Our neighbour is now our dinner…

Two days ago I butchered a lamb… a whole lamb…really!  This was not just “any” lamb, it was a former neighbour of ours.  Bjørn Erik is a farmer who lives 1 km down the road (I know because I run this route often and when I arrive at his farm, my iPhone app tells me that I have completed my first kilometre).  He runs an organic sheep farm and we often make a point of stopping by in May during the lambing season.   Yes, the babies are very, very cute!

This year, Bjørn Erik asked if he could let some of his flock graze on Hans Einar’s pastures, since Hans Einar and his brother have become organic farmers and this was the first year that the pastures were certified organic.  In return for the right to graze, Hans Einar asked for a lamb.  We have taken to buying more organic meat (and eating less of it) so we looked forward to a years’ worth of organic lamb.

Hans Einar brought home the slaughtered lamb and two days later, while Hans Einar was busy at the college celebrating Christmas with his colleagues, I rolled up my sleeves, put on my apron and, with saw and knife in hand, set out to confront the challenge.  I was squeamish about the task  but figured that I really should be a more responsible cook and see close-up the source of my meals.  

This is the lamb as we received it from the abattoir:

The Challenge

The Challenge

Not visible in the picture:

1 saw
2 newly sharpened butcher knives
1 meat cleaver
1 Macbook Pro with a series of YouTube videos on how to butcher a lamb queued up.  

This is the result of watching 5 videos and 2 hours of sawing and cutting and trimming…

The pieces of meat I usually buy packaged

I ended up with 1 kg of lamb mince, 12 lamb chops (French-cut, of course!), 2 legs of lamb, 2 lamb shanks, 2 breasts, 1 rack of lamb, 2 lamb shoulders, 1 neck, 2 tenderloins and a bunch of bones were boiled and made 6 outside cats very happy.

What I Learned

The process was more physically demanding than I imagined and I would have liked a better saw (maybe an electric one!) however, the most difficult part was keeping track of the various cuts so that I could label them correctly before freezing.

The most surprising bit was that, during it all, I experienced genuine feelings of gratitude for the lamb that I had certainly crossed many times while it was out grazing and I was out running…my neighbour.

Tonight we ate our first “very local” dish, a slow-cooked lamb shank in red wine with cannellini beans.  It was delicious.

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From nearby farm to table...to stomach

From nearby farm to table…to stomach

Happy holidays and may you all be grateful for whatever you will be enjoying at table.

Regret Me Not.com

From time to time, while brushing my teeth or chopping celery or running, I come to think of things I regret having done or not having done.  Fortunately, I don’t have any really big regrets: my biggest being that I was not able to continue violin lessons when I was 13 because we had moved and there was no music programme at my new school.  To this day, when I have a close-up view of a musician playing the violin, I can almost feel the instrument propped between my chin and left hand as I slide the resined bow across the strings, sometimes even hitting a good note (I played for less than a year so good notes were a big deal).

But I do have some smaller regrets, and they are almost all related to things I said or, more often, things I did not say.  For instance, I wish I had been able to tell my 5th-grade French teacher just how much of an influence she had on my life.

Madame Bartlett came to my house twice a week for about a month to tutor me in the basics of French that I had missed when, in the middle of 4th grade, I was promoted to the middle of 5th grade and had to catch up.  I still remember sitting next to her at our dining room table, she holding up a pen and saying “stylo” and then holding up a fork and “fourchette” and me repeating “stylo” “fourchette“.

Not only did I become totally smitten with the language, something I maintain to this day, I became enamoured of Madame Bartlett…so much so that I wanted to be Madame Bartlett.  At the ripe young age of 11, French language and culture became a driving force in my life and I decided that, if I couldn’t be Madame Bartlett, I would be as close to her as possible and I set my vision on a life in France…it took me only 20 years to get there.  

Of course I didn’t know anything about Madame Bartlett, I didn’t even know her first name, but I was determined to become the person I thought she was.  I continued to study French through my university years and, when I moved to Washington, DC and was looking for a job, I decided that I wanted to work somewhere I could speak French…and I ended up at the World Bank (not bad for a frustrated violinist!).  Eight years later, a friend at the World Bank sent my CV to a friend of hers at the OECD in Paris and almost one month to the day after my interview, I moved to Paris.  From May 1992 until April 2003, I was Madame Bartlett and I really liked being her/me/us!  I wish I could find her now to tell her just what an impact she had on my life.  I think she would be agréablement surprise!

I have often thought how great it would be if there were a website where we could post positive things we regret not having said to people; a website where we could leave a note of thanks, fill in searchable details of a time, place and person and hope that the Madame Bartletts of the world would search themselves and find our expressions of gratitude.

If such a website existed, what would you say and to whom?

NoRegrets

A Final Journey – Einar Hem

Einar Hem, my father-in-law, passed away peacefully 7 days after his eldest son’s (my husband Hans Einar’s) 59th birthday.  Einar was 90 years old when he died, having lived a full life, almost every single day of it spent on the farm where he was born.  I live on that same farm and write this from the very room in which he was born, the first son of Klara and Hans Magnus Hem on 31 March 1923.

