monterey bay + mediterranean zucchini tacos

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monterey-bay

leaf-seahorse

Joanna-Sardines

jelly-fish

monterey bay aquarium
 Compatibility is being able to walk through an aquarium in sync, each spending the same amount of time reading, each tiring of the octopus display at the same time, each mesmerized by sardines swimming in a circle, their scales glinting in the light, for the same number of moments.

You might laugh, but really, I think being able to tour an aquarium, a museum, or even a farmer’s market at roughly the same pace is a marriage-saver. It’s a gift. Thankfully, we have it. Although I do tend to rush ahead at the farmer’s market.

Last weekend, Brad and I drove 1-1/2 hours down to Monterey to see the aquarium and the ocean. We passed fields and fields of strawberries and fruit stands and were this close to pulling over when we saw a sign heralding 10 Grapefruits for $1. Ten grapefruits! One dollar! Next time…


Brad-sardines

Interesting things we learned at the aquarium:
// The aquarium used to be a sardine cannery. When the cannery went out of business, they remodeled it, but kept a portion of the canning equipment in the aquarium. In fact, the whole street–now called Cannery Row after Steinbeck’s book of the same name–used to be canneries. When a fishing boat came in with a catch, the canneries would blow their distinct whistle call to rouse their employees and and tell them to come in to process it any time of the day or night. What a horrible, horrible job. But interesting.

// There are seahorses that look exactly like drifting seaweed. We stared at them for a long time, trying to wrap our heads around their branchy, leafy bodies. And then tried to wrap our head around a God who doesn’t have to make beautiful, fascinating, imaginative creatures, but who does because He delights in creativity. He is the origin of creativity.

// Sardines are beautiful–tiny silver-leafed fish. I still won’t eat them.

// White sharks swim from San Francisco to Hawaii every year, and a lot of them stop somewhere in between in the Pacific and stay there for a while. Scientists haven’t figured out why. The cool thing is, Brad’s seen sharks when he’s gone diving in Maui before, so if we see one here in San Francisco, I’m going to say it’s the SAME SHARK. Because it’s possible.

// There’s so much we have no idea about in the ocean. The ocean is like space.

// We like Mission Hill Creamery ice cream, especially their salted caramel flavor. What does this have to do with an aquarium, you ask? Well, in addition to ocean conservation and research projects, Monterey Bay Aquarium works to educate the public about sustainable fishing and offers the helpful Seafood Watch app you probably already have on your phone if you’re a foodie. It helps you compare types of fish and how in danger they are or how likely they are to be over-fished. I love an app that immediately answers my grocery shopping questions like that.

The day we were at the aquarium, they had an event going on with dozens of different local food vendors offering free samples of their wares. These were mostly organic, whole food, small operation makers and farmers. (By the way, I admire the way the aquarium makes people care about ocean conservation by connecting it to the food we eat. I couldn’t care less about environmentalism when it’s presented as a cause more important than human needs, but I’m in full agreement with common sense methods and plans, especially grassroots ones, that result in better food.)

We had California olive oil (fruity), fresh ginger kombucha made by a bearded man named Lev (incredibly refreshing), and salted caramel ice cream from Mission Hill Creamery. Again, this solved a grocery shopping question for me: Should we get Straus ice cream because the quality of their milk is about as high as it can be without being raw (and their Cookies and Cream flavor is TO DIE FOR) or should we try this more local Mission Hill variety, who don’t talk about their cows QUITE as much as the Straus ice cream container does but it looks OK and it’s a dollar cheaper? Well, now we know. Mission Hill uses Straus milk and cream (yay, good cows!) and the ice cream is darn good. Next time we indulge in store-bought, it’ll be them. (Edit: OR NOT. We’re dairy-free as of a week ago. Weep for the salted caramel ice cream we will not be eating.)

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Then we found a beach. For a girl who doesn’t love being wet and has a hesitant (but hopeful!) relationship with nature, I really feel at home by the water. Sitting by the water with Brad, it’s so easy to be in the moment, relaxed, and grateful–everything I sometimes struggle to be inland.

