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The Advent of Christmas.

It's Thanksgiving today, and I have many things to be thankful for, including this little guy:

and this bigger guy:

When I was younger, my favorite holiday was Thanksgiving. This was in part due to the ever-edifying influence of my mother, who loved the holiday, and in part due to the fact that Thanksgiving alone is a holiday untouched by commercialization. It wasn't until my my junior year of college when I was in Paris for the fall that I realized that for me, without family, Thanksgiving means almost nothing. Since then, my love for Christmas has been steadily growing until the present day, when I have a verifiable spazz-out any time someone even mentions the holiday.

Let me first start with my love of Advent. This is a holiday practically created for control freaks such as myself (we prefer the term "motivated"). When we were in college, Philip made fun of me for leaving breakfast early enough to get to class 10 or 15 minutes early. I insisted that I liked to be early because it gave me time to arrange my things and compose my thoughts. My sister sometimes reminds me of a time when I practically yelled at her, "Five minutes early is five minutes on time!" I am punctual. I enjoy being prepared. And Advent is about preparing.

There are other things I love about Christmas. It's a holiday that celebrates every sense, from the twinkling of lights in the darkest part of the year to the smell of pines to the taste of cinnamon (what other holiday gets its own spice!?). I love that Christmas is inseparable from warm beverages and cozy houses, which helps us love winter, as you simply can't have coziness without cold weather outside. In fact, Herman Melville says as much in one of my favorite quotations from Moby Dick: "[T]ruly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold . . . If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm." With the irreplaceable snugness and the warmth of tiny lights and candles, Christmas is atmospheric.

Moreover, Christmas is a holiday that redeems the winter, a season I already love, but which, to be perfectly frank, can be bleak and bitter--we recall Narnia under the White Witch, where it was always winter but never Christmas. When Father Christmas comes, he is described not as silly or jolly, but as "so big, and so glad, and so real," which I think must be what Lewis thinks of Christmas itself. Furthermore, while everyone remembers that Father Christmas brought Peter's sword and shield and Susan's arrows and horn, and Lucy's vial and dagger, I had forgotten that he also brings them a tray of hot tea, perhaps because Lewis also loved the warmth and the snugness of Christmas. Finally, Father Christmas announces that Aslan is on the move, and I think this gets at the heart of Christmas. Not simply because Christ had to be born before He could die for us, but because Christmas is about the moving of Christ--about generosity and love and mercy.

Regardless of all this goodness, I imagine there's always a temptation to malign Christmas as the less important of the two spiritual holidays. Sometimes I think Christmas is characterized as a mollification, a time when we can all feel good about ourselves because we don't have to think about our sin or what was sacrificed for us. And yet, it occurs to me that this gift of guilt-less joy, this foretaste of our eternal gladness, may be in fact quite characteristic the God who humbled himself so that we might be like Him.

Well, it's that time again. That time when I start receiving e-mails, from my wife, who is sitting across the room, telling me, sweetly, "Blog post, poo-head."

I had thought of a great beginning for a Fall Break post, but then I re-read the first few lines of the previous post by Erin. It turns out that I " promised to write a thoughtful, well-composed entry" about our France trip to complement her own recent(-ish) post. So I'll have to save my thoughts on autumn for my next post . . . which should be in March.

Concerning Frogs:

I'll be honest. When we started discussing a European trip for a belated honeymoon, I knew we would go to France. France is romantic, it is beautiful, it has Paris, and it is beloved of Erin. I had been to France and I had found it, well, nice--but England, that is my European home. Give me English hills and fields and ales, and you can keep your French je ne sais quoi. But marriage, I am told, involves sacrifice, so I held my tongue and only hinted, once or twice, that London is not so far from Paris. I knew we would go to France.

I loved it. That sounds stupidly obvious. Of course I loved it. Who takes a three week vacation in Europe with his beloved wife and does not love it? But what I mean to say is this: those three weeks were such a beautiful collection of lovely moments and experiences that I believe they will endure, along with my wedding day and the (future) birth of my children, as one of the richest times of my life. Each day of that trip has been and will be a feast for the memory.*

At the risk of seeming materialistic, or perhaps hedonistic, I have to admit that much of our delight was rooted in a very material thing, that is, food. I have never eaten such good food and probably never will again. It was the quantity, it was the quality, it was the variation and the presentation. We spent a lot of time and money on food. We ate pretty much whatever we wanted. It would be sin, I believe, for us to live thus habitually, but for a few weeks, it was innocent, fitting, and glorious. I will not list for you all of the dishes we had, nor will I try to describe them in any detail. We ate everything from steak in Paris bistros to lamb stew at Mont St. Michel to cheap kebab in a tortilla (filled with french fries!) on a Bordeaux street corner. We also had escargot a few times. I will be more specific about one dish I had, and then I will desist. For my final French dessert, I ate a hefty Belgian waffle--with creme brulee in the squares on top. Simple but brilliant. I don't think a better dessert exists.

