I feel terrible because… well… I feel terrible. For the past 4 days I’ve played host to not only my in-laws, but also to the mother of all cold germs. Seriously. She’s made herself quite comfortable in my sinuses with the occasional weekend trip to my lungs, and I don’t think she has any intention of leaving anytime soon.
So aside from emerging from the warm cocoon of my bedcovers every so often to take a soothing, steamy shower or make much-needed football food (while donning plastic gloves and a grade-a surgical mask, of course), I’ve behaved much like an antisocial hermit, my days revolving around bouts of coma-like sleep interspersed with 30-60 minute increments of Flip this House and The Property Ladder watched through a semi-drunken haze as I take nips from a bottle of cough syrup.
But I have to (sheepishly) admit that there’s at least one good thing that’s come from having this cold while Justin’s parents are in town. Right now, this very minute, Justin is driving them up to Sanford to go to church. And while I wasn’t planning on going anyway, which I’m pretty sure they all knew, this cold has given me the ability to stay in bed while they got ready to leave, thus avoiding the entire awkward send-off:
KATIE
(still in pajamas, hair
tousled, sips her coffee)
Well, you kids have fun at church…
IN-LAWS
(dressed in Sunday
Best, fiddle with keys)
Silence
KATIE
(picks a piece of
lint off her t-shirt)
Umm… I hear it’s supposed to be
a great sermon today. Or is it a
Homily? The thing the guy gives?
I mean the priest. Or is it Pastor?
Shit.
IN-LAWS
Silence
KATIE
(smiles meekly)
Have a great time.
IN-LAWS
(exiting STAGE LEFT)
We’ll pray for you.
END SCENE
Okay, I’m exaggerating. Obviously. I mean, I wouldn’t make coffee until after they left because they’re not allowed to eat or drink an hour before receiving Communion, which is what they do every week in Catholic church, and I wouldn’t want to rub it in.
But if I were going with them, maybe I would make coffee first since it’s okay for me to drink it since I’m not Catholic and therefore not allowed to receive Communion and therefore more likely to fall asleep during mass (or is it a sermon? shit.) since I’m forced to sit on the bench like some unruly student while all of the good boys and girls stand in line to get a cookie and stare at me with sympathy because I’m going to Hell and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it.
But really. I think Justin’s parents are fairly okay with the fact that I don’t go to church. I’ve attended with them before, and I’ve always felt like someone shoved me onto stage in the middle of the play and no one gave me the lines. I mean, everyone else knows when to stand, when to sit, when to sing, what to say, while I stumble around a haphazard half-a-second behind everyone else trying not to embarrass them more than absolutely necessary.
So maybe this cold thing is all for the best. I don’t need to embarrass my in-laws with my church ignorance, and I can blame this entire post on my consumption of excessive amounts of cough syrup should it fall into the wrong hands. And that’s all I can really ask for, anyway.
It’s about this time of year when my body starts convincing me I need to acquire an extra layer of fat to prevent me from freezing to death, so I’m inevitably compelled to eat lots of this:
So yesterday, in a half-assed attempt to prevent nature from taking its course, I made this.
And ate it this morning like this:
And while it definitely wasn’t my usual piece toast smeared with perfectly proportioned layers of peanut butter and maple honey, I have to say it wasn’t bad.
I’m not gonna lie – Erin’s Halloween post from yesterday cracked me up. I must say her Halloween looked far more entertaining than my night, during which I proceeded to drink an entire bottle of shiraz and pass out candy at my neighbor’s house because they actually decorated for the holiday and I felt it was far easier to mooch off of their hard work and holiday spirit than actually do any work of my own. Don’t worry – I hid my wine glass behind the porch railing every time the impressionable little kiddies approached, but I may have laughed a little too loudly when my neighbor’s husband told a costumeless teenage boy he looked like Justin Bieber.
Yes, I was that girl. I’m not proud.
Anyway, I think my lack of enthusiasm for yesterday’s holiday might stem from what it subconsciously implies – the cold is right around the corner. When I came home from Costa Rica, I noticed the leaves had started turning colors. I tried my best to ignore it. When I had to pull the heavy quilt over myself in the middle of the night, I tried to ignore that too. But the other night, when I felt compelled to make chili for dinner – chili, for godssake – I could ignore it no longer. The Cold is here.