In between the aquarium and the beach, we had an early dinner at this teeny hippie organic cafe–one of those places you pray takes something other than an old-fashioned barter for payment. Brad ordered a salad, which was fine, but we had just seen the staff carrying boxes full of plastic clamshelled lettuces into the store. Pretty sure it’s the same stuff we find at Costco. Organic, sure, but we could have that at home (and do. All the time). I ordered the house specialty: Mediterranean Tacos. Good choice. Soft, spicy eggplant mixed with onions and peppers and cradled in soft tortillas. But the best part were the dipping sauces: Soft hummus, extra-oily basil pesto, and fresh salsa. We shared them, couldn’t believe we two eggplant-haters just happily ate it, then went to the beach.

But the next night, we wanted them again.

I recreated them with the zucchini wasting away in our fridge (because if you think I willingly bring eggplant into my kitchen, you are dreaming).

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Mediterranean Zucchini Tacos
makes roughly four or five servings

We topped our tacos with regular yogurt for a few bites before remembering the bowl of paprika-spiced yogurt in the fridge. Either one is yummy, but I liked the heat of the spiced version.

1 tablespoon butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 zucchini, cubed
1 clove garlic, minced
1 red onion, diced
1 bell pepper, diced
8 0z. mushrooms, cubed
3 handfuls spinach
salt
dried thyme
cayenne pepper (or dried hot peppers if you have them)
fresh tomatoes, diced
parsley
raw cheddar cheese, shredded
sprouted tortillas, warmed
paprika-spiced yogurt (from this recipe) or plain yogurt

Melt butter with oil in a pan over medium-high heat. Add zucchini, garlic, onion, and pepper and saute until halfway tender. Add mushrooms and cook down until tender. Toss in spinach and spices to taste. When the spinach is wilted, remove from heat.

Sprinkle a layer of cheese on a tortilla. Spoon the veggie mixture into the tortilla, top with fresh tomatoes, parsley, and yogurt.

 

 

 

of general interest | june 14, 2013

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Because I’m just not feeling “little ditties” any more and I am the boss of this space.

But first: One of my dear friends had a long-prayed-for baby this week. I’m overjoyed with the arrival of their new daughter. Moments like this make it harder to be away from Iowa. At the same time, two other long-time friends from the Midwest came to stay with us for a few nights. I would feel homesick, but these two things have made me far too happy to be sad.

Now, onto what I’ve been reading and thinking about lately.

// “A writer’s brain is full of little gifts, like a piñata at a birthday party. It’s also full of demons, like a piñata at a birthday party in a mental hospital.”

// “Don’t paint the world pink and try to call the bad things good. Let the believers consider Immanuel, the with-ness of God, right where we are, not where we wish we were instead.” A guiding thought for me as I wrestle (always) with feeling real sadness and then feeling bad because I’ve momentarily lost my Christian Joy. Which makes me think Christian Joy isn’t what I think it is.

// Another from Emily, this time one that perfectly articulates why it’s been hard for me to write here lately. I’ve been mistaking voicing truth with voicing something written in stone that I’ll never have any shade of disagreement with. “I will always work to pursue and represent truth, but to carry the burden of only writing what I will agree with for the rest of my life? Impossible.”

// And last one from Emily (sorry, I binge read a bunch of her posts I had missed and these three clarified current questions I had). Money quote: “Her friends don’t need an example, they need a friend… They need a friend who knows she needs Jesus.” As I think about how much Brad and I want to show Christ to people here in the Bay Area, I get fearful. I’m not perfect, I don’t have the most sound doctrinal argument for every question, I don’t know how all things work for good when your life is a mess, and I don’t know right this moment how to tell you that having faith is better than having your own way. But, I don’t need to be the perfect evangelist, I just need to be a friend who is honest about not having it all figured out. I can be that friend. (To, like, only two people at once, but that’s an introvert confessional for another time.) This also greatly encouraged me.

