The top headline on BBC News this morning was “Gingrich Surges in South Carolina.” The uptick in his popularity follows the scandal-making statement by his ex-wife, Marianne, that her former husband asked her for an open marriage after he began an affair with his current wife, Callista (née Bisek) Gingrich. Reporters from Fox News to the Daily Show have also called attention to Newt’s request for a divorce very shortly after Marianne received a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis.

Gingrich’s rising popularity, despite scandal, mirrors Herman Cain’s in November. Despite four accusations of sexual harassment or extramarital affairs, Cain’s popularity only fell slightly between the beginning of the accusations in late October and his decision to drop out of the race on December 3. ABC, in fact, reported seventy percent of Republicans believed the women’s accusations against Cain should not affect their vote at all.

Let me be perfectly frank: I find these politicians’ attitudes towards and treatment of women appalling and I am, if possible, still more disconcerted by voter and media reactions to accusations of mistreatment of wives, mistresses, and co-workers. While most media sources have acknowledged Marianne Gingrich’s statement as scandal-producing, few have moved past the shock value of her interview to the more important question of character and candidacy. What does a political candidate’s treatment of women have to say about his (for they are all ‘hims’ once again) treatment of people in general and therefore his fitness to govern?

I was encouraged to see a few denouncements of Gingrich as I searched for criticisms this morning. U.S. News echoed the feminist slogan “the personal is political,” repudiating Gingrich’s affairs and treatment of his ex-wives. The Red State Feminists blog pronounced “Shame, shame on any conservative that supports Newt Gingrich!” And Jon Stewart, of course, made a mockery of Gingrich’s relationships with women in his Thursday segment, “Freaker of the House.”

But there are still “blame the victim” articles that accuse Marianne Gingrich, and that previously accused the women involved with Herman Cain, of attempting to “nobble” these candidates campaigns. (For a particularly infuriating example, see Tim Stanley’s article in the Telegraph. Ugh.) While I agree that anyone – women or men – can have alternative motives for sharing personal stories, and that we should rightly view sensational reports with some skepticism, it is too easy a leap to accuse a woman of engaging in deception for personal gain. That is an old, old trick and it should not be allowed to fly so freely in 2011.

So I say let’s listen to the women. Let’s believe their stories are true, until proven otherwise, and consider the hurt they’ve been through and the impact of failed relationships on their lives. Then let’s consider how it impacts a man’s campaign and how his life should or will change. Above all, let’s try not to reward them for mistreating women or co-workers or fellow candidates.

M.L. and I got ourselves engaged over winter break (enter whooping and hollerin’ family members, popping bottles of champagne, and utterly incoherent squealing on the phone from long-distance friends). It’s going to be a long-ish engagement, so we’re trying not to plan too much yet. Still, it was hard to resist the call of venues, photographers, and quirky DIY projects over the break, so we did some leg work on practical things like…a budget. It was good to begin planning, especially with M.L. teaching twelve time zones away, so we can move things along once he’s home again in the summer.

The happy couple eagerly awaiting Ethiopian food over break. Yes.

That being said, I’ve promised myself (and M.L. and a great number of family and friends who better hold me to it) I will not be consumed by the wedding. I will not let every conversation drift towards bouquets and boutonnieres. I will not neglect relationships, in all their depth, in favor of bridal blogs. And I will not blog about every detail of the wedding. True story. I might post pictures and DIY links and interesting details on occasion, but I really don’t want that to be the focus here. Life is, after all, much, much grander than even the most elegant wedding.

One of the wisdom filled pieces of the internet that’s keeping me in check is 2000 Dollar Budget Wedding. The story is amazing. Instead of starting with the details, Sara and her now-husband Matt sat down and wrote out a beautiful vision for their wedding. (You can read their story here.) They refused to get caught up in what they call the “wedding-industrial complex” (apropos, yes?) and instead opted to focus on their love for one another and their desire to party-hearty with their honored guests. They certainly had some fabulous details – like ‘get to know me’ name tags, a margarita machine, and (yes!) boxed wine – but the little things were never the point.

