Goal #68: Make Homemade Sushi

(To read about my 101 Goals in 1001 Days, go here)
I first learned the joys of sushi at The Mix in Las Cruces, New Mexico – a city known for it’s fresh desert fish. Though I was skeptical to try it at first, it was half priced. A graduate student at the time, half-priced was my favorite food. I started out easy; one. single. California. roll.

My life hasn't been the same since.
I. Love. Sushi. But not in that pretentious "Having sushi with the girls to see and be seen while I pick at some edamame" kind of reality TV way. No, it's more of a "Shove as much raw fish in my mouth as fast as possible before anyone notices it was even on the plate to begin with" kind of way. I could eat sushi every day and believe me, I’ve tried. Unfortunately, Michael only LIKES sushi so I my sushi obsession is never fully satisfied.

In November 2005, I had my first (and only) experience with making homemade sushi -- and while the sushi was ok, the evening as a whole did not go well (to read why, click here). I have not made homemade sushi since.

In an effort to challenge myself to cook more than just Lean Cuisines, I included on my list of 101 Goals in 1001 Days goals like:
#13. Master 10 Recipes
And
#34. No eating out for 30 days
And also…
#68. Make Homemade Sushi
However, as is true for many goals, achieving Goal #68 meant more than just the rice-spreading, raw-fish-cutting event I was expecting. Here is the story.
---

This year, the day before my birthday, I went shopping. I invited Michael to join me just in case he needed any last minute gift ideas for the big day. He met me at the Biltmore Fashion Park and we wandered through a few of the shops and boutiques. It was an educational tour. I pointed out things I liked and informed him of colors that looked best on me; coral, lemon yellow, and a specific shade of royal blue. We eventually found ourselves in Macy’s where he put his new knowledge to the test. While he chose teal instead of royal, and mustard instead of lemon, he did correctly identify coral. He found a casual baseball T shirt with three-quarter-length coral colored sleeves. I offered positive reinforcement for his good work, then moved away from the T shirt before he got the wrong idea… a baseball Tee wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

On our way out of the shopping center, we made one final stop at BCBG MAXAZRIA.

This was a bad decision and I knew it. There was absolutely nothing in that store that I could justify buying on a whim, and I knew there was nothing in there that my money-conscious husband would consider buying EVER. However, I mindlessly made my way to the back of the store. And that’s when it happened…

I fell in love.

I fell in love with a little black cocktail dress created just. for. me.

I’m not sure if it was the funhouse – make your legs look waaaay longer than they actually are – mirrors, or if it was the three sales girls telling me that dress had never looked so good, or if it was the fact that I had just had the stomach flu and could fit into a size 2, or the little gasp that Michael let out when I stepped out to show him… Whatever it was, I HAD. TO. HAVE that dress. And I had faith that it would be mine.

You see, in the Birthday Department, Michael owed me. The year before, he had forgotten my birthday. Over half the day had passed before he said “the words” or sang “the song,” and when he finally remembered, he gave me a pair of flip flops and a bra (A bra that I had bought for myself -- but he put it in a box and counted it as a gift).

After many tears on my end and endless apologies on his, I gave Michael a speech he will never forget.

“A birthday is a day to feel special. A day to celebrate the fact that you are here, that you are you. A day when the ones you love let you know just how much they love you. On my next birthday, I don’t care WHAT you get me, as long as I feel special.”
---

As we left BCBG that afternoon and went our separate ways to our cars, Michael said he would ‘meet me at home.’ And though I could tell he was trying to hide it, I knew he was going back into the mall. I knew he was going back to buy that dress. I didn’t even care that it was the day before and he was only NOW buying my gift… the dress would be mine.

My birthday started out spectacularly. Michael’s first breath was spent shouting HAPPY BIRTHDAY at the top of his lungs before the sun had even peaked above the horizon. I smiled, I felt special. Then he took me to Starbucks. I found us a table as he ordered our drinks and when he came back he also had one of the mini-sparkling donuts I had been drooling over for months but never allowed myself to buy. He smiled. “Happy Birthday.”
In that small moment, I felt so special.