// I realize I’m on Twitter. But this excerpt from a longer article on why Twitter is so awful was thought-provoking and even funny. (“I’ve hated it reflexively since its beginning. But with time’s passage and deliberation, I’ve come to hate it with deeper, more variegated richness.”)

// And finally, a fascinating video of huge storm clouds!

a new doctor, a new plan

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artichoke

There is so much I have planned to share here. A few weeks ago, we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium and discovered some delicious vegetarian tacos. Over Memorial Day, my cousin stayed with us and we toured Alcatraz, walked through Chinatown and Little Italy, and wandered Golden Gate National Park. I read an amazing book I still want to talk about. And I have thoughts brewing on my favorite topic: How God is changing us through Brad’s illness.

But let’s forget chronological order and jump to this past Friday when Brad and I drove up and down the hilly streets of Noe Valley to the office of a doctor we were hoping could toss us a lifeline.

As we sat in his office and went over Brad’s medical history (including the 19-page spreadsheet of all his previous doctors and test results), I realized how much this story is like ruts in a dirt road. We cover familiar ground, we say the words we’ve said over and over again in the same way we’ve always said them: knee popped, swelling, methotrexate, changed diet, fever, Lyme, dental. We get in our rut of medical storytelling and stay there until we reach the end, eyes grasping at the doctor’s expression, hoping he’s still interested.

He was.

After our recitation of what’s come before, he did a quick exam, then sat back down and said, “You don’t have Lyme. You just don’t. You have Rheumatoid Arthritis.”

Either Brad or I said something about how Brad’s been tested for that before and came up negative (didn’t he see page six of the spreadsheet detailing those results?), but he said, “You have it, I can almost guarantee it.” He went on to explain the tests for RA markers can be negative, but Brad’s symptoms aren’t lying. They’re classic.

Truthfully, that wasn’t shocking to us. We’ve been quick to adopt the “Lyme” label because it’s the first one we had. It was the first time we could put a name to what was wrong. I remember announcing Brad’s Lyme diagnosis to our friends and family with huge smiles on our faces, almost like telling them we were going to have a baby. Knowing is a happy thing.

But in the last year or so, we’ve been less and less convinced. We tried several protocols and treatments that other people with Lyme said worked for them. No change. We went after other infections in Brad’s body with no change. So we were primed to think again about Rheumatoid Arthritis.

The bad news is that RA doesn’t really have a cure. As the doctor explained to us (and I hope I’m translating this right), the severe inflammation is the immune system trying to cure a problem that’s not there. It’s a reaction to something that doesn’t exist, so there’s no real root of a problem to uncover and fix. At the same time, the inflammation response is a good one–it’s your body’s way of fixing something. For RA patients, it’s just way too much of a good thing.

The good news is that the symptoms of inflammation (and hopefully all the other awfulness that goes along with it) are treatable. In fact, the doctor even uttered the words, “You could be asymptomatic the rest of your life.”

Can I get a HOLLA????

We walked out of his office with a plan, including stripping our diet of gluten and dairy (and adding a lot more organ meats and other foods I don’t consider foods. Hopefully Brad will post soon on the details), taking a low-dose medication that isn’t toxic to organs and has no known short- or long-term side effects, and taking a few other holistic remedies.

This seems doable and hopeful. So I owe you all thanks. Since I posted last, I’ve felt secure in your prayers for us. I firmly believe in the power of seeking and talking with God, and I firmly believe the prayers you all made for us are beginning to be answered. Even if this isn’t the final part of this journey, it’s a step, and you all rushed to our sides and took it with us.

And now, hopefully things will be a little less Serious and Important around here. I’ve been so in my head with the move and Brad’s illness that I forget to write about all the small, funny moments we enjoy. More of that to come.

But today, we rejoice.

coconut banana bread + a request

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coconut banana bread

Warm banana bread, the slice heavy in your hand, the butter melting into all the crevices as you watch. Is there anything more comforting?