I want to plan a wedding with as much grace and laughter and calm and love for others as it looks like they did. With as little concern for the details and as much focus on relationships, before, during and after the wedding. Inspiration, indeed.

Not much to look at, but oh so tasty.

Roasted Vegetable and Chicken Soup

Ingredients:

Chicken carcass or leftover cooked, bone-in pieces
Drippings from Sunday dinner (These can be skimmed off the top later if you prefer a less oil soup, but provide a great base for the broth.)
Black Pepper, Salt, Rosemary, Thyme, Sage, Basil (to taste)
2 tbsp. Soy sauce
3 Medium Red Potatoes
6-8 Carrots
2 Medium Yellow Onions

Process:

1.) Fill soup pot with water and pop in the carcass. Bring to a boil then reduce heat to simmer for two or three hours. (Or longer if you like. No harm in it.)

2.) Preheat oven to 425. Remove carcass from pot and allow to cool while you chop potatoes and carrots into chunky cubes and slices. Slice onions into thin rounds. Toss all vegetables in a large baking pan with olive oil and bake for 30 to 40 minutes, stirring occasionally for more even browning.

3.) While vegetables bake, pull off any chicken that has not fallen from the bones and return meat to soup.

4.) When vegetables finish, add to the pot and serve.

For some variation, top with parmesan or asiago cheese. The soup could also take another starch, like Great Northern Beans or barley or some egg noodles. I may also try adding just a little bit of a kick next time with some red pepper.

Enjoy!

No white sugar for the cookies? No problem. Throw in some honey or brown sugar or agave nectar. No fresh serrano pepper?  Okay. Toss in a bit of crushed red pepper and chili powder for that slow and spicy heat. Short on small egg noodles for the cabbage dish? No worries. You can cut up some of the big ones or use chopped spaghetti instead.

No recipe at all?

Step 1. Throw all your vegetables in a pot with some oil, onion, and garlic. Step 2. Heat and serve. Utterly simple.

Sewing is another matter all together. It mandates careful preparation, specific materials, and absolute precision. Which is a problem when all you have is a skirt that you’d like to be a dress, only half a good idea, and the wrong color thread. Then the process goes something like this:

1. Take body measurements. With a piece of ribbon because you discover that your tape measure has gone missing. Then estimate based on the only ruler you have: the MacBook that you know is only 13 inches long.

2. Use said ribbon to measure out fabric for top half of dress. Measure twice in fact. Cut once.

2. Test to make sure upper half will in fact fit around your upper half. Discover that you’ve either miraculously gained an extra six inches in circumference in the last ten minutes or your measurements were all wrong. Sigh with relief that it’s probably only the latter. Figure out how to patch on an extra six inches of fabric.

3. Measure body for bottom half, again with the handy ribbon. Try praying this time that your measurements are correct before you cut.

4. Check that this piece does fit around the waist (it does). Sew to upper half.

5. Remove the seam just sewn because you attached the upper half of the dress in such a way that the patched together portion (with white thread. on a purple dress) is facing outward.

6. Sew the blasted seam again.

7. Attempt to sew a single seam along the open side of the dress. Notice that this comes out in a nice zig-zag effect because you were over ambitious about the speed at which you should send the fabric through the needle.

8. Contemplate redoing the seam.

9. Decide that no one will see it on the inside. Good enough.

10. Attempt to sew two very small rectangles of fabric into straps for the dress.

11. After you’ve sewn the rectangles shut so they can’t be turned inside out like you’d hoped, give up and use some left over ribbon or the drawstring from the skirt.

12. Survey your work. Realize that you could have created exactly what you did in two steps instead of twelve had you just given up at the beginning and simply sew straps onto the skirt.

