Split Personality-Revised

I am blaming this photo from Cafe Johnsonia for what has transpired in my life this week.

Chup spent the week in Regina, Canada. He'd call and say "You can't believe the snow!" Or, "I've never been so cold!" and I'd say "I can believe the snow!" Or, "I've been that cold!" Because I spent due time in Quebec freezing my insides. But let me tell you, a hot plate of poutine will get you through any inclement weather. That is my testimony to you.

I think food should be a perfectly fine way to weather life's storms. Sometimes my weight gain is justified by the fact that I survived. I got through nine (or was it ten?) months of flu-like symptoms because of El Azteca burritos and donuts. More weight was gained than needed, but did I mention I SURVIVED? After which I did a little thing called "gave birth."

(Have you read Pollan's In Defense of Food? Intriguing.)

This week it was all about bananas. I found my thoughts drifting to the sweet manna of the monkey gods. Bananas dripping with the golden lucre of caramel. Immersed in a pot of bubbling semi-sweet. Lounging against the landscape of BYU Creamery Vanilla mountains all snowy with heavy whipping cream. Pinned by boulders of graham cracker chunks. I love where this is going . . .

But I resisted.

Until last night when I called Page for our dinner appointment.

"We're having potato leek soup." She said like a waitress talking about the soup du jour.

"I was thinking about dessert, actually. That is all I want." I responded.

"Oh! Well we are also having applesauce! With cinnamon!"

How could you be so excited about applesauce with cinnamon? That--my reality--is why Page is skinnier than I am.

"I'll be up in an hour." I said as I packed The Chief in his stroller. We were off to purchase all needed ingredients. Know what? I was tired of needing a church social to justify desserts with bananas. Hot dang, we was having homemade banana splits!

After arriving at Page's house I was served a small bowl of potato leak soup, a slice of Page's wheat bread and an empty plate for my applesauce. Get this, it wasn't pre-mixed cinnamon applesauce. I was actually required to add cinnamon to my applesauce. And, the cinnamon came in the world's largest bottle of spice I've ever seen. Which, I suppose is reasonable if cinnamon is your only source of dessert.

Post-dinner there was a performance of The Beatles Let it Be as each child played his/her instrument of choice. Page and I added the vocals because my instrument is my voice (and gift to the world, subsequently). I was reminded of those profound lyrics:

Let it be,
Let it be,
Speaking words of wisdom,
Let it be.

As in, if you want a banana split, let it be.

And then, I did.



Post-edit:
I wasn't going to post today, but then The Councilwoman called to say "How will I know that you are ok if you don't post on your blog?" And ended the conversation with, "I am hanging up now so that you can go post." And as the story goes, after the phone call I decided to instead go back to bed, only to be visited by the Ghost of Disobedience who told me about a certain hell for blogging daughters who don't post when their mothers tell them to . . .

Second paragraph first line actually read: Food is a perfectly fine way to weather life's storms.

But that is a lie, right? Food abuse is serious. Food deserves respect and not emotional-based mistreatment. I am serious and I might need a therapist.

So, I repented and revised: I think food should be a perfectly fine way to weather life's storms.

Because I wish I could eat my way out of some of the spots I get into.

And re: your e-mail (you know who) there is no double entendre involving Chup's absence and bananas. For the shame.

Househusband-Revised

Three parts.

First part:

My husband was an actor. Unless he was in front of a camera or in a sound booth mixing words with intonations, he was home. I was unemployed (by choice) because if he was going to be home, I was going to be home too.

And we worked out an existence. Owned a home. Two cars. A dog.

Then my husband was offered a great job. Came with all sorts of perks and steady paychecks. We feel blessed, especially since the whole company is made up of a network of human angels. But now he is not home. He travels, or commutes to a desk. Leaving me alone at home (with his dazzling Mini Me for company, but still . . .)

Moral of First part: I miss him.