Last night I made this loaf, happy to have something more interesting than eggs, soaked oats, or a smoothie waiting for us in the morning.

But then we crawled into bed and my happy thoughts began to shrink as Brad showed me his right ankle and foot, puffy and swollen, the skin stretched tight and making his still-bony toes look a little ridiculous. You’re like a seven-months pregnant woman! I joked. But in my heart, I choked. Another new symptom, another scary sign that this illness is here and not giving up, despite years of hard work.

Last night, once Brad’s breath was even and soft (and I prayed, for the thousandth time, Thank you, Lord, for sweet sleep that offers him at least a little relief from all this suffering), I reviewed Brad’s latest symptoms one by one in my head.

The swollen ankle and foot.
The persistent tight, sore throat and mucus drainage.
The chills all day long, not relieved by the on-again, off-again fever.
The weight loss.
The worrisome signs of digestive trouble.
The sensitivity to sound.
The pain. The pain. The pain.

When I turn them over like this, examining each of them from the perspective of someone distant, separating each ache and fever from our label of Normal, I’m scared by what I encounter. I feel an intense urgency to fix this. The most primal part of my mind says this is going a direction I don’t even want to think about and it’s dark as pitch.

So I scream and scream at God in my mind, begging Him to say the word I KNOW will heal my husband. I ask Jesus to show my husband the compassion I read about over and over in the gospels. I say, What about Lazarus? Remember Lazarus, Lord? Remember watching Mary suffer and weep at your feet after he died and being so affected by it, you wept? Remember saying, This illness is not for death, but for the glory of God? And I ask if that’s true for us. I plead and plead with our Savior to make it true for us.

When I run out of examples to throw at the foot of the throne, and run out of ways to ask for mercy, when I’ve exhausted the scriptures I’ve memorized and exhausted myself crying, I repeat over and over again:

Jesus, help.
Jesus, help.
Jesus, help.
I believe.
I believe.
I believe.

Will you do that with me?

Can I ask you to plead with our gracious and loving Father to heal Brad right now? To increase our faith? To give us hope and joy? To give wisdom to the doctor we’re planning to see in a few weeks? To stay the pain my dear husband endures every single moment of every single day?

And when you’re done, if you’re hungry–and you will be, because carrying someone else through a battlefield will always make you hungry–have some banana bread.

Banana bread is the easy-come happiness I needed this morning after whispering myself to sleep.

It has the barest sweetness from rapadura, a touch of honey, and bananas. It has satisfyingly chewy bits of coconut and carrot. It has the heft I always want in a quick bread. But even if it didn’t have all those things, this banana bread made Brad happy this morning. So in my book right now, it’s tops.

Coconut Banana Bread
adapted from here
makes 1 loaf

I used a mix of rye and einkorn flours because we had them on hand, but I imagine you could use all spelt or all whole wheat or any combination you like, provided at least 1 cup of flour is a bit lighter (so, not all rye). You can use white sugar or any type of sugar sweetener as a sub for the rapadura, but it will likely be sweeter so you may want to use less of it.

1/2 cup rye flour
1-1/2 cups einkorn flour (what’s this?)
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup butter, softened
scant 3/4 cup rapadura (or other dry sweetener)
2 eggs
1 Tablespoon honey
2 large bananas (the more ripe the better)
2 carrots, shredded (that equaled about 3/4 cup for me)
3/4 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
1/4 cup plain whole-fat yogurt (I used goat milk yogurt)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. If you’re using a glass or metal loaf pan, oil or butter it lightly. I used a stone loaf pan and did not a blessed thing to prep it and the loaf lifted right out.

Whisk together both flours, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl.

In a mixer, cream together the butter and rapadura on medium speed until well incorporated. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each. Add honey, banana, carrot, yogurt, and vanilla. Beat until banana is mashed and the carrots are evenly incorporated.

Add half the flour mixture; beat just until moist. Add the remaining flour and do the same, being careful not to overmix. It’s ok if some flour is still hanging out here and there. Stir in (or beat on low) the coconut flakes.