13. Go bake something. You’ll feel better about life.

Note: Pictures to follow of said dress. It isn’t a complete disaster and it’s worth showing off a little. Just experiencing some difficulties with the camera…

Last summer’s feat was a grueling hike up the Saddle Trail on Mt. Katahdin with my one and only brother, S.B. Katahdin is the last peak on the Appalachian Trail and, honestly, it’s a wonder anyone ever finishes with a climb like that right at the end of two thousand miles of walking. We left Bangor, ME at 4:30 am, hiked for nine hours, ate what seemed like a box of Clif bars, nearly wore out two pairs of sturdy hiking boots, and endured what must have been the greatest concentration of rain on the face of the earth since God put a megaphone to his lips and said, “Noah. My friend. You’re gonna need to build a really big boat.” I won’t tell you how long my muscles ached after that little stroll. It’s embarrassing.

One hearty brother-sister duo at the top of Maine's highest peak.

This weekend, I climbed High Point, NJ with M.L. (who, to his credit, is a remarkably good sport about mountain climbing), thereby doubling the number of peaks bagged by yours truly.

This is M.L.'s best, "I climbed a mountain," face.

This is mine (sans thumb, of course).

Round two of Heather vs. high peaks was almost disappointingly easy. High Point is a literal mole hill next to a mountain like Katahdin, rising only 1800 feet above sea level to Katahdin’s 5200. (To be fair, Katahdin’s 5200 feet look awfully demure next to Mt. McKinley’s 20,000+.)

Still, how could I resist the seductive charm of pride? The chance to say, “Well now, I’ve climbed not one, but two high peaks on the east coast”? I never have a fighting chance against the potential for bragging rights.

The obelisk, more officially titled "High Point Monument." It's quite impressive, really, and visible from almost anywhere in the park.

So, on a very sunny day in mid-summer, up to the obelisk we went. The climb was incredibly short–only ten minutes to from the trailhead to the summit–but the view was spectacular. High Point boast views of the New York State line and the Delaware River, evergreen forests and New Jersey farmland.

The Delaware River winding away to the north.

The High Point Monument offers the chance for an even better view. For those willing to brave what begins to feel like an infinite number of steps plus a decided temperature spike, the reward is a bird’s-eye view of rolling hills and valleys in all their summer glory. Anyone who thinks New Jersey is void of all natural charms should take a peek from one of the obelisk’s lofty windows.

Hiking it to the top of the monument.

We finished off the day with a slightly longer hike along the ridge connected to High Point. For the most part it was a lovely hike with some steady, but moderate, inclines and some local fauna that differs from New York’s Adirondacks, which are more familiar to me. (Sweet fern in particular abounded on both sides of the trail along with a low shrub akin to the holly bush.)  There was challenging stretch at the end of the trail–a set of rough-hewn stairs to take us back up to the top of the ridge–that made for a satisfying end to the excursion.

With my last two states of residence Maine and New Jersey conquered, I’m setting my sights on the home state next. Mt. Marcy, NY, here I come.

And it’s had me itching to hike since I turned the first page.

I climbed Mt. Katahdin in Maine with my brother last summer, and if all goes well I’m hoping to bag two other modest state high points this summer: Mt. Marcy, NY and the oh-so-creatively dubbed High Point, NJ. But as neither of those peaks (or mounds, in the latter’s case) were in reach this past Sunday, I headed for Hacklebarney State Park, an out-of-the-way little plot of forest outside of Chester, NJ.

My favorite is the advertisement for a "Rock Grove." Which happens to be, yes, a pile of rocks much like every other in the park.

The park had everything I wanted for the day – trails, no parking fee, and the opportunity to stop at Alstede Farms (where I’m a CSA member) for homemade ice cream on the way home. And not a single bear to be found. Besides, why would a bear go for my plain ol’ Larabar when he could have all the  hotdogs, side dishes, and s’mores from the numerous picnickers instead?

The "Windy Ridge Trail" via which I avoided numerous small, inevitably whining children, cantankerous fishermen, and one prolific Pakistani family reunion.

One of Hacklebarney's six simple, picturesque bridges.

