at the funeral. I rerecorded it so many times because I couldn't stop crying to say anything. 

Over a decade later, I still think back to these decisions I made. Sometimes, I wish I had done things differently. Sometimes, I think about how things could have been different but don't trust myself to have been able to make a different decision.  Would you view the decision in this situation as selfishness for choosing your own desires over the desires of someone else? Or would you view it as commitment to family, dedication, and love over commitments to job obligations?

I wrote down the last conversation I ever had with my grandmother face to face. It was about 10 months before she died. I'm not sure what caused me to write it down. I think a part of me knew deep down it could have been the last time I would see or talk to her in person. 

*Translated* 

 Grandma: I heard you're leaving soon.

Me: Yeah.

G: Where are you going?   

Me: Back to Dallas.

G: To start school?

Me:  No, just going home. 

G: Where?

Me: Dallas.

G: I wish I could help you.

Me: You don't need to help me. I help you. 

G: Yes. You always help me. 

March 2010

What I don't regret is the time I spent with my grandmother. My freshman year of college, I spent spring break visiting her. She had just had her stroke. The summer after my freshman year, I spent two months living with her.  The summer after that, I went back and visited for about two weeks. I didn't go the summer I graduated because I was getting ready to move overseas. This was an intentional choice I made, and I'll never forget the blessing of getting to see her the year after for another two weeks.

For my grandmother, spending the time I did with her when I could was important. And I did. For the special needs girl and her mother, showing up to work as her assistant was important. I think in this light, I was able to do what was important for both sides when I needed to.  

My dad didn't make an attempt to go to either of my maternal grandparents' funerals. He did however attend my cousin's wedding. I have lots of thoughts in this regard, but not now.

 ***

Wang Fu Yu, aged 97, passed away peacefully on May 1, 2014.

Fu was a high school teacher prior immigrating to the United States in 1968. She taught Chinese and History in Taipei, Taiwan. After moving to the US, she devoted her time to her family. She enjoyed traveling the world with her late husband and cooking exotic food for her family and friends.

She was preceded  in death by her husband, Chih Chiai Yu in 2005, and her daughter Donna Yu in 2004.

Money Can Buy Time

It comes up every now and then in conversations, but other moms will ask me why I chose the school my children are at. The simple answer? Time. My kids go to school three days a week, it's a private school, and I pay for it. The school has other fundamentally good things about it, but my answer has remained the same for years - I relish the extra time I get with my kids, even if I'm paying for it.

I can't call it a regret because it wasn't my decision to make, but I still get worked up when I think about all the years my mother had to go to treatment in Houston and didn't take us with her because we had to go to school. Perhaps it was the "must follow directions" cultural training from her upbringing. I always resent the fact that they didn't try harder to make accommodations or do something differently. It was just a straightforward, "You've got to go to school and do your homework. We can't take you."

4th grade was the worst. They went so many times that year. I so badly wanted time with my mother, even if it meant waiting in a hospital hallway because I was too young to go inside the treatment room. Each night before they left, I'd practically beg them to wake me up the next morning and take me with them. They lied to me and said they would. I went to sleep. The next morning, I'd wake up at 7 am to a dark, empty house. I'm still traumatized thinking about it. 

This shaped the way I viewed my kids' educations. When my oldest was preparing for kindergarten, public school was basically eliminated because they didn't offer anything less than a full day. I had known this was coming. The first year of the district's full-day kindergarten was the 2008-2009 school year.  I always told myself, if my kids ended up in public school, they would be allowed to miss school whenever they felt like it and I'd be completely supportive. Now, don't get me wrong, this is with the assumption that they are exceeding grade level standards and completing their homework responsibly. I'm not condoning this for someone with a student who isn't meeting standards. And, knowingly, this would end once they reached the middle school and high school years. 

The old adage is: money can't buy time. I'm here to tell you it can, and we do it all the time without thinking about it. I'm buying time by paying for my kids' educations to have two home school days per week. This is two more days they would have with me than if they went to public school. We buy time when we pick up fast food because our children are hangry instead of waiting to drive home and grabbing something from the freezer or refrigerator at home to heat up or cook. We buy time when we purchase pre-peeled garlic instead of buying the heads because we don't have to stand there and peel the cloves one at a time. We buy time when we pay for a housekeeper or lawn maintenance so we can do other things with our time in lieu of cleaning or mowing. We buy time when we pay the premium at Disney for Lightning Lane passes instead of waiting in the "regular" line. 

Now, bottomline, nobody is adding extra hours or days to their life by spending any money. If we could, we would all go broke. Probably every single person alive would be going broke buying more time for themselves or for someone they loved. But, we buy time in our own ways. We buy time every single day, most likely, without even realizing. It's been labeled as convenience. 