And since I don’t want to be alone in my misery, I’m going to share my white chili recipe with you – my AWARD-WINNING chili.
That’s right – this recipe won the coveted Golden Ladle at my office chili contest in 2009. It even won a few votes in 2010, even though I wasn’t allowed to enter the contest as the reigning chili champ. Now those of you who can’t get enough of traditional, spicy red chili might initially repel the idea of a relatively un-spicy white chili.
But I will tell you what I told the skeptics during my Golden Ladle acceptance speech: Don’t be a chili racist – give white chili a chance!
I think I originally got this recipe from a grocery store, believe it or not. I don’t tweak this much, so here’s what you’ll need:
1 lb. sausage (I use Jimmy Dean’s hot sausage)
1 lb. (give or take) ground turkey (the more you use, the thicker your chili will be. You can use as little as 1/2 lb. and go as high as you want – I think I used just over a pound this time because I like my chili nice and thick)
1 green bell pepper
1 onion
4-5 small stalks of celery
1 Tbsp. roasted garlic (it’s actually really easy to roast garlic yourself, but I already had the jar of store-bought stuff and for the purposes of this chili, it works just as well)
1 package of taco seasoning
2 (15.8 oz) cans of great northern beans
1 (14 oz) can of chicken broth
1 (4.5 oz) can diced green chiles (the store was out of these, so I picked up 4 fresh green chiles and diced them myself – a little more work, but still tasty)
1 (16 oz) can of refried beans with diced green chiles (This is the SECRET INGREDIENT, friends. That’s right – it’s the thing that people love when they taste it but can’t quite figure out what it is. Whatever you do, don’t skip this ingredient – it’s okay if you can’t find the kind with chiles – and DON’T tell them what it is!)
1. Turn on your favorite satellite music station and dice up your celery, onion and bell pepper. You should definitely sing while you’re doing this, but be careful about dancing – you are wielding a knife.
2. If you bought fresh chiles, go ahead and dice those up as well. Wear gloves if you’re smart, but if you’re me, forget the gloves and slice them into quarters lengthwise, slice off the seedy membrane part, and then chop up the rest. That stinging sensation on your fingers will go away. Eventually.
Everything’s ready!
3. Warm up a pot over medium-high heat. Add the sausage, turkey, onions, celery and green bell peppers. If you’re using fresh chiles, add those too at this time. Sauté everything for 10-12 minutes until the meat is fully cooked and the veggies are soft.
4. Drain the excess grease, then stir in the taco seasoning. Cover and let cook for about a minute, just to let all the tasty seasoning goodness soak into the meat.
5. Remove cover and stir in the remaining ingredients (roasted garlic, northern beans (including liquid), refried beans, chicken broth, and the can of chiles if you didn’t use fresh).
6. Let sit on the stove, stirring occasionally, until everything is nice and warmed through. Serve with your favorite hot sauce on the side and enjoy!
But I had to share this with you. Now that I’m back home, I’ve been trying to distract myself with various projects I’ve been putting off around the house. We’re going to be having several house guests over the next week or so, and it’s time some of these things get finished.
So. I love maps. I love looking at them, using them – hell, I MADE them for a living at one point in my life. GPS? No thanks. Maps – yes, the foldy, papery kind – are far superior.
I’ve had this world map that my sister-in-law gave me for Christmas for years now, and I’ve never hung it anywhere. The map itself is beautiful, and I didn’t think the black metal frame did it justice. Enter this horrible reproduction painting I bought on a whim a couple of years ago and also never hung.
Yes, that is dust from 2 years of closet banishment.
I noticed the frame happens to be the perfect size for my map. Easy switch, right?
Not so much.
It took an embarrassing amount of time, but finally – finally – I won.
I may not have been a fan of the metal frame, but no one can say it wasn’t quality.
Speaking of quality, I didn’t actually have a way to attach the map to the wood frame. Enter the masking tape.