I couldn’t wait until it was time to start opening gifts.

I spent the rest of the morning at spin and yoga. There, they played my favorite songs and I hung out with some of my favorite people. When I finished, I walked to my car to find a single rose on the rain-soaked windshield.

I felt so special.

As I pulled into our driveway, I saw another rose awaiting me; laying on the rain-soaked driveway. Under different circumstances it could have been considered a little creepy but today, I felt soo special.

I walked into our home, excited for more surprises, wondering if the roses were leading me to a big dress-shaped box ,just waiting for me to open. Seeing no box, and hungry from working out, I opened the fridge. There was a rose. I grabbed a yogurt and went to my computer. There was a rose. I grabbed my computer bag to get the power cord. There was a rose. Michael had placed a rose on every stop of my morning-ritual path until I had a collection of 12. Even when I went to the bathroom to shower; I lifted the lid of the toilet … There was a rose in the bowl. Oh Michael. Even then, I felt special.

By the end of the day I was beside myself. I knew that this was going to be the best birthday ever! Donuts, roses AND the best was yet to come … I hadn’t even opened my dream dress yet!

That evening, Michael came home from work, his arms filled with grocery bags, a bottle of Pinot Noir, and a box with two (of my favorite) cupcakes in it. He announced as he set the goods down in the kitchen, “Tonight, in honor of the birth of my beautiful wife, we stay IN for dinner. Tonight, we make sushi.”

Wow.

The next hour was spent drinking wine, cooking the rice, shredding the carrots and cucumber, cutting avocados, slicing the tuna and salmon, spreading the rice on seaweed wraps and creating sushi masterpieces. We laughed and carried on and fed each other the pieces raw fish that weren’t suitable for rolling. Once the sushi was made and the soy sauce was properly mixed with ginger and wasabi, we carried our dinner into the living room, onto the coffee table, where we would feast.

This was my most special birthday ever, and I knew the best was yet to come.

Before we began to eat, I decided this would be the perfect time for me to open my gift – you know, so I could try on the dress before I felt fat from all the rice and salty soy sauce. “Michael…?” I asked in my sweetest voice. “Is it time for me to open my presents…?” The pitch of my voice got gradually higher as I spoke and by the word ‘presents’ it was so high only dogs and husbands could hear it.

“Just one second.” With that, Michael went into the kitchen, removed the cupcakes from the box and set them each on the counter. He then disappeared with the box into the bedroom. He emerged no fewer than 30 seconds later, still holding the cupcake container. He set the box on the coffee table in the living room next to the sushi. “Happy Birthday.”

I was slightly confused … even though it was a Size Flu (2), how was the dress going to fit in that tiny little box. Maybe he made a “Dress Treasure Hunt” and this was the first clue that would tell me to go look in the closet. I opened the box.

And there it was.

The gift Michael had gone back into the mall to get.

The gift I had been waiting for all day long…

A casual baseball T shirt with three-quarter-length coral colored sleeves. Price tag included.

…

Hm.

“Remember?! You said you liked this one,” his face was eager and proud.

“Yes, yes. I remember.” I was trying to remain calm… “Are there any more presents?” With that second high-pitched question I was holding out hope that he had purchased BOTH the shirt AND the dress in honor of (as he had put it) the birth of his beautiful wife.

“Now that you mention it …” (the angels began singing) “There is something else.” Michael went back in the kitchen and emerged, for the final time, with the rest of my gifts for my 29th Birthday.

Fancy chopsticks to eat my homemade sushi.
A Japanese fan to keep myself cool as I ate my homemade sushi.
A Japanese parasol to hold while I enjoyed my homemade sushi.

He was thrilled.

I was devastated.