Why do people always want to leave their mark in the woods?

The walk was lovely, moderate, and just long enough to get the hiking impulse out of my system for a moment. Hacklebarney’s 3 or so miles of trail can’t boast beautiful views or challenging hikes or even rugged charm, but it has a river, a brook or two, six bridges, and plenty of benches for taking in the scenery. All in all very pleasant and a lovely way to kick off the summer.

A flowering tree, smooth rocks and a babbling brook. The best of the forest at Hacklebarney.

One happy hiker on the trail.

Roasting the beets with asparagus, another co-op treat, and a leftover winter onion mellowed the flavor and allowed me to take advantage of Alstede’s oregano and thyme as well as some dried rosemary I’ve been itching to use. I also sautéed scallions, spinach, and arugula (would you believe all of that was in my little half-share?) just before pulling my veggies out of the oven. I layered the greens, asparagus, onions, and beets over brown rice and served it up with a simple salad, which allowed me to finish off last week’s lettuce and radishes, as well as the carrot my roommate bequeathed to me last month.

Well, hello summer vegetables.

Summer harvest...

Arugula, spinach, and scallions. In hindsight, I might have added in the beet greens as well.

The eating of the greens.

Some resilient rhododendron blooms, care of one Gloversville green thumb.

For a start, I have philosophers, historians, critics and novelists from Matthew Arnold to Oscar Wilde sitting on my bookshelves, with heavy doses of Durkheim, Hobsbawm, Kierkegaard and Voltaire in between. My reading list for the summer includes some knock-outs too, like Holy Feast and Holy Fast by Caroline Walker Bynum and Foucault’s History of Sexuality.

And then there’s the annual moving adventure in which I cart, carry, haul, and heave my boxes, bags, and bric-a-brac from one apartment to another. This summer’s move (the fourth, and counting) across Madison, NJ held a new challenge: furniture assembly.

Challenge 1: The 27-step, full-size bed. It took me three hours and twenty-six minutes (if I had to estimate), after which my screwdriver needed a tune-up, my wrist needed a massage, and my new housemate was undoubtedly second-guessing my grasp of the English language. (There were plenty of “shoots” and “galldarns” emitting from the room, among other choice phrases…)  I could have sworn the pictures were in Swedish. By a minor miracle I only back-tracked twice and didn’t lose a single peg or screw or nut while I was at it. And the bed hasn’t fallen in on me yet.

Challenge 2: The “Craigslist-steal” desk. At nearly five-feet long, it was a feat to even transport the pieces in my Civic hatchback. (If you put both the back seats down and then tip the passenger seat back so it’s laying just about flat, a 1991 Honda Civic DX has almost 72″ of cargo space. Yes, I measured.) Safely back to the apartment, I had to unload the pieces that it had taken two people to put in the car. The legs, crossbeam, and drawers on wheels were no problem. The desktop, standing almost as tall as me, was another story.

Like the blackened pot I blogged about a few months ago, this was a multi-strategy operation. I tried walking with it on top of my feet, twisting it back and forth, sliding it, pushing it, lifting it…you name it, I gave it a shot. And, lo and behold, managed to inch it past the dining room table, through the living room, and into the bedroom which has become my study. (Did I breathe a prayer of thanks for first-floor living quarters? You bet I did.) I’ve reassembled the desk, too, and it hasn’t collapsed either, thank you very much. Even held my weight while I put up new brackets and rods for curtains this afternoon.

So, in good fun and celebration for my victories over instruction manuals, I blared “Independent Woman” while I finished unpacking this afternoon. Classy, yes?

I should qualify: I love interdependence and I definitely don’t just “depend on me.” I know I couldn’t have finished this move or any other without good friends, family members, and strangers helping me transport the material portions of my life from place to place. Pure independence is not only rather overrated, it’s impossible.

Still, sometimes it’s deeply satisfying to say, “I can do it myself.” And then prove I actually can.

Oh Mom...