I can't say how long we will stay at our current school. Things may change years from now and we may switch back to public school or a different school. But for the next couple of years, this is what I need. This is what I want. And I will savor the time I've "bought."

Last Hurrah: Berries!

I found out about a pick-your-own strawberry farm near us many years ago. They only open three days a week - Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Because of their popularity, I never made the nearly 1.5 hour drive over because everything was posted on social media. I was not going to risk waking up early, driving over, only to be turned away because they had to close due to capacity. Over the years, my kids grew, each strawberry season came and went, and we never visited this farm.

This year, my daughter's school is already 25-30 minutes away from our home. The school is somewhat on the way to the strawberry farm. One week, I saw posts from this strawberry farm about which days were going to be great picks. I had almost decided to take my son strawberry picking when I realized I wasn't sure if there would be a bathroom available at the farm. It's true, I could have driven to somewhere nearby to use the restroom if needed before and after going to the farm, but that would be more work and an extra stop on the way. In the end, I decided not to.

The following week on Tuesday, I saw the social media posts again saying it would be a great pick with many ripe berries in the fields the next day. I was contemplating taking my son again, but this time, I decided to reach out to the farm and ask if they had a bathroom or portapotty on the premises. The next morning, I got the reply from the farm - they did! 

I made a somewhat last-minute decision to take my son to pick strawberries after dropping off my daughter at school. I packed up his homework, we put on our rain boots, and we set off for school.

After I dropped of my daughter off, we drove the remaining 50 minutes to the strawberry farm from the school. We arrived at 9:30 am. The parking lot was open but the farm itself didn't open until 10 am. This was fine because my son had homework to finish in the car before I'd let him go pick strawberries. He finished around 9:50 and then we got our stuff and went in. I asked if we could use the restrooms first even though the field wasn't opened yet and she said we could. They were clean! Yay! The last time I encountered one this clean was when we were at a park in Maine. 

My little guy and I bought a basket and then proceeded to walk about halfway back into the field to start picking strawberries. They say the best strawberries are located next to the mud. They're not kidding. Rain boots were an absolute must because we got muddy. 

Muddy fields. Yay. 

He and I proceeded to pick almost 5 pounds of strawberries. I have no doubt they'll be gone within a week. 

 

We had so much fun. At least, I had so much fun. On the 75 minute drive home, I did a lot of thinking. I felt really happy having taken my son out to pick strawberries. And I was so excited to be bringing back a whole bucket of red berries. Did it take forever to drive there? Yea, kind of. Were these the most expensive strawberries I've ever purchased in my life? Yup. But life is about going on adventures and making memories. As great as free activities are (don't get me wrong, there's plenty of free activites out there!), sometimes, it's worth paying some money, sometimes even a premium, to be able to do something you normally wouldn't do. 

At dinner, my daughter enjoyed the strawberries so much she wanted to keep eating. My husband had to tell her to stop so that she could save some for her brother...hehe. I asked him later why he didn't just wash some more strawberries for the kids to eat. 😂 After all I did buy nearly 5 pounds... 

I've homeschooled my son for the last two years. Next year, I'm sending him off to first grade. How is my youngest going to first grade? How is my Covid baby six years old? I have no idea. I've loved being able to keep him with me these last two years and have a buddy to go run errands and eat lunch with at home. He's super excited to go to school next year, and honestly, I'm excited for him. 

I made the drive out for this adventure with him as a way to round out our last year together at home full-time. I can't wait for him to go to school and make new friends and have recess. But I'll miss my little buddy. 🩷 

1,288 Words

My dad and I have probably the best relationship with each other now than we've ever had in my life since adolescence. I'm excluding childhood because I honestly don't remember what my relationship with him was like, although there are photos of him holding me and I look genuinely joyful. If you knew me well in my teenage and early adult years, you would have known that my dad and I were basically roommates living under the same roof. He worked to earn money, cooked our food, and paid the bills so we had somewhere safe to live and chauffeured us to places we needed to me. When I got my driver's license at 16, his chauffeuring duties ended, but the other roles remained. During my years in college, his cooking services were less necessary because I ate in the dining halls or cooked for myself during the year I lived in an apartment. After I graduated, I moved overseas for a year, and it was the first time I paid for everything by myself or had it arranged for me through my company - housing, food, and transportation.

After moving back home one year later, I lived at home for a year before getting married and moving out of my dad's house again - this time, permanently. During all these years, we didn't talk to each other. Our personalities really clash with each other. My dad doesn't really understand implications, and if he does, he doesn't show it. He takes a lot of things at face value, probably a large reason why he was so good at math and science. You can't assume in these fields. You prove it, or you see it. Compounded on top of adolescence and a growing desire for independence, not to mention the lack of a true foundational relationship during childhood, I was left with a very shaky pile of rocks called the "foundation" of our relationship. I've written about the epitome, arguably what was the catalyst to the breaking point of our relationship. 