I tried to hide my disappointment, but the rush of tears streaming down my face apparently gave it away. When he asked what was wrong, I blubbered something about him not caring about my birthday more than to shove a shirt with a tag in a cupcake box and hadn’t he learned anything from the year before.

… As I write that statement, I am once again embarrassed and ashamed.

In the moments that followed, a confused Michael tried to calm his irrational bride. “Kindra, “ he said, his voice soft. “You said a birthday is about feeling special. I tried to do that. All day. I’m sorry if I failed.”

It was then that I remembered my birthday speech from the year before; a speech he had remembered. A speech I had apparently forgotten.

“A birthday is a day to feel special. A day to celebrate the fact that you are here, that you are you. A day when the ones you love let you know just how much they love you. On my next birthday, I don’t care WHAT you get me, as long as I feel special.”
---

It has been said in many ways; the good life is not measured in things, but measured in precious moments. Sitting there - a sushi feast before me, a wonderful man beside me – I realized that I had failed myself. Memories from the day scrolled across my mind: The early morning birthday wish, the donut, the rose after rose after rose, the sushi, the wine, the favorite cupcakes, the coral shirt, even the umbrella, fan and chopsticks for a full sushi experience… He had done exactly as I had asked, exactly as I had always wanted. Dress or no dress, I felt special the whole day through. He had spent the entire day showing me how much he loved me, and that is really the best any of us can hope for as we leave one year behind and begin another.
---

Now, the roles have reversed. I will spend the next year apologizing, and spend my 30th birthday “making up” for my behavior on my 29th. But for that night, we spent the rest of the evening shoving ourselves with the fruits (or fish) of our labor, drinking wine, and whapping each other with my Asian umbrella. Homemade sushi had never tasted so good. And another Goal #68 was complete.
---

That was Monday, February 22nd. On Wednesday, February 24th, I went back and bought the dress for myself. Happy Birthday to me.

Two to Tango

I only like coffee on Saturday.

Every Saturday morning after 2 1/2 hours of workout, all I want is coffee. On these Saturday mornings, myself and two of my dear girlfriends buy our toffeecoffees and sit at Mama Java's for hours. We sit until our hair wreaks of coffee beans, we're shaking from refills, and my husband has texted wondering if I died in Camel Pose. It's very Sex and the City - minus the city, minus the liquor, minus one woman, plus sweaty sports attire and smeared mascara. Though the scene looks a little different, it sounds the pretty much the same. We informally take turns sharing stories of the week - work, men, friends, men, men, men. Though two of us are married, there are still plenty of men stories to share.

One story stuck with me over the past few weeks. Perhaps because I've heard it before, or versions of it. Perhaps because it's a story told by so many. A story I've told myself.

This story starts with a man. A dreamy man. A charming man. It continues with a beautiful woman. An intelligent woman. She of course adores this man. And he reciprocates that adoration... sometimes. When he feels like it. But when he's not reciprocating, he always has a reason. He's stressed. Very stressed. His friend is sad. He must help his sad, sad friend. He's busy. Very busy. SO BUSY that he literally does not have 15 spare seconds to send a text. None. These are the reasons he cannot call, he cannot text, he cannot show this beautiful, intelligent woman proper respect. These reasons are all good enough... good enough when you don't know you deserve better.

It is never easy to sit at a table with your friends, male/female, long-term/new friends as they tell you a story and you already know the ending. On this particular Saturday, in this particular situation, I decided to offer this:

It was Freshman Orientation - the summer before my first year of college. I traveled the four hours to see the campus I would soon call home. I met some of the students, spoke with some of the professors, made a few friends who I still know and love today. I also met "my future husband." Oh yes. He was fair-skinned-blonde-haired-blue-eyed, just what you would expect to find at a northern Minnesota Lutheran College. Interestingly enough, he had actually gone to my high school too; he was a senior when I was a freshman. And now, four years later, he was a senior (again) and I was a freshman (again). If you can believe it, he was more than willing to show me around campus while I was visiting. Then, later that summer he came back to our hometown, he came over to my parents' house to see if I had any questions. The only question I could think of was, "Will I even see you when we get up to school?" His only answer, "Kindra, I hope we are dating when we get up to school."