Second part:
The wind was adamant today. I took The Chief for a walk in the park but continually apologized for the dust trail that followed our buggy. I felt responsible, even though the weather--I'm sure--is not my fault.

We crossed the street to head home. I saw my friend Erin on her bike. When we stopped to talk so did the wind. I thought it was a sign. I think a lot of things are signs, it can be confusing.

We talked about husbands and careers.

"I didn't see my dad a whole lot growing up. He worked a lot. So all my life I prayed that my husband would have a job where he could be home."

" . . .and?" I waited.

"His job allows him to be home when the children are out of school. He is home on Saturdays too. It was an answer to my prayers, which I think I deserved anyway, seeing how my dad was never home."

(Tongue in her cheek, wind blowing again.)

Moral of Second part: I can pray for my husband to be home. More.

Third part:
I cooked chicken tonight for the first time since don'taskme. The parents came for dinner and brought with them my bohemian uncle Jeff. We had pasta, artichokes hearts and passed around a plate of herbed goat cheese. It wasn't my proudest meal, but I'm a humble cook these days.

When my dad comes to dinner I like leave out a couple apples for his consumption. After dinner he ritually takes an apple, carves it using his butter knife in one continuous peel, contributes a few shakes of salt to the exposed core and shares.

Tonight was no different.

Only, Uncle Jeff sat watching, and after the first apple was undressed he commented,

"How did you do that? Using a butter knife?"

And my father responded,

"This is what dad used to do all the time. Do you remember?"

But Uncle Jeff replied,

"I don't remember anything. I was too young when he died."

(In a plane crash, while on a business trip, leaving eight children fatherless. My father, the oldest, was sixteen.)

So my dad got the last apple and peeled for it Jeff.

Moral of Third part: I've got to learn to peel apples using a butter knife.




Post-edit:
I wrote this post last night really late. I couldn't figure out how to write the Moral of Third part. I wanted to say that the moral is I want a stay-at-home husband. But, I can't quite bring myself to state that yet. It seems ungrateful--and selfish. I also wonder how many other women want the same.

I fell asleep thinking about how to end it. I woke up to feed The Chief in the middle of the night and thought "Butter knives are versatile utensils" and I wrote it that way. I think it meant that my husband can work now, and be at home later. He has many uses, I guess? This morning though, as I was spooning The Chief up some oatmeal, it came to me. I've got to learn to peel apples using a butter knife. Which I think means that I need to buck up and be the part of me that feels lonely. After all, there are some things that The Chief will only learn from me.

But the end is still not there yet, admittedly. I think it might be something like "I've got to get a brother for The Chief." Brothers sometimes turn into the fathers that went missing. We'll see . . .

Also deleted: And, buy more apples.

Made up word: herbed.
I like it though. The rosemary garlic loaf? It was all herbed up.

Try it.

It's Raining Mormons (And They're Blogging About It)

I had the most intriguing time talking to Ms. Krista Kapralos of the Religion Dispatches on the Birth of the Bloggernacle (Mormon blogging). It is always good to soften the ego to room temperature before engaging in interviews with well-studied reporters. Krista had me thinking for days about our conversation and what I should've said. I think she represented well what I wanted to convey about being a blogger of peculiarity and Mormon-ness. Hopefully it isn't apparent that by the end of the phone call with Krista I was begging for mercy. Oh sweet mercy!

I was asked if I would be surprised if I got a call from my bishop about content on my blog. I thought about that one all week. Does my bishop care about what I write on my blog? If I were to tell about how I went out with my mother for coffee on a Tuesday night (hypothetically speaking) would he call me into his office? And if he did would he be more concerned that I was drinking coffee or that my mother wasn't at City Council Meeting with him?

Then on Sunday my bishop did call me into his office. His face was really serious and concerned.

"Sister Kendrick." He started.

"Yes, Bishop." I choked.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"Brother Kendrick?"

"Fine."

"The Chief?"

"Fine."

Then a stern look.

"Have you written about me on your blog lately?"