That’s right, folks – In an effort to maintain the lovely little tradition Erin started a couple of weeks ago, it’s time to plaster the internet with grainy (and hopefully somewhat embarrassing) photos from Erin’s youth.
Why?
Well, exactly 29 years ago TODAY, sunny-smiled, freckle-faced, chipmunk-cheeked baby Erin graced the world with her presence.
Okay, she wasn’t quite THIS big when she pushed her way in, but you get the idea.
And she’s been wreaking havoc ever since.
Don’t let the innocent baby face fool you. She may have appeared timid at first…
Who, me?
But with 2 older brothers, it didn’t take her long to learn the merits of pure intimidation.
Rawr.
(And it’s clear she hasn’t changed much over the years.)
Compassionate and caring, she’s never been afraid to try walking in someone else’s shoes.
Ever the outdoor-enthusiast, she doesn’t let the elements get in her way.
It’s ALWAYS important to travel with the proper gear.
And her patriotic support of our nation began long before she married a military man.
What’s more patriotic than a tri-corner hat?
Her appreciation for fine cuisine stemmed from an early age as well…
This is why I had to padlock our fridge in Costa Rica.
Along with her insatiable passion for travel to unknown lands.
I will go where no baby has gone before.
You’d think that after 29 years on this planet, a person might change. But looking at these photos from her childhood, it’s clear that Erin still is and always will be the compassionate, adventurous, wanderlust, food-loving girl she was when she first pushed her way into this world.
And while her brother Kevin knows she needs a little help forcing her way through a concert crowd from time to time, we all have to admit that she’s been doing a pretty damn good job of forging her own way through the world ever since.
You’re in for a special treat today, kids, because this post was written by both Erin AND Katie. They both loved this particular Costa Rican adventure SO much, that they couldn’t agree who would get to write the post. So they opted for the third-person introduction, while the blue font that follows was written by Erin and the green font was written by Katie. Look out, TLC! We’re chasing some waterfalls, whether you like it or not.
Now that we’re done making forts with our luggage and have finally put them away, let us commence, as promised, with the juicy deets (the kids are still saying that, right?) of our last week in Costa Rica.
So, last Monday we spent five hours navigating an assortment of buses west to stay overnight in La Fortuna, a quaint town with clean streets, high-end restaurants, unique arts and crafts shops and jacked-up tourist prices tucked cozily in the looming shadow of Arenal Volcano. La Fortuna’s cooler climate, lush tropical vegetation, and proximity to a large number of waterfalls, whitewater rapids and the aforementioned volcano have made it a well-established hotspot for tourists seeking tales of daring outdoor adventure to take home with them.
Which is precisely why we were there. On the enthusiastic recommendation of Aaron and Becs, our friends, hosts, tour guides and all-around upstanding citizens (ok, they were our bosses, too, but that didn’t influence the description, promise), we’d come here determined to try our luck at waterfall rappelling.
Waterfall rappelling is exactly what it sounds like, and despite the astounding array of travel company reps pitching their packages (ahem, tour packages) to us along the sidewalk, apparently there are only two companies that offer this unique experience in La Fortuna. But we’ll get to that in a minute. Stick with me here, people.
So we arrived in La Fortuna in the early afternoon, checked into Gringo Pete’s, a clean, charming and ridonkulously cheap (hello, $4!) hostel recommended by a backpacking Canadian couple we met, and then proceeded to semi-stalk, on the bus ride there. After dropping our bags off, we spent the rest of the day walking around and window-shopping before making our way to the Lava Lounge to talk with the restaurant’s California-bred owner, Scott, over a couple of industrial-strength piña coladas. Aaron and Becs had met Scott a few years ago when they were in town for their first rappelling experience, and had asked us to stop by and drop off some hot sauce to him.
Fortunately for us, Scott happened to be good friends with Cynthia, the lovely owner of Pure Trek, one of the two companies that offered rappelling in the area. So when we mentioned to Scott our plans to go rappelling the next morning with her slightly cheaper competitor, he phoned Cynthia on the spot and she proceeded to make us a counter-offer we couldn’t refuse. So Pure Trek it was!