There were other things besides food, of course. I will say that I liked Paris better this time. I didn't like it so well the first time I was there. I know that's a frivolous and ignorant opinion: of course Paris is an irreplaceable city, a city of high beauty, history, culture, etc., and I only betray poor taste in not "liking" it. One thing that helped was the smattering of French that I have picked up. I could read signs and speak with waiters, I could even run errands solo, and thus the city felt less foreign and more inviting. I still think I would need a full season there, or a year, or several, to have any kind of ownership of that place. So I suppose we'll have to go back.

One final thing, which I loved most of all: we saw more of France than just Paris. Even though nearly one-fifth of France lives in or near Paris, it's still only one place in a much larger place, and it offers a rich but still incomplete picture of France the nation. Until we went to Bordeaux and Brittany, I did not realize that not all French people were tall and lean and beautiful. (Some of them wear sweatpants, believe it or not. Some of them are slightly pudgy.) Likewise, I did not know, until we left Paris, how much of France is covered by good earth and growing things instead of marble and concrete. All of this was comforting to me, and it helped to make the country both more livable and more lovable.

Well, there it is. I am afraid this post was only thoughtful and not well-composed. And I am sorry that it does not capture any of the beauty of our trip. But I finished it, Erin. Who's the poo-head now? (Probably still me.)

*Memory, we often agree, can deceive. It erases, omits the pain in certain experiences, or sometimes completely transforms it into sweetness, and thus distorts those experiences in our consciousness. I am aware of this and I think one ought to take some care to remember things truly. But there is another thing to be said about memory. Sometimes the memory of an experience, though it changes the event through a different emphasis, is not falser but truer than that original experience. C.S. Lewis suggests this through one of his characters in the space trilogy, and it has illuminated by own thinking. This character says to another, a recent acquaintance, that "a pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered. . . . When you and I met, the meeting was over very shortly, it was nothing. Now it is growing something as we remember it. But still we know very little about it. What it will be when I remember it as I lie down to die, what it makes in me all my days till then--that is the real meeting. The other is only the beginning of it." I try to take this attitude to my experiences, especially my travels. I try to pay close attention, not because I want to "take everything in" in and perfect that moment, but because I want more for the craft of memory later. I apologize for this digressive footnote, but I thought the idea was interesting and might amplify my meaning.

A French retrospective.

Oh dear, oh dear. By my count, it's been over two months since either of the Zoutendams have posted here. At least you can count on the quality making up for lack of quantity, right? *cricket, cricket*

Ahem.

On this, the one year anniversary of our marriage, we have made neither the first nor last compromise: Philip has promised to write a thoughtful, well-composed entry if I will meanwhile wile away the time by narrating a series of pictures from our France trip. Most of you will probably have seen all of these, but in case some of you don't have Facebook (or, like, cars or anything), please, read on. (You can click on any of the pictures to see them larger.)

Ah, yes, here I am in our lovely little Parisian apartment, smiling a demure Parisian smile, overlooking a world that is, apparently, entirely sepia (because the Marais is very stylish in that way). France (but especially Paris) is like this--I truly believe that once you step foot into that country, you lose weight, your hair becomes more glamorous, your clothes fit better, and your laugh probably becomes a little more charmingly aristocratic. That, my friends, is the magic of the French.

We spent four or five days in Paris, so we had to prioritize our time. First on my list was introducing Philip to the magical wonderland that is Pere Lachaise cemetery. If you can, imagine a tiny city made up entirely of tiny cathedrals, and then imagine that that city is in a wood, and imagine that there are broad avenues lined by trees as well. The cathedrals are the tombs of France's most famous dead, including Chopin, Delacroix, Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and many others.

It was in Paris that we realized that this trip was not primarily about sites, it was not about photos or postcards; no--it was about food. Here is one of our favorite meals--an entire feast crammed onto a tiny Parisian bistro table. On the right you see my lamb, stewed for seven hours with prunes and spices. On the left, my salad with . . . French cheesy potatoes? Quelle splendeur!

One of the most felicitous things about our time in Paris is that our dear college friend Hannah was also there. She was kind enough not only to cook us lunch, but to take this beautiful photograph of us on her rooftop.

Here is our second stop, the famous city of Bordeaux (as seen from our rather unimpressive riverboat cruise). The architecture along the Garonne River is so delightfully 18th century that it puts your heart to rest on a bed of sweet proportions with pillows of Golden means. Bordeaux, with its entire streets of cafe terraces, is like a smaller, more intimate Paris. The neighborhoods along the river bespeak the wealth of 18th century wine trade and I often hoped to stumble upon a flaneuse walking her pet turtle to a salon.