"No." I defended.

"Well, why not?" He retorted.

So now I know. My bishop does care about the content of my blog. Hopefully Ms. Kapralos will ask me the same question again for Birth of the Bloggernacle Part Two. This time I am prepared.



You can read the Religion Dispatches article here yo.

And you can also follow a Mormon blog discussion on The Frog here. I would love to hear from you. Yes, you. You interesting blog reader you.

Knowing This Guy

This post is in honor of Larry H. Miller a great philanthropist in the state of Utah. Larry passed away on Friday. He will be missed around here. (Photo: Deseret News)

Long before I was Mrs. Chup, I was nothing more than a little sister to my brother Topher and sister-in-law Lisa whom Chup knew through acting and improv groups. They had thrown his name around enough in living room conversations for me to feel as though I was his friend too. And in those days I lived across the street from the rugged almost-thirty-year-old bachelor, so I was technically a neighbor as well.

But that was it, really.

He didn't know me much from the next short-haired, freckled face Clark sister though I was the only one available. Page had long-since married. Stephanie, by far our most demure sister--shy and modest--had also recently married. Then came Lucy, who besides being extremely spoiled, was also too young. That left me, and I was in love. With him.

We had met before (at a fateful New Years Eve party) but mostly I had fallen in love from across the street. I knew his comings-and-goings from my advantageous dormer window. I stalked him like celery. He was tall, liked desert boots and ate out a lot.

I let my crush flourish until one day I watched as Mr. Chup pulled up in his silver Monterro, walked around the car and produced a svelte blond with hair to her midlands. He took her and her loaded backpack into the house.

At that point I no longer had a crush, I had a challenge.

So it was one day that my little sister Stephanie heard there was to be a red carpet occasion for the cast of the recent Dutcher movie. Larry H. Miller had opened the foyer to his grand-scale house of amusement, Jordan Commons for the event. Because they were in the ensemble, Topher was going, Lisa was going and according to their reports, Chup was going too.

I convinced my shy sister to come with me just to watch. I promised that seeing our loved ones on the carpet would be well-worth the thirty minute drive. Included in the conversation was the part about me wanting to see what Chup's leggy blond would be wearing, and how he'd look by her side. Ever loyal, Stephanie also suggested we dress in our swanks, just to draw attention if needed.

Jordan Commons was all Hollywood-ed out. There were flashing lights, reporters in front of cameras and swarming crowds around our local stars. We watched Topher and Lisa parade in, he looking artsty and her glowing in turquoise. It wasn't long after that I noticed Chup. A good foot taller than the buzzed crowd, he had on a leather jacket and was busy networking. On his arm was the blond, her hair a bit more strawberry against the redness of the carpet. She was prettier at every look.

The crowd proved too much for me. Stephanie encouraged me to say hello my good neighbor, but my heart was fainting. She knew well the feelings of instant insecurity and asked if I'd like to take a short walk about the Commons. Maybe I could find courage in a Fresca? As we circled around I tried not to take the occasion too seriously (really). Nearby the ticket office we met up with a man in a blue golf shirt and tan Dockers. He looked really familiar, and I wondered if he was a casually-dressed actor late for the premiere.

"Hi Larry!" Stephanie said to the man cheerfully.

It was Larry H. Miller himself.

"Hello!" He responded just as jovial.

The slight shock of seeing Larry so unceremoniously walking around his place was underminded by the astonishment of seeing Stephanie so extroverted.

"What? I feel like I know him." She explained to my stupefied face. Larry's marketing motto was "You Know This Guy" and it proved true. His down-to-earth attitude wasn't just a ploy for auto sales.

Her bravery and his kindness inspired me. I turned to look towards the crowd. There was Chup again, tall, handsome, leaning over talking to the blond. Suddenly he looked up and our eyes met. I didn't look away. Neither did he. For a few seconds we stared at each other, until the blond beckoned him back to the crowd. It appeared that she wanted to be introduced to the infamous director, Richard Dutcher.