For a long time, I didn't really want a relationship with my dad. I wanted not to need him because needing him felt harder than not needing him. I could take care of myself and be self-sufficient. Honestly, that was easy. Needing him? That felt like dead weight. So I forced myself not to. I found a way to do everything I could by myself. 

I get sad writing about this.  It's probably because I have my own children now. It's probably because I'm getting older and I'm not that young and fearless twenty-one-year-old anymore freshly out of college.  The older I get the more valuable time becomes. I say it like I'm dying, and to my knowledge I'm not, but it's true. Our time is shorter as we get older. And because of that, its value increases. I already know how valuable time is because I've experienced how short it can be with the time I had my mother. My daughter is one year away from being the age I was when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I can still picture myself in her hospital room when she was first diagnosed being oblivious to what was going on and enamored by the beef broth powder I could add to hot water and sip on. And now, I'm the mother who could at any time be the one given a diagnosis with a definite time to live. I digress.

Things with my dad got better after I had kids. Better in the sense that we visited a little more so he could see the kids. I don't think we truly started having a relationship with each other until the last 1-2 years. It's weird thinking about it that way, like the daughter he once had suddenly went from being a little girl to someone in her mid thirties. And the father I once had suddenly went from being the invincible male figure who (I thought) could type at lightning fast speeds (he doesn't) to the gray-haired, balding, fragile person who has slowed his pace when he walks.  

He and I got into a big fight a few years back. I don't approve of his life choices and certain decisions he makes. I realize they are out of my control because he is the one making his decisions, but his decision-making capabilities are diminishing and I am trying to intercede for him to assist. You won't believe what our fight was about: plastic bags. I kid you not there are probably hundreds if not thousands of plastic bags (plastic shopping t-shirt bags) in his house bagged inside of each other and thrown in various closets, strewn in hallways, shoved on shelves. I told him he needed to get rid of them to keep things tidier and not have everything in such a mess because it's a tripping hazard for him and it reduces the space for him to walk and get around his own house. He didn't listen. He actually got angry at me and yelled, "You don't know how I grew up."

He's right, I don't know how he grew up. And honestly, I have no idea what he meant by that statement. Maybe he grew up with clutter and he doesn't mind. Maybe he's used to it after so long and doesn't care. 

I was angry. I was very, very angry. And I yelled back at him.

"You don't know what it's like not to have a mother."

My grandmother was alive when my dad and I had this argument. My dad, a man in his seventies, still had a living mother, whereas I was without one at 13 and had spent over 20 years grieving already. I don't know if my dad understood the full implication of my statement. No, my dad did not know what it was like to lose a mother yet. But he also did not understand what it was like to watch someone else take over the house my mother spent her last days in. To trash the things she didn't want regardless of what it was. To leave the house in such disarray and mess. To buy things endlessly and stash them all over the place, never to be used. To shamelessly throw away my mother's photograph and expect no consequence or fault. 

Since this argument with my dad, things got better - my relationship with him, that is, not the condition of his living space. When I say we have the best relationship we've ever had, the bar is still very low. This means we have conversations with each other about everyday things. I tell him about the new grocery store I went to. I tell him about the piano competition my student placed in. I tell him about which days my kids get off from school. We have lunch together and I bring food I cooked. He tells me about his doctor appointments for his health ailments. He tells me about a restaurant he ate at. It's mundane. But it's the best we've ever had. 

My grandmother, my last living grandparent, died this week. We've always lived halfway across the world from each other so I never really knew her as a person. My entire family went to go see her last year, and that would be the last time we would see her. She lived almost twice the years my mother had on this earth. We are going back again this year, but my grandmother won't be there. I know this visit will feel different. I know it will be different. 

My dad can now begin to glimpse what I've already known. I am sad for him.  

Dehydrating #5 and #6

Life has been busy. I'm finally getting around to writing the next part of my dehydrating series! 

Apple Chips

I made apple chips! Typically, I'm not a fan of apples. I think I've been scarred growing up eating fruit. My dad didn't cut the core out of the apple. He would just cut the apple and hand me and my brother each a half. I ate around the core but did so pretty sloppily so a lot of the apple went to the trash. I'd also get in trouble for eating it sloppily so I hid my apple trash in various places around the house so they wouldn't be found. Needless to say, I don't have good memories eating apples.

Lesson to parents: just cut the core out of apples for your kids. Do it forever if you can. One day they will notice.

I bought apples specifically to dehydrate for this "experiment." They turned out well! It made me actually want to eat apples.

 

It's been so long I honestly can't remember what temperature I dehydrated them at anymore. I would think I did about 135 degrees for 8-10 hours as that is pretty standard for dehydrating. I did both regular apples and cinnamon apples. My preference was for the cinnamon apples because they had a sweetening effect on the apples. 