While it is clear from the many tributes paid to him at his funeral that Einar lived a rich life in which he touched many, it is in his death that I have come to really understand the man he was.

On the day the doctors told his wife, Alfhiild and Hans Einar that Einar was terminally ill, Hans Einar offered, and his mother accepted, that he and his two brothers would together make the decisions that had to be made regarding Einar’s treatment.  Hans Einar then rang his two brothers, Torbjørn and Arnfinn, and they agreed that Einar would receive palliative care only; there would be no treatment for the illness as Einar’s 90-year-old body would probably not withstand surgery or any invasive treatment.

Two days later, Einar was transferred from hospital to a nearby nursing home, where he was installed in a private room on a floor with 6 other patients and 3 nurses to look after them.  Hans Einar and I were waiting when he when he arrived by ambulance at the nursing home and I sat with Einar while Hans Einar went to talk to the head nurse about Einar’s care.  Einar had suffered from mild dementia for some time and was confused about where he was but was very aware of those around him and was polite and gentlemanly to all the nurses who came to look after him (he always did like attention!).

Because of his dementia, Einar was not told of his diagnosis or prognosis while he was in hospital and there was agreement within his immediate family that he would be told when the opportunity presented itself.  During the time Einar spent in the nursing home, he only asked one question: “Am I going to be here for an undetermined period of time?”, to which Hans Einar responded “yes, you are here for an undetermined period of time”.  It was never clear to me if it was the dementia that prevented him from understanding what was really going on or if he understood at some level but preferred not to address the situation directly.

The staff at the nursing home were kind and discreet.  Visitors were asked to leave the room whenever they prepared Einar for bed or when he was being washed in the morning. The nurses always addressed Einar directly and it was only if he was unable to answer their questions that they turned to a family member.  The staff not only cared for Einar, they cared for his visitors.  Although Einar was not eating much at the time, his family and visitors were provided with platters of sandwiches for lunch and we were all welcome to serve ourselves from the hot dinner fare that was provided to patients.

During the 5 days Einar spent at the nursing home, a member of his family was with him from mid-morning to late at night after he had drifted off to sleep.  Alfhild was at his side every day, as were his sons and there were regular visits from those grandchildren who live nearby.  There was never any agreed plan on who would come when, but there was always someone with him.  There were no activities to fill his day; rather, his family simply sat with him, talked to him when he was awake or talked quietly to each other while he napped.  There were tears and laughter and “hellos” and “goodbyes” and “see-you-tomorrows”, and with each utterance, we were acutely aware that it might be the last one.

Einar died peacefully on 21 November 2013 at 6.30 a.m.  By the time we arrived about an hour later, the staff had cleared his room of all clutter and Einar lay in his bed, lovingly prepared by the staff for his last visitors.  The room was illuminated by a single candle that had been placed by his bedside next to a vase of roses.  His family was able to be with him, uninterrupted, for as long as they wanted.

The next few days were spent making practical arrangements for Einar’s funeral and receiving family and friends who came by to pay their condolences.

The funeral service was a traditional one, held at the local church where Einar’s parents, grandparents and one of his siblings is buried.  The church was filled with over 200 of Einar’s family and friends and, given his advanced age and the fact that many of his contemporaries have already passed, this was indeed an impressive turnout.

Hans Einar gave a beautiful speech that touched on many of the highlights of Einar’s life: his birth (the first at the farm in over 40 years), the death of his father when he was only 7, his formidable athletic career and long-distance running times that make my half-marathon times seem like a slow walk, his meeting and marriage to Alfhild 59 years earlier, his life as a farmer (he was at his happiest while riding a tractor), his activities in the resistance during the war, his active participation in local politics and, perhaps most importantly to him, his life as a husband, a father, a father-in-law, a grandfather and a great-grandfather.  At one point in the service, Einar’s grandchildren were invited to place a single red rose on his pine coffin.  During the entire service, Einar’s youngest great-grandchild ran around the church, noisily reminding us of the energy of life at a time when we are so focused on death.

Einar’s three sons and his eldest grandchildren bore his coffin out of the church.  One of his granddaughters and I accompanied Alfhild behind the coffin and we stood outside in a light drizzle to receive the warm and heartfelt condolences of Einar’s community.  I was touched by the presence of our friends and those of Torbjørn and Arnfinn who showed up to support us.

Following the church service, everyone was invited to a reception with sandwiches, cake and coffee at a nearby hall.  There were some lovely speeches about Einar, some tears and enough laughter to remind us all of Einar’s dry and witty sense of humour.  As much as the funeral was a solemn moment to say goodbye, the reception was a celebration of Einar’s life.

I already knew most of what was said about Einar, from his own stories and from the meticulous scrapbooks he maintained about the history of the farm.  A few years ago, he asked Hans Einar to give him a photo of me so that I could be a part of that history, and so I am.