Years later, when I was Mrs. Chup (officially) he told me that evening marked the end with the blond. He introduced her to Dutcher by the wrong name. He knew it wasn't a good sign.

Next, I Think I'll Run For Governor

Thanks to Barbara Thornton for the well-documented photos.

This is the account of how I, c jane, came to say the pledge on the floor of the House of Representatives for our great state of Utah.

First, I got an email from my father (Representative 63--officially on his badge) saying that he didn't think I should quit my blog until after I accepted his offer to lead the pledge to open the daily lawmaking on the floor of the House of Representatives on the nineteenth of February. (The nineteenth being one day after his anniversary of being married to my good mother--incidentally also 63 years of marriage. Or what seems like 63 years anyway.) For the public record, I never said I was going to quit my blog in the first place.

If you are confused right now, imagine being me.

Second, he asked me to also invite my older sister Page and my younger sister Lucy.

Third, I did invite them. Page said "maybe some other time." Lucy said "Sure as long as I don't have to talk and I can just stand there and look pretty and also can I bring my husband and will there be lunch?" I also invited my mother, The Councilwoman who showed up this morning in our carpool with the most smashing Jackie O outfit you've ever seen since the actual Jackie O. Mutha loves Jackie O.


Barbara (with the family) who will have a baby boy soon--I couldn't help wish I were her because baby boys rock my socks. Do you love The Chief's snow pants? p.s. his awesome onesie was donated by this good shop.

Fourth, we met lots of Capitol Hill friends who read the c jane and the nie nie, including that one lady who got a little mixed up and told Lucy that her granddaughter "just loved her blog so much!" Her blog? Her blog? Lucy holds a firm stance that she will never own a blog and if she did, she WOULD NEVER post pictures of her latest trip to Cancun wherein she displays photos of her and her better-half, half naked, swinging from touristy traps. Instead, she feeds chickens and tends to a beehive. To each her own, I say.

Fifth, a shout-out. Nice to meet you Southern Belle Sandy, Beautiful Barbara and Minority Smart Rhoda. And in case this is a guilty pleasure night, well done Representative Edwards. Thanks for helping us feel so at home.

Sixth, the Speaker of the House announced us as Representative Clark's granddaughters. Laugh, laugh, unintended gaffe. Made my Dad feel old like giraffe. (Slight poem.)

Seventh, The Salt Lake Tribune media guy told me that The Chief was "the most innocent person he'd seen on the floor all session." Then went on to snap ten million photos of my babe who thinks cameras are just a facial attachment.

Eight, Dad prayed eloquently before his colleagues.

Nine, I said "Please follow me in the pledge" with a smile, while Lucy stood there looking pregnantly pretty, just as promised. My question: who had the harder job, me or her?


I say the pledge (see my shoulder there in purple?), Lucy is pretty and The Chief looks on--symbolic of the future of the great state of Utah . . .

I am saying "Sandy, I think I should come to South Carolina with you in March." Inside joke.

Ten, to our toast we met Chup for lunch at Gourmandise and ended the whole adventure with eclairs, fruit tarts and chocolate mousse cake.

What day to be a citizen of Utah. I think we can all agree, having a common blogger say the pledge today means progress for our online community. After this day, blogging will be a bit more respected throughout the halls of our congress, in the hushed rooms of appropriation committees (stole that one off the door to my dad's office) and on C-Span. Fellow Bloggers, this was a victory for us all.

Good night. And you're welcome.

Blog Frog Discussion: Does Your Mom Read Your Blog?

This is an 80 year-old picture of me, my mom and my nostrils.

I am talking about mothers and blog reading today on my very own Blog Frog forum.

Fancy, Je sais.

Join or follow the discussion here.

(Consider it penitence for turning off my blog comments. Sometimes comments are just too complicated for a simple blogger like me.)