As far as I was concerned, college was already a success -- while I told my parents I wanted a diploma, secretly part of me just wanted a husband. I couldn't believe I had found him so quickly. I was pretty sure I didn't even need to GO to school after all.

Unfortunately, within the first few weeks things started going downhill. Apparently summer promises don't hold up well once the semester starts. I remember one Friday night we had made plans to go to dinner, but then an hour before I was to meet him outside the dorm, he called to say his grandmother died. Awful. He wasn't going to be able to make it.

We rescheduled for the next Friday. Then, an hour before I was to meet him outside the dorm, he called to say his grandmother died. Awful. He wasn't going to be able to make it. I'll admit, I was taken aback by the coincidence. What are the chances he would lose both grandmothers within a week of each other. But, I was sad for him all the same.

We rescheduled for the next Friday. And then,... his grandma died. Again.

I was pretty sure something was up ... but I thought I should get some outside advice. As I told this story to my roommate, to the girls on my floor in the bathroom, to the girls in my health class, to the girls on the speech team, their reactions were all the same. What a jerk! I should show up on his doorstep with a grief gift. What a jerk! I should offer to attend the funerals. I should call him family and offer my condolences. What a jerk! It was unanimous. I agreed. What kind of a future husband behaves this way?

I planned to have words with him on the fourth Friday night of my college career. I was going to tell him that he should stop treating me like that. However, it would have to wait until after my Latin-Dance Competition for Spanish 3 Class that evening.

As my dance partner and I were warming up for the Merengue, I told him about the multiple-dead-grandmas. I told him what a Jerk my future husband was. It was obvious the response I was hoping for, and I fully expected him to to shout out "What a Jerk!" in spanish. But he did not. He wasted no breath telling me I was right - he didn't even touch on the fact that my future husband was being a jerk. Instead, he responded: "Kindra, it takes two to Tango."

Huh? I should have known better than to talk to a man.

I didn't have time to clarify before we were strutting across the floor, though I don't think clarification would have helped. It wasn't until years later that I truly understood his meaning. It wasn't until years after that, that I believed (allowed myself to believe) what he was saying was correct.

The tango is a passionate dance filled with twists and turns, but unless it's required for your grade in spanish class, this dance is your choice. In these situations, in order for someone to be a jerk, you must be participating. You have to be waiting for the call that won't come, the text that won't be sent. In my story he might have been a jerk, but it was my decision to keep dancing; to keep calling, to keep engaging, to keep plotting, to keep allowing myself to be treated that way. He was being a jerk yes, but my heels were on, the rose tightly between my teeth. It is easy to blame your partner, but satisfaction/relief will never come unless you realize the role you play in your own struggle.
---

When I shared the story of the dead grandmothers that Saturday morning at coffee, my friends laughed at me. I expected them to. It was funny. Ridiculous. Three dead grandmothers in a row -- and the fact that I kinda believed him... hilarious. I nodded and looked down into my fourth cup of coffee. Then after a pause (for dramatic effect), I raised my eyebrow. I tried with a look to say to my beautiful, intelligent friend, that she was dancing right now. And perhaps it was time to get off the floor. That was the last Saturday we spoke of her dreamy-charmer. Thankfully, shortly after, she decided to take her final bow and exit stage right to uproarious applause from her Saturday morning coffee crew.

If you happen to be tangled in the tango as you read this, though we are not sitting at coffee, I hope the story I shared makes you laugh at my foolishness. I was foolish. My second hope is that you'll take a close look at your story, at your foolishness and with a forgiving heart (forgiving of you) choose to end the dance.

