A Breath of Fresh Air

After eight trips to load up my mom's car with used grocery sacks and duffel bags stuffed with laundry, food, toys and books, I finally checked the family out of our cozy tiny hotel room after I dropped my adoring husband off at the airport. While the hotel was convenient in many ways, I was excited to go from this view (cue banjo music):

to this view (cue the choir):

View from my parent's house.
Is it even possible to bottle the scent of fresh mtn air?

At 8,200 feet, my parent's house perches on the south side of a mountain. What seemed like a pipe dream thirty years ago when my dad purchased this land, became a reality back in 2004 as the house came together piece by piece. They ditched the suburbs, ran for the hills and haven't looked back.

Happy as clams, larks or whatever you want to call them, life up in the mountains consists of hiking to the top at 8,400 feet, sightseeing the wildlife (or at least their carcasses), wood chopping, chipping, tossing and stacking, and the making sure the patio furniture doesn't blow off the mountain. So maybe the wind gusts can get up to 60-80mph but when all is calm, this is what you hear:_______________. Nothing. Pretty unbelievable I say.                                                                              

Elk delight for some lucky animal 

Nice kitties.

Earning my keep.

Hiking off turkey dinner.

These past three months I have redeveloped a closeness with my parents and I am afraid to leave that comfort zone. I can't believe how easy it was to fall in love all over again with my brother and sister-in-law and I cringe at the thought of saying goodbye. But I am also excited to resume the life in Bucharest I was hesitant to leave in the first place. Good thing Mark's gorgeous self will be the perfect welcome home gift for all three of us. Especially if he has managed to grow back his beard after a freak shaving incident while prepping for obligatory family picture time. Poor guy.

I love this man. Mostly for his
power of forgiveness. 

B is for Beer

I wish it were winter so we could freeze it into ice blocks
and skate on it and melt it in the spring time and drink it! 

Whisper in my ear, "brettanomyces" and I will get weak in the knees. Because of that hazard, I made Mark drive the family in horrid pre-winter snow storm to get to the Crooked Stave, a brewery in Denver with a wildly growing reputation for creating grade-A sour beers. I mean, the owner wrote his Master's thesis on brett, a non-spore forming yeast, so he clearly did his homework in prepping his business. For some light reading, read his thesis titled: The Brettanomyces Project. What a dude!

Loves of my life: seestor-in-law, big bro, hubby.

Some say it looks like rice, others may say it seems more sausage-y under the microscope. But however you describe it, the little bugger makes a damn fine pairing when making beer. First up, the Saison and Surrette were great starter beers, but the real fun began with their award winning L'Brett D'Or. Was it sour? Oh yes. Was it smooth? Definitely. Did it meet the Schlink Gold Standard of Cantillon's Gueze? Oh Myyyy. Wow. Gosh. Yum. And that would be my professional opinion. 

Deets practicing his retro-nasal.
Just kidding.

Oak barrels lent from various
breweries all over the U.S. and France.
Such a beautiful sight.

Una MAS!

A old friend of mine recently asked me when my next blog post would arrive, to which I replied, "as soon as I have something exciting to blab about." Snorting, she retorted "What? Isn't the arrival of baby Margo exciting enough for you?" Okay, so maybe she has a point. Indeed the hours leading up to her big day were full of interesting and maybe even comical events, but I didn't want to bore or gross anyone out. But I will say that the nurses (yes: nurses, NOT doctor) who delivered Margo in under ten minutes were an incredible team; like a well oiled machine they manhandled the situation with such ease, I hardly noticed the bleary eyed deck doc who slumped in to tell me "all looked good down there" before heading back to bed. So when I say she came fast, she really came FAST. Mark and I were the new owners of a seven pound, eight ounce baby girl! Thank you to Ashley, Kim, and Jolene. Those ladies didn't mess around.

The following three days of hospital living were pretty much a dream: between great baby-feeding support and doting sets of grandparents made my entire experience. I wish all nurses could be as attentive and informed as the gals I had, they really made Margo's start of life a pleasurable one. So many thanks to Ruby, Courtney, Karen, and Vicki. I'd bring them home if I could. Between nurse visits, we watched James Bond, drank celebratory beer and spent all around quality time together as a big family. I almost didn't want to leave. 

Fast forward two weeks. Knock on wood, all four of us are fairing well. Competition for mom's attention is a daily exchange of compromises, bribery and tears, but it's not as bad as I'd feared. And that's just with Mark. My darling boy Deets seems to like his sister but quickly monopolizes lap-time for marathon readings of his favorite book, Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. I dream of Goldbug on a regular basis now. Margo takes my late night feeding fouls with remarkable patience. With sloppy technique resulting in milk in the eye, splashing on the iPad screen even hitting my sleeping husband from three feet away, I am lucky she hasn't washed her hands of me. Just last night I even lost my ever attractive mouth guard in the bed and found it this morning snugly tucked in her swaddling blanket. My motherhood skillz are smooth. And sexy, yah? 

So maybe this post is not quite as interesting as a Romanian travel post, or even the Colorado kiddy-field trip post, but I will take the tranquility (and mundaneness) of family time any day. I have no doubt I will get myself into more trouble soon enough.

Deetsie.

Hiking with the family.

Margo 2 weeks.