Happy St. Elko Day

Every year On Valentines Day my good parents-in-law (Honey and Popeye--I call them) send us chocolate-caramel valentines. They are huge, heart-shaped and handmade by a chocolatier called Fredricksons in Twin Falls. Valentines Day is a double celebratory occasion in our family because it's the anniversary of Honey and Popey's elopement. They took off and married in Elko--just two young lovebirds. So just to keep things simple, I sometimes call the holiday St. Elko Day. Then I have a fat chunk of my chocolate-caramel valentine. No sharing please.

But this was The Chief's first St. Elko Day and it made me think:

If Honey and Ringo eloped to Elko.

And Chup and I eloped to Vegas.

Where will The Chief elope to?

Don't answer that, unless you are going to assure me that The Chief will never get married. Is it my maternal instinct to continually dread the day that some girl will vie for my son's heart and win? Can't he just always be mine mine MINE?

Anyway, we'll teach The Chief to get married in the temple like we did after we eloped. Like Popeye and Honey did after they eloped. Because unlike my chocolate-caramel valentine (hawh), we believe families last forever.

Which means that I will always be The Chief's mom, which is a pretty good eternal gig.

Quiet Noise: A blue lily/c jane Photo Essay

Our house is so still.

The Chief scuttles around on the carpet sans his usual entourage of devoted half-siblings. It's been since Friday night that we've been without our three passengers, Claire, Jane and Ollie and it still feels strange.

This is the tone of our house:

Inherited toys.


Including that dinosaur with mysterious origins.


More e-mail, more ignoring.


Ample time for one adorable child.


Socks in laundry are man variety only.


Vacuuming the kitchen carpet seven less times daily.


Still considering eating my emotions.



And thinking--now that all is said and done--how blessed we were for six months. A house full of children is an adventure that simply cannot be surpassed in this lifetime.

(Sorry, Everest.)

And praying that someday soon we'll be able to fill up our Retro house again.

Next time with children that can stay.

Want more of blue lily & a giveaway? Go here.

Born Feet First

The eventuality of infertility is that sooner or later you will have a baby. A need-ling who consumes your daily doings and enjoys milking all of your thoughts. My first baby was my dog, then it was my blog. I totally didn't even mean for my first two children's names to rhyme--but I am in Utah, so it's completely socially acceptable.

Whenever I get an e-mail from a fellow fertility seeker with a hatching baby I am exhilarated for them. It feels good to escape the frustrations with a project that needs nursing. Such is Laura of Gypsy Feet--a blog that posts pictures of weary travelers (or California-bound tourists) from all over this earth. Yesterday, I was honored to accept her invitation to bounce her baby on my knee, or, in other words, post a picture of my piggies for her blog.

The above photo is of my feet when I felt less gypsy-ish and more bloated with pregnancy (as in, my third child). When I look at it I feel strangely desirous to get a needle and poke to relieve pressure. But the photo I sent to Laura is not of my pregnancy feet, although it does showcase my vast collection of pink footwear (as well as my legwarmers, toe cleavage and the ever-present kitchen carpet--bluhg).

Should you decide to celebrate Laura's new arrival you can do so here. I am sure you'll agree with me, this woman should definitely have more babies.

Spacebook

So a long time ago (when I looked like, ahem, this) I opened a Facebook account but didn't tend to it like a good Facebook girl should.

I don't know what has gotten into me, but now I am in a Facebook frenzy.

Wanna be my friend or something? Just don't ask to me to join anything. I am in it for the random hellos and entertaining updates.

Okay, I am also in it for competition. Chup has more friends than I do. It really hurts. Makes me think I wasn't as popular in high school as I thought I was. And I thought I did alright. I mean, he was in some chamber choir called "Magicals." Which is fine, but not nearly as provacative as School Newspaper Reporter.

Ding! Round One goes to c jane.

Check out my profile (and terribly deceptive profile picture) here. Hurry before Facebook goes the way of Myspace.

Yesterday Was . . .

. . . a mohawk day for Ollie.