Paradise Found

I love birthdays. Especially mine. And now, after waiting an entire year, my birthday is finally back. I turn twenty-nine on Monday. I’ll admit, I’m not a huge fan of birthdays being on Mondays, but I solved that problem. The celebration started Thursday with surprise birthday balloons tied to my bike at Spin Class. Additionally, I have been using the phrase “It’s my birthday!” liberally throughout the rest of the week – shouting it out in the grocery store, in the office, as a way to greet people on the phone when they call me. I have eaten no fewer than five cupcakes (some gourmet, some homemade with love) and have enjoyed three “birthday” dinners. Now that I think about it, this would be my best birthday except for one small detail…

Twenty-nine.

In a recent phone conversation, my mother asked me how I felt about the fact that I was turning twenty-nine. My answer was simple.

Yuk.

Let me be clear, I explained. I have no problem with getting older. That’s actually why this birthday is kind of a downer – I would rather be turning thirty. I feel like I’ve been here a long time. I feel like I have the wisdom, the maturity, the spirit of someone who is turning thirty. I’m ready to move into the next decade of ages. I’m ready for the big celebration that comes when you leave a decade behind. I’m ready to exit my twenties. Therefore, twenty-nine I explained, is kind of … anti-climactic.

There was silence on the other line. I prepared myself for the typical “Youth is wasted on the young,” or “Enjoy your twenties while you have them” responses. However, those phrases never came. Instead, my mother said in her contemplative voice (that I hope to one day master but I’m pretty sure I’ll have to be much farther along than thirty, forty even…)

“Twenty-nine was my most difficult birthday too. But I think for very different reasons...” Here were the reasons she gave me.

My mother and father got married when she was 22. At age 26 she had a (very very very beautiful) daughter. At age 28 she had a son. Therefore, the birthdays leading up to twenty-nine looked something like this. Twenty-two: she had the world at her feet, she was marrying the man of her dreams, she had her whole life ahead of her; a life of adventure and romance. Twenty-six: the wonder, the magic of her first pregnancy. The belly, the baby talk, there could be nothing better. Twenty-eight: her second pregnancy, the joy of a growing family, explaining what it was going to be like to be a big sister, the excitement of a full home. Then she turned 29.

While she loved her husband, adored her children, she couldn't escape the feeling that something wasn't right. That something was missing. Where was the adventure? Where was the romance? Now that the excitement of the changes in her life had settled ... was this it? Twenty-nine: work. wife. mom. work. wife. mom. She didn't remember signing up for this. This wasn't the Paradise she had planned. She felt lost -- like the thing that was missing was her.

A day that should have been a celebration of her life, and instead she felt like she had none. Twenty-nine, she explained, was … anti-climatic. At best.

I had never known this story of my mother. And hearing it reminded me of a different story.

This story is called Could this be Paradise? by Steve Sanfield and can be found in one of my favorite collections of stories, The Best Loved Stories Told at the National Storytelling Festival. Here is the story as I remember it.

There once was a man who was displeased with his life. Every morning at the kitchen table, over a luke-warm breakfast he would scorn his life that had fallen short of his expectations. He didn’t like his work, his wife was a nag, and his children could never be satisfied. Since it didn’t appear that his lot would be changing anytime soon, he spent most of his time dreaming of Paradise. “Someday, someday I will journey to Paradise.”

Then, one day, not much different than any other day he decided this would be the day he traveled to Paradise. Without a word to his wife, without a hug to his children, he pushed open the heavy front door, walked through the front gate with a broken latch and down the street to the village he had called home.

He passed the people who knew him by name, little did they know this would be the last time they saw him. He walked by the general store, the town hall, and the church. The buildings were old and tattered. He was happy to be trading them in for the beautiful buildings of Paradise. It didn’t take long until he was at the bottom of the hill that marked the edge of his village. He took one last, lingering look for this was certainly the last time his eyes would ever see this town. He was a man bound for Paradise.