[Editor’s Note: Yes, I admit that, at the time, it was all about the Benjamins. However, having done my post-trip research since then, I now see that our reasons for choosing Pure Trek should have been:
(a) their commitment to safety. Their slightly higher price tag covers the cost of regular equipment change-outs and safety upgrades; and
(b) the fact that their belaying technique provides customers a more authentic rappelling experience than the standard zipline style used by most other rappelling companies.
Thus, even though we ended up choosing wisely, it was for incredibly unwise financial reasons. So don’t be stupid like us and try to scrimp on this once-in-a-lifetime experience, mmkay?]
Next morning arrived right on time, and the bus came to whisk us off on our adventure, which started with a 20-minute drive out of town and then a 15-minute putter up a steep and winding dirt road in an off-road Jeep.
The view from the dirt road. I could live there.
This being the rainy off-season, our group was small and intimate, consisting of only three other American tourists and five Pure Trek employees. Our guides were Ticos who spoke English very well and exuded an air of confidence and outdoor prowess befitting their Teva sandals; if they had no idea what they were doing, they at least put on a really good show otherwise. And it didn’t hurt that every single one of them was cheek-pinchingly adorable.
At the top of the hill, we stopped at a small outpost station where we proceeded to trade in whatever remaining cool points we had for ginormous helmets and underwear made of seatbelts.
Safety first. Fashion, an extremely distant second.
From there, we locked our valuables in the truck and descended down a rocky yet well-maintained trail into what felt like the beating heart of the jungle. Even though it was only a five-minute walk, it truly felt like we were the first explorers ever to set foot there—everywhere you looked were palm leaves the size of Volkswagens and thick, tangled vines in a thousand variations of green competing ruthlessly for the sun.
In fact, we were in such awe of our primal surroundings that we almost forgot what why we were there in the first place. And that little nugget of awareness came back to us just about the time we approached the edge of the 175-foot waterfall.
Gulp.
While the rest of the staff efficiently went about ensuring all the safety measures and belays were in place, our main guide briefed us on how to properly hold the ropes and position our feet so as to preserve our knees and faces in case we wanted to use them at a later date.
And then the time came for us to demonstrate our listening comprehension skills.
GULP.
Despite the abundance of safety ropes snugly attached to you, it’s still a somewhat terrifying feeling to take that first backward step off the edge of the platform and let yourself dangle in midair, contemplating the 175 feet of nothing standing between the bottoms of your sneakers and the ground.
But just as quickly as that fluttery-stomach feeling came, it went, and the experience was no longer awesomely terrifying but just awesome. While that first waterfall was by far the tallest, each of the three subsequent ones we rappelled down presented different terrain challenges to keep you entertained, as well as new opportunities for our playful guides to keep themselves entertained by dunking us in frothing 60-degree water. The little scamps.
What’s that? You want me to hold you right in the middle of the fall while my friend takes pictures of you gulping down mouthfuls of riverwater like a large-mouth bass?
What’s that? You want me to hold you right there while your face takes a tsunami-force shower?
By the end of the morning, our little group had pretty much gotten the hang of rappelling and needed the belayers below to keep us from smashing ourselves against the rock wall only a few times.
Soaking wet and a little tired (in a really, really good way) from navigating jungle canyons spider-man style, we thought our Pure Trek experience was over. But our guides piled us into the vehicle and trucked us back down the mountain to the Pure Trek oasis. It was really a resort-like compound, but I call it an oasis with its cozy lodge, open-air restaurant, and the most beautiful restroom we’d seen in Costa Rica.
Erin and I were thrilled to take a nice, hot shower in the spa-like facility, complete with towels, shampoo, conditioner, and even body lotion.
That’s it. I’m moving in.
We felt invigorated and refreshed after our showers, but we also felt something else… HUNGRY.
Apparently physical exercise does that to people. Who knew?
We walked through the lush garden to the open-air dining area where Pure Trek’s chefs had an authentic Tico lunch waiting for us.