And since I missed most of the '80s due to my innocent upbringing, I gave the job to my husband who took the whole situation seriously.

Yelling from the bathroom laboratory:

"Baby Doll? Where is the blow dryer?"

"Babe? You have a round brush?"

"Is there hair spray around here?"

Then--at last--Ollie emerged looking like the punk I saw in Trafalgar Square on my first trip to London.

Couldn't tell who was more proud at that moment, Chup, Ollie or me.

Is Your Fridge Running? Better Catch It

Did you hear?

Fridge Decoration is the newest form of Installation art.

Tools include magnets, tape and holiday frivolities.

From now on I am adding Fridge Decorating to my mental list of "What I'd Like to be Really Awesome At"

Other activities joining that list:

Snow Cave Production
Face Painting
Balloon Creation/Juggling
and
Calling People Back

I will you keep you posted on this artistic journey and/or any awards I might win in the process--like the Pulitzer for Fridge Art.

A Post for Those Who (Like Me) Find the Outcomes of Digestion Fascinating*

*Consider yourself warned.

Admission: I feed my baby black beans every day partly because I am curious to see how they show up in his diaper the next morning. There is a small feeling of satisfaction when some of them survive the digestive tract intact. Same with sesame seeds from his special gourmet crackers. They are like little black dots of health and hope.

So you can imagine my thrill when I found The Chief gnawing on a (NON TOXIC) glitter stick underneath the kitchen table this afternoon as we were duty-bound making glittery Valentines. The soft shade of violet must've gotten away.

This means one thing:

Sparkly beans pants tomorrow morning.

Confession: I can't wait.

The Monaco in May

The '74 Dodge Monaco came with the house.
It was a package deal for Chup.

"You get the house I get the car."
Deal.

It worked with the contemporary look of the place, anyway.
Charm? Shall I say?

Mint condition too.
Driven by an neatly woman to church-and-back once a week.

On the day we were presented the title and keys, I went into labor.
Sailing like a boat on concrete, we went for a ride to pass the time.

With my husband, Lucy and me lounging in the front seat.
I, in my laborious purple housedress.

Speed bumps. Contractions.
Equally exciting.

Drove past an old boyfriend's house.
Up the Indian Hills and over to Canyon Road.

Used the horn at neighbors out gardening.
While listening to memorable music on the dial radio.

So smooth was the Monaco, I thought for a moment about giving birth in the back seat.
Calling our baby Dodge by association.

But we floated back home.
I was barefoot.

And hours later our lives changed forever more.

Last Potato . . . Send Reinforcements . . .

Ambiance

It was five-ish and the sun was drowning. I looked at my evening options and wondered if I could make last minute plans.

"Mom?" I called. "Can you do dinner?"

"What are you making?" She asked.

"No. Nothing. I mean, meet up for dinner?"

"I'll call Dad."

Shortly I was bundling up The Chief in layers of cotton. My dad arrived like an efficient taxi. He took the loaded car seat from me and I moved with it into the back of the car.

On the way to the restaurant we talked about the Utah legislative session. He had an interesting lunch about health care. Well-researched and informative.

The Chief's eyes darted out the window.

Then closed.

We arrived down town just before it was busy. It was a like a rainy night without rain.

In the restaurant the host greeted my father.

"Ahh, the Clarks!"

We were led to a table which seated my mother and Lucy.

Lucy was rubbing her belly.

The Chief dozed as we ordered limonadas and salads.

Our conversation floated from state politics to city issues. I don't know if I am a product of my parent's political ambitions, but I find it all energizing. Sorta like good-and-proper gossip.

Somewhere around the last bites of our main course The Chief yelped. Just in time for desert.

Lucy and mom left in haste for Nosferatu. Dad and I alone ordered extra pieces of chocolate cake (to go) for late night fantasies. He made sure I got four pieces, so we'd all be rewarded.

