Summer squash and blueberry muffins

I walked into my mom’s kitchen after returning from a weekend jaunt to Grand Rapids and Virginia to find a bowl of black sweet cherries on the island, a homemade blueberry pie in the oven, fresh basil in the sink and summer squash, zucchini and green beans piled on the counter.

Hallelujah. We’ve officially entered the glory days of summer in Northern Michigan, aka the only time of year in which I can afford to eat my preferred diet of berries and sautéed veggies.

Even without taking into consideration the environmental implications of eating locally grown food, there's something beautiful about munching on raspberries you picked from your own garden, or eating blueberries that you bought from the grower at the farmer's market. (I happened to be doing both of these things on the trip down to Virginia while Taylor - appropriately enough - read excerpts from "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.")

Actually, the past week or so has been filled with delicious food. Although I’m discovering that I’m pretty skeptical of a lot of elements that traditionally go into weddings, I’m still a big fan of the food. I love when the menu choices reflect the couple’s personalities. Colin and I went to a wedding Saturday evening with an incredible appetizer table – I filled up on spinach and artichoke dip, flatbread and kalamata olives – that perfectly echoed the classy but relaxed tone of the whole event. Oh man, that wedding was fun. I danced my face off.

The food at my dear friend’s wedding in Virginia on Monday was, again, a reflection of the couple. The elaborate place settings, sorbet to cleanse the palate between courses, and wine were the perfect choice for Clara, who believes in the importance of appreciating the food you eat. Although I felt a little shame at being “The Vegetarian,” as Clara’s caterer deemed me, the plate of roasted vegetables and portabella mushroom were totally worth the embarrassment.

My favorite meal of the trip, however, was a picnic lunch that Sue, our gracious and wonderful hostess in Blacksburg, VA put together for Colin and me to eat on our hike up to the Cascades waterfall.

Sue is my hospitality idol. She and her husband opened their big, lovely house (somewhat empty now that their children are scattered around the country) to some of Clara’s friends, including me and my two road trip companions. I was worried about barging into a stranger’s house, but by the end of our stay I felt a lot more like a family member than a guest.

Somewhere between Con (the husband) taking our picture and putting it up in their digital frame and the warm muffins and warmer conversation Monday morning, I fell completely in love with this couple. That feeling was solidified when I watched them dancing their hearts out at the reception. It is so clear that this couple enjoys life, and it was infectious. I miss them (and their ice cream dessert) already.

Lewis and Clark were here

After a brief hiatus from blogging, I've returned. My need to be present in the online world trumped the embarrassment I experienced when I found out people actually read this thing sometimes.

My family returned yesterday after a very long trip to Nebraska for a family reunion. I thought cramming all eight of us into one house for the summer was rough, but it's nothing compared to the chaos that comes from packing us into Big Bertha the Astrovan. Yes, the car manufacturer put eight seats in, but I'm sure they really didn't intend for an entire family of opinionated, loud and easily provoked Michiganders to occupy the van for 18 hours straight. Let's just say that judging from the number of death threats uttered, it would be a sage move to split us up into two cars next time we attempt a journey of that length.

Every time I venture out west, I wonder what inspired people to migrate across the country. And why did they call the plains “Great”? I’m sorry; perhaps there is some beauty in the wide open spaces. However, after hours and hours of nothing but cornfields and signs for Wall Drug (anyone who’s ever ventured down I-80 through South Dakota knows what I’m talking about) I would give anything for the sight of a hill. Or lake. Or something that breathes that isn’t a black-and-white milk producer.

(Side note: I apologize if you love South Dakota. I’ll admit you possess the most epic thunderstorms I’ve ever experienced, and there are few things as brilliantly bizarre as the Corn Palace in Mitchell. Last year my dad insisted on stopping at the castle -covered annually with corn, beans and other natural decorations- purely for the story. We also made a pit stop at Wall Drug, but the 5¢ coffee and the free water couldn’t disguise their blatant prey on exhausted vacationers who are willing to buy overpriced souvenirs to placate the kids who just didn’t find four heads carved into Mount Rushmore as exciting as they thought they would.)

We finally arrived at our destination, a little campground on the banks of the Missouri dedicated to and named for – who else – Lewis and Clark. I wonder if those two knew that their legacy would live on forever at every rest stop, visitor center and park within 30-miles of their path? “Gee, Clark, methinks we should camp here tonight. Someday an interstate will go through here and people are going to need a history lesson about us after they empty their trash cans and bladders.” “Good thought, Lewis. Look! A weed we haven’t documented yet!”

Although the trip was killer, the weekend was fantastic. I spent most of my days out in the sun – horseback riding, Frisbee-ing, wakeboarding, etc. I badly bruised and scraped all my appendages after subjecting myself to tubing behind my maniacal uncle. You’d think that after the first 6 experiences of flying 5 feet into the air and crashing into the water would be enough, but I kept going back for more.

I also quadrupled my freckle count. It’s truly summer now – they’re starting to grow into each other, creating lovely blotches.

Family is a strange concept, and one I take for granted far too often. The 30 of us gathered there rarely see each other all at once, but there’s still a comfort level that I doubt would be there with any other group of people who only get together every 3 years. We’re stuck with each other, we’ve been there through every stage of each other’s lives, and there’s no doubt that we’ll still be part of each other’s lives 10 years from now.

It’s that same unconditional love and connection that makes me grateful to be home this summer. Although there have been hundreds of times this month when I’ve wanted to be anywhere in the world but my family room listening to my brothers and sisters fight with each other, and probably even more times when I’ve had to bite my tongue to keep from calling my dad something that would put me permanently on his bad side, I’m always reminded how grateful I should be for them. No matter how bad I am at communicating or how many stupid choices I make, they are always, always there. They will always, always take me back. There’s nothing a hug and a trip to DQ can’t solve.