Scrape batter into the loaf pan and bake for 50-55 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. If you know your oven heats unevenly (Mom), rotate the pan halfway through. Mine was done right at 55 minutes.

Cool until easily handled, then spread butter over it. It can’t be eaten any other way.

DSM to SFO

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So this is a wee bit late. When I first imagined our drive across the country to California, I thought I’d get a ton of reading done, I’d feel some sort of solid transition to this new adventure, and I’d have tons of pretty landscape photos to show you. Instead:

1. I got next to no reading done. The US is pretty, everyone, and even I couldn’t bear to crack open a book when tumbleweeds were rolling across the freeway (!) and salt flats were morphing from sand to glassy water in front of my eyes.

2. I still don’t feel like we’re actually living here. This feels like one expensive vacation.

3. One triumph: I do have tons of photos–all expertly taken from the passenger seat of a moving car, so you know they’re quality.

…I slept through the boring part of Nebraska because we woke up early, I was exhausted from getting ready to move, and I was numb from crying. Sleep was the very best option.

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Tangentially, it’s so easy to be fooled by Nebraska. You start driving across it and think, yeah! We’re making good time! And then you keep driving and realize you will be 30 before you hit the western border.

So! We were excited when we saw this sign:

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And I promise you, the moment after we passed this sign and turned the nose of the car toward Cheyenne, the tumbleweeds started. The West rose up to greet us. And pretty soon, really cool rock features did, too.

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Please note the storm clouds gathering beyond the plateau. We were so high on the tumbleweed sighting, we laughed in the face of those storm clouds. They looked so distant! So majestic and beautiful. We were outrunning them!

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Then this happened. The rain turned to sleet turned to snow. Out of the snowy beyond the WEIRDEST bit of industry Brad and I have ever seen appeared. We have no idea what this is, but when the lights began twinkling through the snowflakes and the spidery towers rose, we looked at one another and said, Whoa. We’re in a movie. I got chills.

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Pretty soon, the snowfall turned to whiteout conditions. We crept slower and slower down the highway, determined to make it to Evanston, Colorado, for our first night. It was about 10:30 at night and semis kept looming over us as they passed. The worst was when the wind whipped the snow across the highway like waves, again and again. Whenever that happened, I gripped the steering wheel tighter and waited for the road to reappear. Nevertheless, we didn’t stop (mostly because we were in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming).

Out of the blowing snow, we saw flashing lights and I thought for sure a semi had jackknifed. But don’t worry! Nothing of the sort! As we got closer, we saw state troopers had just closed the gates blocking the freeway.

I’ve always seen those gates and wondered under what conditions they actually used them. Now we know.

We were diverted to Fort Bridger, Wyoming. In case you’re wondering, 345 blessed souls live in Fort Bridger. There is a historical fort there and by looking up that link I just realized we stopped at the same place pioneers on the Oregon Trail stopped!! (!!) I was following in the footsteps of women who packed all their belongings in a Conestoga (or a Chevy Malibu, really), risked life and limb in terrible weather conditions, and successfully avoided dysentery before finally laying their heads to rest in Fort Bridger. This is fantastic news to me, as I’m always trying to be more like a pioneer as long as it doesn’t inconvenience me.

Right across the street from the fort is the Wagon Wheel Motel (that name suddenly makes SO MUCH sense to me). Brad knocked on the door, woke up the poor proprietress of this fine establishment, and got us a room.

He is wonderful.

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The next morning, we waited for the highway to open back up, then hit the road again. It was smooth sailing from here.

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I love trains on road trips. Don’t know why.

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Mountains!

We descended into Salt Lake City for lunch and wow, those mountains are storybook mountains. Jagged, gray, purple, steely, and topped with snow.