When he dropped me back home Dad carried in the car seat--heavy with baby--offered me a wide open hug and called me a sweetheart.

You know, I don't consider myself a sweetheart at all. But when he says it, I believe it. It is nice while it lasts.

Later after the children returned from a nightly rendezvous with their real parents, I put them to bed with back rubs. The Chief hesitantly succumbed to the call of his crib and active humidifier.

I ate my chocolate cake alone. Thought it could've used a little more sodium. Next time I will try the Nutella tarts.

I listen to a missed phone call message from Chup.

"It is late here." He says in his business travel tired voice. " I've got to go to bed now. I miss you. Call me if you want."

I think about calling him. I think it is kind of romantic not to call. Just to send telepathic messages. Because that is how good we are.

Or, romantic to call. Because I can. I can wake him up and he'll always be glad I did.

I decide to wait for tomorrow.

I fall asleep watching the news.

Kernels

I felt strange this morning.

It felt like having a lost popcorn kernel shell impossible to find in your mouth. The tongue gets hired to sweep around in an effort to locate the progressively annoying shell. Is it on the roof? Budge-less deep in the back gums? Or worse, half-way down the throat?

The clock told me I had time before alarms were to ring throughout the house, so I sat in my strangeness wondering what was missing. When all checked out well, I got up to greet my laptop and quickly realized that it had been decades since I had written a proper post. On my blog.

Strange.

So all day long I thought about a subject for my post-hiatus comeback. But nothing happened today. Really, nothing. At least, here I am at ten o'clock and I can't think of one thing I did today that I could evolve into anything worth our time (yours and mine). Plus aside from feeling strange I feel terribly rusty.

We did spend a couple hours in our (now) empty living room. The empty comes from our cleaning out the space to get ready for the spice. Since yesterday we've spent most of our time rolling around on the available carpet in and out of the moving sunshine and shade. Did I say a couple hours? Come to think of it, I spent the entire day in that room. Children with me, Lucy visiting and when Chup came home he joined us. It is so refreshing to be in a room sans furniture, I am now rethinking the whole couches are a necessity.

See what I mean?

Couches or not, I am back from hiatus.

Finale

We arrived home from the concert late last night. The Chief had fallen asleep in his concert-going clothes and we shoveled him into bed that way. Claire, Jane and Oliver wrapped themselves up with their tired bodies and were asleep in rapid minutes. Chup and I sat at the dining room table finishing off a soaked tres leches talking about funny moments of the evening.

Mindy was lovely as ever. Chup gave kudos to his friends The Thrillionaires and called them all genius. We enjoyed our friend Ryan Shupe's performance of The Devil Went Down To Georgia and were surprised to meet David Osmond. Claire and Jane pulled out a (phew) flawless Golden Slumbers. And there was that encore which included Mindy, The Thrillionaires and ahem, me. I am not sure what happened, but at one point I was pretending to play the piano next to the brillantly talented Kendra Lowe. And danced with Jake Suazo. But that is all I remember.

Thanks to Jenny and the Silent Auction Team, those who bid and those who auctioned. Thanks to those who bought tickets and came to the concert. At one point I looked out on the audience and saw the faces of the people who care about my sister and her family. Near done me in.

For my family this was the Nie Recovery Finale. It has been almost six months since the crash, and in that time we've seen the goodness in humanity. Our sister and her family are taken care of and we thank the world for helping us in this effort. There are so many causes to support, and we've been so blessed to have had this tremendous response. Now is the time for our family to join with you in helping those who are in need. Giving back is the only way we know of to properly show our gratitude for what we've been given.

On February 14th we are asking that all Nie Recovery buttons on websites are changed to I Read Nie Nie buttons. See here for more details. The next phase of recovery is going to be long and difficult, but we are blessed to even have a recovery.

World, thank you.

***Thanks Emily for the photos!

For the official concert photography by the Haley Warner see here and please note all photographs were taken by Haley who is gestating twins. Sister Lindsey helped--thank heavens.