A hot plate of rice with chicken and black beans and a wonderful salad (sorry, no picture – did I mention we were hungry?) was brought to our table. We were able to relax with a glass of fresh pineapple juice and watch a slideshow of the professional photos taken of our rappelling adventure on a monitor in the corner.
After our completely satisfying lunch, we were escorted back through the garden to the main lodge, where hot Costa Rican coffee awaited us.
The space was incredibly inviting and relaxing. We were waiting for our transportation back to our hostel in town (provided by Pure Trek), but it hardly felt like waiting – we didn’t want to leave!
This experience truly was one of the most outstanding highlights of our trip. Thanks to Aaron and Becs for telling us about it, Scott at Lava Lounge for setting us straight on where we should go, and Cynthia and the guides from Pure Trek for showing us a completely amazing time.
*Please forgive the unforgivably dark/blurry photos in this post and any of my posts hereafter. By this point in the trip I had busted my favorite low-light camera lens (something I’m not yet ready to talk about) and I was making do with what I had.
On one of our last days in Costa Rica, our friend Becs showed us one hell of a time. There was a crazy monkey chase (more to come, I promise), pool-crashing at the beach (more to come, I promise), and the most wonderfully orgasmic tacos I’ve ever had the pleasure of devouring.
That’s what I’m going to tell you about now (in case the title of this post led you to think otherwise – again, get your minds out of the gutter).
I can tell you from experience that after a long morning of horsing around with monkeys and a long afternoon of frolicking in both the Pacific ocean and a guest-only hotel pool (a hotel of which we were definitely not guests), there is nothing – I repeat nothing – more satisfying than a tall glass of Costa Rican beer and the best tacos I’ve ever had in my life.
At first I thought Becs was mistaken when she pulled off the main road onto a rocky dirt driveway overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. Surely the nondescript, unlit home in front of us was not a restaurant. Was it?
But as we approached, I saw the understated sign next to the front door:
Tacos.
‘Nuff said, apparently.
I’d be lying if the place didn’t make me conjure up thoughts of some crazy old guy in the back butchering up human flesh to serve with tortillas and Lizano al a Sweeny Todd. (My first “real” date took me to see that play, by the way. Remind me to tell you about that gem some other time.)
Hey, I have an active imagination.
But the inside was cozy, and I settled down when the owner brought me my cerveza and I saw that at least, if he was going to butcher us and serve us to the other customers (of which there were exactly none), he was at least willing to let us have a drink first.
Yes, that’s a chunk of ice in the glass. It took us 2 months to get used to it, but non-touristy bars/restaurants in Costa Rica serve their beers with a glass of ice. It’s actually pretty nice when it’s hot and humid out and the beer bottle isn’t exactly cold.
In a corner of the room there was a large chalk board with the menu (and surprisingly steep prices), along with a gas, flat-topped griddle and a wire shelf hanging from the ceiling.
The first thing we ordered was queso con chorizo, which is exactly what it sounds like – a bowl of delicious melted cheese with bits of chopped up chorizo. The restaurant’s owner (sorry, forgot his name!), who is originally from Mexico, took several chunks of wonderful white cheese and melted it in an iron bowl over a charcoal grill.
We waited as patiently as 3 hungry women who’d been at the beach all afternoon could possibly wait.
Then he threw in the chorizo that he’d cooked on the flat-top, and the result was a greasy, gooey, stringy bowl of deliciousness that really can’t be properly described with words. We spooned it over grill-warmed tortillas and then we died.
Ask me if I care that this likely turned my arteries into sluggish, gummed-up muck. ‘Cause I don’t.
Meanwhile, the Taco Guru was working his magic back on the flat-top. While he’d been making our queso appetizer, he’d put all of the ingredients for our tacos on the hanging wire shelf. We’d ordered one plate with beef, onions and cheese, and another plate with chorizo, cheese and grilled pineapple. (Turns out we really didn’t need 2 plates – each plate comes a huge stack of tortillas, and one plate would’ve been more than enough for the 3 of us.)
After the meat was cooked, he piled everything on the plates and brought them to the table.
Beef, onions and cheese.
Chorizo, cheese and pineapple.
All I can say is these tacos were ah-maz-ing.