As you can see from the photo, I had to cut my apple in half and then slice into semi-circle shaped slices. Ideally, I would have loved to be able to slice them in a donut shape with the center cored out. However, my mandolin would not fit my apple all the way across in diameter so I had to slice. They are more aesthetically pleasing as cored out rounds, but that would also affect the dehydrating time because the pieces would be larger. 

Kani Crab

I was inspired to try dehydrating Kani Crab because I saw someone do an air fryer recipe. I actually tried the air fryer recipe in our toaster oven as well and it didn't turn out like the video...so I adapted it for myself.

The consistency of these was not there because I bought kani in strips and pulled them apart by hand. The pieces were not evenly sized so they cooked at different rates. Some pieces were perfect, some were still on the chewy side, and some were overcooked and too brown. 

I attempted to make this two times. The first time, my temperature was too high and the pieces were uneven so we had a gamut of overcooked, perfect, and not cooked enough.  The second time, I think my temperature was too low but the pieces were more uniform. As a result, they ended up hard and tough, not light and airy as I'd hoped. I think I'd aim for a temperature of around 380 degrees for 15 minutes and tweak from there if I were to try again. 

The video I originally saw was great inspiration to make these, but the results just didn't turn out as I'd expected. There was a lot of flavor within each piece, but because I didn't perfect the cooking instructions, it wasn't completely enjoyable for the work it entailed. If I were to commit unlimited time and resources, I would further develop this recipe. However, I don't think I will.

No Use Crying Over Spilled Beads

I started a new craft project this year. I was inspired after seeing a social media post and decided I could make it myself. I''m not revealing what I made just yet but I will reveal the supplies I purchased and what happened to hinder my progress.

My project this year was related to beads. I had to do some research before beginning on this project because I'm not someone who likes to start projects and not finish them. If I'm going to start something, I'm going to be 80% confident I can see it through to the end. After doing some research and learning about the types of beads I needed (bugle beads and seed beads), I purchased them and they arrived on January 4th. I was mesmerized by how small these seed beads are and how pretty they can be when they reflect light. 

I had been on a groove and was really enjoying my pockets of time getting to listen to an audiobook and work on my craft. Things were going great. Then, three weeks later to the day, disaster struck. I was on the couch with my craft station set up when my tray of beads slipped off the couch onto the rug below.  

Every single bead fell out of the case...and was piled into the glass bowl seen adjacent.

I didn't scream when it happened but I was in so much shock. These beads are so tiny. You have to see them to really understand, but they're smaller than a grain of rice. They're probably about 1/3 to 1/2 the size of a grain of rice. I kid you not, these are small. The original product listing said this was a pack of 24,000 beads. I'm pretty sure I spilled at least 20,000 of them...

It didn't occur to me at the time, but I could have spent about $10 and just purchased a new one instead of bothering with sorting them back into colors. The problem was, this was during the week of the freeze in town when everything sat at a standstill for about 2 days. Even if I had ordered it again from Amazon, it wouldn't have arrived until 2-3 days later. 

 I got to work picking out each color one by one.  

One hour of hard work.

After an hour, this was how much I got done. Certain colors were easy to spot and separate. Other colors were so close to each other and looking at them all swirled together was making my head spin. 

Four days later, I made significant progress:
 

Four days of hard work.
 

After days of sorting these minuscule beads, I had come to the conclusion my colors were not going to go back to the original categories which they came. Iridescent clear, iridescent pink, and iridescent blue looked identical unless I shined a light at just the right angle. The two greens which came in the original pack were now indistinguishable. Orange and magenta looked the same. The original five different shades of blue all looked the same now. These were just going to be blends.

Once I had a good number of beads sorted, I could resume my crafting again. I was actually able to make great progress in February and so far in March with my original projects. Periodically, I'd continue sorting the beads from the glass bowl, but eventually, I reached a point where the remaining colors in the glass bowl complemented each other in their own blend.  

It's hard to tell, but the seed beads in the glass bowl only fill one layer now - a far cry from the 20,000+ originally spilled....

With a quick math estimation, I've used approximately 8,000 beads. Eventually in the future, I will need to sort the rest of the beads back into the bead case whether that be sorted into the correct colors or creating a new section for the blend. My glass container needs to return to the kitchen eventually.

There were many times I wanted to give up on sorting these beads and scrap the project entirely or just buy a new box and start over. It's absolutely true the $10 to buy a new box of beads is more "efficient" than taking the time to sort the ones I spilled. However, the satisfaction I have from knowing I sorted these beads back into their colors gives me strength and encouragement to know I can overcome difficulties and do hard things. No matter how many struggles we face, sometimes, we still need reminders to know it's possible and we can do it. 

In a few months, I will be ready to reveal my craft, but not yet. :)