It was in Bordeaux that we first uttered those horrible words, words that no human being should ever hear: "I don't think I want another three course meal tonight." But rather than sinking into the slough of ingratitude, we simply made our way to the nearest kebab shop. The kebabs we received were exquis: some indistinguishable meat piled onto a pita with vegetables and an indistinguishable white sauce, all grilled together and the crowned with French fries (yes, in the pita).

From Bordeaux to St. Emilion, a quasi-Mediterranean, quasi-British wine town a short bus ride away. Because we couldn't bring wine home, we bought one expensive bottle and enjoyed tasting a few others. St. Emilion, is the words of Hannah, "is quite possible the most beautiful place I've ever seen." Indeed, it makes words like "sun-splashed" and "a jewel" seem a little tawdry.

We also enjoyed renting bikes to wind our way through the vineyards. The skies made for an ominous backdrop to our hilly ride, but we made it back with no rain and enjoyed the countryside very much indeed.

Here, my friends, is Rex, who was probably my favorite part of the whole trip. We were blessed enough to stumble upon the contact information of Francoise, a warm French woman who loved animals and owned 30 horses. For what seemed like an unfairly low price, she led us through the Bordeaux countryside for two hours. We enjoyed riding English, which Philip had never done before, and Francoise trusted us enough to let us trot and canter considerably. Rex was a sweet, obedient horse and a fellow gourmet to boot!

From Bordeaux in southwestern France to the tiny town of Dinan in Brittany. Dinan is such a gem--on any summer day the streets feel like a medieval fair, due to the street musicians and the half-timbered houses. I think of all the places we visited, we loved tiny Dinan the best.

Dinan is built on a hillside overlooking the River Rance. Here is the aqueduct across the river, over which the Tour de France cyclists had passed not one week earlier. You can see how luscious the valley is; indeed our impoverished Arizona souls felt quite revived.

One of the few shots of us together, in front of the river.

While so close to the Atlantic shore, we decided to visit some of the other Brittany cities. Here is the view from the coast of St. Malo--a fortified island you can reach by foot at low tide.

Another view of a fortified island from a different fortified island.

Philip is such a true Breton with his striped shirt and love of the ocean. He also bought a navy raincoat, and indeed he looked quite native! While we will always love Paris (me especially), we're mid-westerners at heart, which means that small towns, rolling landscapes of any kind, and rainy days will always win us over in the end.

Well, there are many other pictures, but since time and motivation are lagging, I will end the post here. How happy I am to remember this lovely trip on today, our first anniversary.

Summer

As you can see, one of my summer projects was to renovate the aesthetics of our blog site. Just kidding. Erin did that.

It is that time of year, though--the time of projects and to-do lists which, even when half-fulfilled, generate a gratifying sense of industry. Indeed, I can check off another item--"write blog"--on my current list when I hit "publish". I feel victorious, downright heroic, and the week is just beginning! (Note that I wrote this on Sunday. The fact that I am not able to hit "publish" until today, Wednesday, is somewhat deflating.)

Erin and I both seem to be listers. Microsoft excel is her medium of choice, Post-its mine. Between the two of us, we probably have five to seven lists going at present. I even have one Post-it list stuck to the bottom of another. This has been a habit for a while, but it seems more essential this summer. You see, summer vacation is something new for us. Yes, we've have summers off our entire lives, but this is the first summer when we've had cars and independence and no summer jobs. This is the first summer when we can do whatever we want. Watch out world. Thus far we've done wild things such as sleeping past sunrise (or 10:00, or noon, or 2:00 in Erin's case), going out for frozen yogurt, hopping in the pool at 7:00 AM because it's the only time it's stranger-free, and panting through 20-minute exercise videos a few times a week. We're ambitious.

You can see how to-do lists might be an essential motivation for more . . . essential things, such as groceries or class preparation. So far they have kept me abreast of all the serious work I need to finish. (Erin seems to finish serious work in her sleep, so no problems for her.)

But the largest lists of all this summer, thankfully, have nothing to do with work and everything to do with leisure. Erin and I leave for France in less than a week. This means two giant lists, one for all the things I need not to forget when I leave the house tomorrow, the other for all the things I need to do before tomorrow even arrives. So far so good. Some vacuuming remains, along with a few items for the mailbox or the cat-sitters. Then there will be packing, an early bedtime, and then a long roadtrip for me. Erin already flew to Kansas so she could have a week with the Risch clan; I'll be driving through Denver, spending a couple of days there with friends, and then driving across the plains to Topeka. We're praying that Bernie can hold up, especially as he's responsible for ferrying Erin, me, and Drew Risch--along with some French wine--back to the Southwest in a month. We'll think of it as Bernie's Last Big Adventure.