He served them with shredded cabbage, homemade guacamole and a spicy salsa.
We ate them and died again.
The end.
Thanks for the laughs, the cries and the jiggly thighs, Taco Guy. We’ll remember you fondly.
I’ve been home (in my house) for approximately 2 hours. I’ve been home (in the U.S.) for approximately 13 hours. And I think it’s safe to say that while I’m quickly becoming readjusted (I experienced a minor bout of panic when I went to get a glass of water and couldn’t remember in which cabinet the glasses were actually located), I’ve definitely been experiencing a bit of culture shock.
But I’m hesitant to call it culture shock because it has become undeniably apparent to me that roadside America really lacks… culture. If you define culture as “the characteristic features of everyday existence shared by people in a place or time,” it really is more difficult to pinpoint distinguishing characteristics than the lack of distinguishing characteristics. We like chain hotels. We like chain restaurants. We like chain stores. So is that our culture?
For example, Justin and I stayed in a roadside motel last night since my flight came in at 9:00 p.m. and we still had a 6-7 hour drive to get home. I couldn’t tell you which motel we stayed in because really, they’re all the same.
We hit the road this morning and I may have passed out periodically from jet lag, Motel Bed Syndrome (MBS – it’s no laughing matter), and a general unwillingness to accept the fact that I have to start facing responsibilities once again, and I was confused every time I awoke because it never seemed like we’d gotten anywhere. Same stores, same restaurants, same people.
Toto, I don’t think we’re in… wait, what town are we in again??
So the term culture shock just doesn’t seem to cut it. It was the lack of culture that shocked me. Maybe I should call it redundancy shock. No, doesn’t have the same ring. Commercialism shock? That could really apply in many countries. How about out-of-the-box shock? You know, because nearly every roadside town looks like it was put together from the same ready-to-assemble boxed set.
If I need to buy a new leather belt in one of these towns, I know I can likely find a Kohl’s, Target, or JC Penny that will carry something in my price-range that will fit my needs. Everyone can. And everyone will have very similar belts. In a place like Bagaces, it would’ve been a much bigger hassle to get a new belt. I would’ve had to inquire if there was a “belt guy” somewhere in town, describe to him what I needed, and wait for him to make it. But no one would’ve had the same belt. It would’ve been MY belt.
Street in Bagaces.
Does that really matter? Probably not. But it’s interesting, nonetheless.
In all fairness, I’ve been around this country enough to know that its different metropolitan areas have unique and interesting qualities (architecture, food, dialect, etc.) that set them apart from each other, but you have to admit – if you take away any regional vegetation or notable terrain, you could spin yourself around like a top and topple over into nearly any part of rural or suburban America and seriously have no freakin’ clue where you landed.
But at least you’ll be able to buy yourself a thin burger patty and an iced latte.
Oh, and apparently it’s autumn now. When did that happen??
We’re back in our comfortable apartment – the place we’ve called home for the past 2 months – for the last time. Costa Rica showed us a proper goodbye, complete with a 2-mile, dirt road walk at dusk in the pouring rain to our favorite open-air bar/restaurant, Kattia’s.
We met some of our closest friends here for dinner and a few last cervezas. We spent the last of our money. I spent the last of my smiles. At least for a little while.
There are so many people to whom we didn’t say goodbye. And the truth is, most of them won’t miss us much at all. They’re used to seeing people come and go.
But me?
I’m overcome. I saved my tears for now, while Erin’s in the shower and I should be finishing up my packing. I’m never on-time, anyway. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I get home. Figure it out, I guess. Plan the next trip.
We have many more stories to share from our trip here – from our waterfall rappelling adventure to the best tacos in the entire frickin’ world, it’s coming soon. But now I need to try to chase my sleep, even though I know the race is fixed. It’s an early morning tomorrow and a long day of travel.
My body’s beat, and my emotions are raw. I’ve never experienced the two spectrums of happiness and sadness at such simultaneous extremes, and it scares me a little.
We’ll see what happens, no? Thanks for sticking around.
We’ll miss you, Bagaces – and the rest of you. You know who you are.