But what these stories and archives do not capture is what, for me, has become the real testament to who Einar Hem was in life, and that is how he was treated in dying and in death: with kindness and respect, with little fuss, surrounded by his family, and with his final life decisions made by the children he raised to be both compassionate and practical. And, while I understand it, I am saddened that, in many cultures, dying and death have become so planned, so legal, so complicated.  I have been lucky to be a part something different here at Hem and I am so grateful to Einar for that.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAEinar Hem, 1923-2013

9. Last Stop: Seattle

If you are new to my blog, you may wish to read these posts in chronological order.  I have numbered all posts to facilitate this.

Our last morning in Cannon Beach was spent sitting on a log on the beach, eating a bagel,  drinking coffee and watching the locals take their dogs to the beach for early morning exercise.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen happier dogs than those prancing around on a beach.

With our return flight only a few days away, we left Cannon Beach and my giggly, girlhood memories and headed back to Seattle.  We arrived back at Ellen and David’s place to another warm welcome and another great meal.   At dinner we recounted our tales of Indian residential schools and bike trips along False Creek; of Caffe Mingo’s meat marinated in espresso and wine, the good karma at our apartment in Portland and our meeting with Lucille and Julian; of John Steinbeck and Charley and the redwoods; of wool spinning, Indian tribal dances and Joe’s Deli; of lazy days in Bandon and job interviews at sunrise; and of chocolate-covered sea foam and bubble-gum cigarettes, Tilt-a-Whirl’s and Haystack Rock.  We obviously needed a debriefing!

But lest you think that my nostalgia trip had come to an end, there was still one more meeting scheduled for our last day in Seattle.  Debbie, my eldest sister Carolyn’s best friend from our days in Portland, was a constant presence in our family.  In fact, it was difficult to talk about Carolyn without mentioning Debbie, they were so inextricably linked.

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8. Cannon Beach

Cannon Beach was another nostalgia destination for me.  Located only a 90-minute drive from Portland, we we had visited often and I have wonderful memories of our time there.  So, we set out once again, me full of anticipation  and Hans Einar, my companion on this journey and in life, supportively helping me to navigate my trip down memory lane.

Less than 2 hours into our 5-hour trip to Cannon Beach, we passed near Florence, Oregon, home to the Oregon Sea Lion Cave . I had vivid memories of a trip to the cave during at least one of our summer trips from Portland to Los Angeles, so I did not hesitate to stop, nostaligia-tear tissues at the ready for another few steps down memory lane.

In its own words, the Sea Lion Cave is “nothing short of wild“, “a cave of wonder and enchantment“, with sea lions as the “original hard rockers” who “rock a capella style” in a veritable “sea lion jam session“.

With such superlatives, we were undeterred when the ticket seller said she could not “guarantee that we would see many sea lions”.  We paid a reduced entry fee and took the elevator on the 63-meter descent into the cave.  There was not a sea lion in sight, neither in the cave nor on any of the rocks surrounding the cave.  There was, however, a film that showed the hundreds of sea lions usually in the cave for those lucky tourists who had come at the right time.  I kept saying to Hans Einar “it’s really amazing when there are sea lions here” and “I remember the place being full of sea lions” and “just imagine this enclosed space filled with hundreds of barking sea lions”. He smiled and put his arm around my shoulders to comfort me and my dashed childhood memories of the Sea Lion Cave.

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7. Bandon, Oregon

For the last part of our road trip before our return to Seattle, we decided to take it slow and proceeded along the beautiful Oregon Highway 101 coastal road.  Our first destination was to Bandon for some rest and relaxation (road trips are tiring!).

En route to Bandon, we passed through many small and beautiful towns and I could easily imagine John Steinbeck and Charley plying these same roads.  This is a part of America where towns still have their own character and we went many miles without seeing a strip mall or a Walmart.

One of those towns, Port Orford was particularly noteworthy for us with The Crazy Norwegian’s Fish and Chips restaurant.  While we did not stop for fish and chips, I liked the description of its interior by a reviewer on triburban.com:

“The inside of the Crazy Norwegian is very um, decorated.  Imagine cramming in all your Norwegian grandmother’s memorabilia in one room and you’d be close to what this place looks like on the inside.”

The same could be said of our barn at home but that’s a story for another blog!

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Imagine cramming in all your Norwegian grandmother’s memorabilia in one room and you’d be close to what this place looks like on the inside.

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6. Hoopa, California

In Hans Einar’s quest to learn more about the American Indian heritage and my quest to visit with friends, our next stop took us to Hoopa (also written as Hupa) and the Hoopa Valley Tribe.  Rhoby, the sister of my good friend Kristy, has lived in Hoopa for nearly 40 years.  Knowing that she is deeply committed to the Hoopa Valley Tribe culture and traditions, I though it would be a great place for Hans Einar too.

We booked into the Tsewenaldin Inn, the only hotel on the reservation that sits close to the highway, conveniently located next to the Hoopa Tribal Museum and the Lucky Bear Casino.  We both had a déjà-vu feeling about the place and realised that it reminded us of hotels we had stayed in while we were “in the field” in Africa; a bit old, a bit worn, not everything working quite as it should, but, in the end, provided a comfortable and reasonably priced place to rest our weary bodies.

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