1.) Family. My mom and grandparents are so wonderful and are always ready to assist me with whatever I need, emotionally, spiritually, and financially. Honestly, their generosity is astounding and it’s hard to keep myself from being simply overwhelmed by their love.

K.C. and me in beautiful Western NY on a summer gallivant.

2.) Friends. Of all sorts and varieties. On the drive back to school yesterday I caught myself complaining (yes, out loud to myself) about how unfair it is that we’re all scattered. I had to check myself by remembering the privilege of attending the birthday party of one now-twenty-three L.J. in Buffalo this weekend and was so thrilled to share in the festivities and conversation that surrounded her day. I also had the chance to eat and talk and pray and laugh and watch movies with the wonderful K.C., who I’d adopt as a sister if there was a way to do it. And then there was the time with M.L., who holds the unique place of much-loved boyfriend in my life. Seriously, time with each of these people was so refreshing; it seems so wretched to complain about not having more time with them instead of being grateful for a whole weekend full of dear people.

Oh yes. Whistles and nudges are appropriate. We're this cute.

3.) A car that runs and traffic jams that end. My housemate rightfully refers good old Hermes as a “death bucket” sometimes. He has a special knack for breaking down and just not handling the longer trips well. But yesterday, I didn’t run out of gas in the middle of stop and go traffic on Route 80, the brakes worked the whole time, I didn’t get run over by an 18-wheeler, and the stop only added twenty-five minutes to my trip. That’s a mundane miracle, if I may use the word so loosely, if ever there was one.

The trusty steed.

4.) For work to do. I get paid to read books, write papers, and talk about things I love. And I still complain? Honestly…

Et tu? What are you grateful for? Or grousing about? Both are valid, I’m just working on a balance during this season of life.

No, not quite how I feel in the kitchen most days. But I had a moment...

A few days ago, I scoured a blackened pot and felt rather accomplished about it.  Nevermind that I’m the one who blackened the pot in the first place.  Nevermind that I’m the one who forgot about the chickpeas boiling on the stove.  Nevermind that I just so happened to be reading The Art of Memory by Frances A. Yates when this memory lapse occurred.  The point is that I employed my most cunning kitchen skills to accomplish a tricky, backbreaking, dirty job.

The best part about persevering through this arduous task is not that I can brag about my amazing scrubbing skills.  No, the best part is that now I can pass along a wide variety of methods for scouring, should you ever find yourself in a similar situation on a Thursday morning.

The first step is always the same: Bless your roommate for noting that your beans are burning, curse your memory for being so poor, and reluctantly dump your poor chickpeas in the trash.  Charcoal-flecked hummus wasn’t what you had in mind anyhow.  That being done you have a few choices.  Pick any or all and add some vigorous elbow grease.

Method 1: Good old soap and hot water, combined with one of those nifty little nylon scrapers (I believe mine is from Pampered Chef).  Should take off that first layer of black and leave you with lovely gray water, a rewarding tribute to your progress.

Method 2: Baking soda and vinegar.  These seemingly mundane products aren’t just great in the chemistry classroom.  They’re pretty handy in the kitchen too.  My thanks to whoever discovered the chemical reaction between these ingredients in the first place.  You could also add some coffee grounds, so long as the blackened pan isn’t Teflon, and then use a scrubbing pad.  I’m pretty sure you could remove just about any amount of gunk from any surface with this semi-magical concoction.  In my case, it took all but the most stubborn bits off of the bottom of the pan.

Method 3: Boiling vinegar and salt in said pan.  I think I should, in fairness, attribute this one to my dear old mum; some memory buried at the back of the file cabinet tells me she mentioned it first.   I’m not entirely certain whether it’s the salt or the vinegar or just the higher temperature that worked off the last of the spots, but this did it.  I boiled the mixture for about five minutes, added a bit of cold water to the pan so I could stick my hand into it (a blistered hand would, of course, have been the perfect finish to this escapade), and finished off the grime with a scrubbing pad.

How’s that for persistence?