…I interrupt this synopsis because I succumbed to carcolepsy at this point and didn’t wake up until we were in the salt flats west of Salt Lake City…

As I opened my eyes, I almost didn’t believe I was awake. My mind knew we were in Utah on Planet Earth, but my eyes thought alien planet for sure. Look:

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On either side of the highway is a white, smooth expanse continuing all the way around you to where the mountains jut sharply up again in the distance. It looks like snow, then white sand, then the most quiet, still lake I’ve ever seen, then sand again. But I think it’s all salt. I’m not sure if any part of it is liquid. After all, this is a desert. It was magical. Hands down my favorite scenery of the trip.

Pretty soon, we were in desert scrub territory.

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And THEN, we passed what we are SURE is the truck bearing our shipping crates. (We don’t actually know that.) But what sweet poetry to whiz by your belongings on your trip out west, right? Let’s say we did.

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Mount Doom!

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We laughed at this sign because we are dorks.

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I put on my cowgirl hat as you do in the West.

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See that mountain just ahead of the road?

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We went under it! (I also love tunnels on road trips. Or any time.)

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This was about three hours of really pretty.

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In case you all think I was the only one who slept–or who wore that awesome hat.

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We stayed in Reno the second night. We didn’t take pictures, but imagine neon lights, dark mountains everywhere, and more neon lights. That’s Reno.

I’m really glad we had to stop an extra night because if we hadn’t, we would have driven through the Tahoe National Forest at night, and it was way too cool to miss. (By the way, I missed the “Welcome to California” sign I’d been waiting the whole trip to take a picture of because I was reading a magazine. So lame.)

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What do I like more than trains on road trips? Rickety wooden train tracks on road trips!

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There was a lot of this:

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And then suddenly, the smoothest ripples of green green hills studded with trees. They looked fake, frankly. Fake and beautiful.

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We stopped in Vallejo (between Sacramento and San Francisco) to take a breath and look across the water to our new home. Actually, we really really had to go to the bathroom and this was the last rest area before hitting the city.

But it was cool to take a moment before driving in.

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After sitting in bridge traffic for an hour (welcome to the Bay Area!) we drove onto Bay Bridge and we had done it. We had moved to San Francisco.

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Then we parked to eat at this hippie salad and juice place and carefully nabbed a spot where we had the least danger of the car getting dinged only to watch as a FULL-SIZE DELIVERY TRUCK delicately parallel parked just behind us. We were still in the car at this point, jaws on the carpet floor of the Malibu, as the driver expertly went back and forth and fit in a space I PROMISE YOU was not big enough for my old Taurus. It was like something out of Harry Potter. The expanding parking space. I would have taken a picture, but I was astounded.

After lunch, we drove toward Lombard Street like the tourists we are. It is just as steep and just as windy as the pictures show. The weird thing is, there is a short driveway on each of the turns. People live there! And they drive down the street, no big deal, and park in the middle of it at their homes. So bizarre.

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And that’s that! We drove down the peninsula to the room we found on Airbnb (an experience in itself) and started hunting for an apartment. Within a few days, we found the one we’re in and put in our application. Then there was nothing to do but walk around, eat tons of organic frozen yogurt, and look at the cool trees.

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An obligatory ocean shot. The only thing that makes me feel less homesick around here:

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Except for maybe this guy, peeking out from under the Batman mask to see what this Skype thing is all about:

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‘chokes (& four years married)

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photo

Last night, Brad and I conquered our first artichoke.

Sure, we’ve had it in dips before (my friend Keri makes an AMAZING spinach-artichoke dip), but never fresh. Because, hello? We used to live in Iowa. Artichoke season is about three heartbeats long there.

But this past weekend we went to the most glorious farmers’ market (with a sprout bar, bottles of beet kvass, soaked grain breads, and raw–really raw–nuts) and knew we had to get one.

I labored under the wise guidance of David Lebovitz and when we were finished:

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This is what one fresh artichoke nets you. We each got a few bites of the heart, and that was it. It wasn’t amazing and probably wasn’t worth the $2 we spent on it.