The man climbed the hill and began his journey. He crossed the countryside, traveled in the direction of the sun, certain it would bring him to Paradise. However, Paradise was not a mere day’s journey. Eventually the sun slipped behind the horizon, the sky deepened and the chill of night fell. The man decided to stop for the evening. He found a tree that would provide sufficient shelter, and before laying down, removed his shoes. The man carefully placed his shoes beside the tree, pointed in the direction he had been traveling; pointing them towards Paradise. With that, he lay down under the tree and began dreaming of the Paradise that awaited him.

Whether as a joke, a prank, or to teach the man a lesson it is not clear. What is clear is that night while the traveler slept a troll came and, without a sound, took the man's shoes and turned them around. The shoes now pointed back in the direction from which the Paradise-seeker had come. With that, the troll vanished.

As the first rays of the morning fell, the man awoke. “Today is the day I find Paradise!” He leapt to his feet, put on his shoes, and began traveling in the direction they told him to go – traveling toward Paradise.

After nearly an entire day of walking, he arrived. “Paradise!” he shouted from a top the hill that marked the edge of Paradise. As he stared at the village below, he thought it looked vaguely familiar. “Strange,” he said. “It looks similar to my old village.” The man didn't think much of it - he was too excited to have finally found Paradise. He descended down the hill.

As he walked, he passed a church, a town hall, and a general store. “Strange,” he thought, “these buildings look as tattered as the buildings in my old village.” Writing it off as a coincidence, he kept on walking – thrilled to be in Paradise. As he walked, he met the people of Paradise. Strangely, they knew him by name.

The man continued until he came to the end of the road where there was a gate with a broken latch. He walked through and as he did, he heard a voice calling him in for dinner. “Strange, she sounds just like my old wife.” But never having turned down dinner before, he entered the home. As he opened the heavy front door, he was greeted by two children who wrapped themselves around him, happy to have their loved one home.

To this day, the man sits at the kitchen table every morning over a luke-warm breakfast, content with his life in Paradise. Or at least, he was pretty sure it was Paradise. If not, it was close enough.
---
I don’t personally remember much about my mother’s 29th birthday. I do know she never left. She probably opened gifts that she bought for herself and gave to my well-meaning father to give back to her. She probably cleaned the kitchen-turned-battlefield after her two children “baked her a cake.” She probably spent most of the day in the role of "mother" and "wife" and not much time as "the birthday girl." She probably called her mom and told her that her 29th birthday was ... anti-climactic. As the day came to a close, she probably tucked the kids in, kissed her sleeping husband good-night, removed her shoes and crawled into bed. And in those last moments before sleep took her away, perhaps she dreamed of Paradise…
---

The desire for Paradise is not itself a crime. Everyone desires Paradise. The confusion of where to find Paradise is where the problem lies. Paradise is your responsibility. It is a state of mind. Paradise doesn’t exist unless you create it, unless you choose it. The next time you seek Paradise, long for it, fear you may never find it … turn your shoes around and walk right back to where it all starts. With you.

My mother awoke on her second day of being 29 to two children wrapped around her, a husband who adored her, and a renewed perspective. In the night, someone had come and turned her shoes around. It wasn't a troll, it was her. And when she awoke, she chose to see Paradise.

So when you find yourself in that moment, birthday or not, when your life is not what you expected, when you are overcome with the desire to seek Paradise - before you do, be sure to first take a moment to turn your shoes. Take a moment to find the Paradise that exists around you. If improvements need to be made, fine. Those improvements can be grounded in the Paradise you've already created - it's there, and it shouldn't take a troll to find it.

With that said, I have decided to approach my twenty-ninth birthday differently. I am going to soak up every moment of that Monday, thrilled to have exactly that many years under my belt: no more, no less. Thrilled to be exactly where I am, pleased with where I intend to go. Paradise.

Besides, now I have more time to plan a really great 30th Birthday Party.