Since yesterday was also our wedding anniversary, I’ve been thinking how very much preparing an artichoke is like facing life together. You labor together, you sweat, you might nick your finger, you work and work and what do you get? Something small. Something that at first might seem like disappointment, but is actually the tender heart of the matter. It doesn’t look like much. In fact, it might look like walking up the sidewalk to that first appointment with a new doctor, but it’s the most important part.

And now, because I never get tired of looking at this: My ridiculously handsome husband.

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I mean…

lessons from this morning’s kiss

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I swiped my phone to shut my alarm off and quickly rolled back into Brad.

Caught in between sleep and wakefulness, I started praying. Father, fill Brad’s day with blessings. Surprise him with Your goodness every single moment today. Then I laid my arm across his chest and gave his cheek a quick, half-conscious kiss. As soon as I did, a thought whispered in my mind as clearly as if it had been there all along: I can be that blessing.

My touch, my small kiss was that moment’s blessing for Brad from God.

It’s a small, old thought—I can be the vessel through which Christ blesses Brad—but it has never been so obvious to me as it was right after that kiss.

You might not need that reminder, but I do.

 

this is about me, but then Brad

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we-made-it-to-the-bay

I know the Bible says it’s not good for man to be alone, but I think it wouldn’t be good for ME to be alone.

On my own, I think too hard. I wonder if my knuckles will get knobby a few years before everyone’s get knobby. I think with guilt about that moment 3 months ago when a friend called and I ignored it because I just didn’t feel like talking. I worry I’m not interested enough in what trendy e-newsletters say I should be into. I ask myself what kind of person goes to eat lunch outside and KNOWINGLY doesn’t apply sunscreen. (And a small voice in my head says, a person who wants cleavage wrinkles. Ewwwwww.)

But with Brad, this is life: Are we living with faith right now? and What are we having for dinner?

And you know what? That’s better. That makes for a more mentally healthy Joanna.

Moving to California (pictures and details soon, promise) has me thinking a lot about my relationship with Brad, and not just because we spent 2-1/2 days straight in a car next to one another and now live in an apartment so small, we can hear one another pee.

But actually, maybe kind of because of those things.

I’m thinking about Brad because it has been incredibly difficult to leave my family, especially my parents. Grief pushing against my eyes, my nose, my mouth, ready to come out every time I blink, breathe, or talk difficult. I keep thinking of it like that: I left my family. (I know. Dramatic.)

Then every time I look at this incredible man who also left his family for the joy of seeing me thrive at work and the adventure of taking chances, I remember he is my family first. The fun thing is I don’t even know what this means. I don’t know what that looks like. But I think it means I probably shouldn’t hang I Left My Family around my neck. I hope it will mean we learn things about one another we don’t already know. I hope it means God fixes our steps in one happy rhythm. I hope it means we find the most fun and the most comfort and the most home in one another. I hope it means I get better at being Brad’s wife.

getting used to this view

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Joanna and Brad in SF

On the list of leaps I never thought I’d take:

Moving to California.

I’m Midwestern enough to think eating kale on a regular basis is a cool thing. To know state fairs are not just entertainment for an afternoon, but a 10-day long Event that includes live broadcasts from various stages. To know I can drive 15 miles in almost any direction and encounter a corn field. To celebrate the arrival of the first Whole Foods in the state. And you know, I like it this way. It might seem quaint to people on the coasts, but it’s genuine.

In three weeks, Brad and I are packing our car full of all the genuine Midwestern spirit we can muster and pointing it west. I took a new job with Sunset and we’re taking a giant leap–one God has surprised us with–and moving to the Bay Area.

There are so many tangled thoughts in my head but I know three things for sure.
1. My heart will miss the Saturday nights with the nephews, the birthday dinners at my parents, the fire pit at the Wisconsin farm, the quick weekend trips to Davenport to see Brad’s family, and sitting in church in St. Louis next to Grandma.
2. This is the best thing for us right now and it feels good to know and believe that.
3. I will be able to finish SO MANY books on this road trip!