We may or may not blog from France. You can bet that we'll blog when we're back, though. And Erin will have lots of pictures to post. Until then, Au Revoir!

Lucrative Professions, Part 1

Although being a teacher may not seem like a lucrative career, I've certainly made up for the small salary in another kind of currency: Starbucks gift cards. I am currently considering inquiring into the possibility of purchasing a Starbucks franchise with said gift cards. Methinks the profits from that would make a nice little nest egg, which would be particularly helpful since right now our nest is egg-less, unless you count the giant Faberge egg that we intend to blow in Europe this summer. (Thanks, American government, for the giant tax return which we will be using to strengthen the French economy! Thanks and sorry, that is . . . )

And of course there's the currency of love and adoration and touched lives, which took the form of a giant birthday card with butterflies and kitties on it, signed by my seventh grade class. (Life goal #47, check.) There are also other benefits, like the schadenfreude we indulge in now that we're giving finals and not taking them. There's summer break, which I intend to squander by smothering my kitty with love all day every day (only partially untrue).

But I think one of my favorite parts about being a teacher is something entirely unexpected, a collection not of intellectual breakthroughs or inspired speeches, but of bat-poo crazy parent interactions. There, I said it. I think most teachers at our school agree that we like all of our kids. Even the most troublesome ones are rarely unlikeable: one of our largest suspensions this year for a student who wrote a particularly uplifting and encouraging message on the bathroom wall. But parents, oh goodness, parents be crazy.

I've been yelled at over the phone for absolutely no reason ("You are not being very helpful right now!"), I've been asked for advice about the specific nature of punishments (I am 23 and childless, people. I am no more qualified to give advice about raising a child than I am to give advice about the afore-mentioned, nonexistent nest egg.), and I've been given all manner of excuses for students' poor performance (many of which are probably true, including parrots eating homework). I have been accused of book burning (which may be legit--it there's any thing I hate, it's books) because another teacher told a sixth-grade student I don't even know to put away a violent book about zombies. I don't mind any of these things; I kind of enjoy that humans (myself included) can be a little absurd, and I'm always happier to have a parent who cares than one who doesn't.

My favorite strange parent interaction, however, was given to me as if for an end-of-year present, by the parents of one of my students. He wanted the school to change its modern language from French to Spanish. The oddness of this interaction came from the vehemence and intensity of the emails he sent to me and to the school; never have I seen someone so passionate about a language they didn't even speak. The crux of the emails was this: Spanish provides our children with economic advantages. French is financially irrelevant and will have no place in our children's world; we are doing them a disservice by teaching it to them.

Although I tried carefully and thoughtfully to lay out a case for French, for its cultural richness, for its ubiquity, and even for its practical uses, this parent was unconvinced. Prep schools are to prep children for the workforce, and French can't compete with Spanish in that arena. If I could have responded frankly, irreverently, and intimately to this man, a man who, upon our first meeting, I imagined to be a powerful business magnate, I would say this: I majored in French, and I managed to secure a job in spite of it. I have more money than I need (enough for the obligatory young-person European vacation). I also have the undying affection of 25 seventh graders (with a giant kitty card to prove it) and the respect of 30 high-schoolers whom I forced to learn the subjunctive mood this year. Is that really so bad? Could you really be disappointed or pitying if your daughter suffered the same fate? Would learning Spanish have made me richer? It seems unlikely, but at least possible. Would it have made me happier? Almost certainly not.

Now just wait until I get my Starbucks franchise. That'll really show him . . .

Feast Week

We almost had two posts in the same month. Had I realized, though, that yesterday was the last chance for that, I doubt I would have tried much harder.

Most forms of exertion seemed out of place in the last week. We have been, to borrow from Chaucer, "Epicurus' own children" in the last seven days. We had a proper Lent this year, and thus we also had a proper Easter--which is to say, a proper feast. Last Sunday began with chocolate and sugar and caffeine, and included several more doses of such before the day was done.

We were more responsible for a few days during the week itself, but then Erin's birthday was Thursday, and the festivities surrounding that are only now winding to a close. (We in the Zoutendam West household prefer to celebrate the "birthweek".) Thursday's breakfast, at Erin's request, consisted of sprinkle cake with sprinkle frosting, topped with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. After school, we were honored as the special guests in some colleagues' weekly "Thirsty Thursday" gathering. (Cheap magaritas and appetizers at the Mexican joint in, of all places, the mall.) Friday saw us at the GPA after-prom party. Said party began at the hippest place we've ever been, a rooftop bar near downtown Phx, but some loud karaoke singers (not from our group) shut that down early, so we migrated to a downtown pub. Erin and I returned home at 2:00. As in, AM. Waaaaay past our teacher bedtimes. Finally, Saturday took us to a posh urban café, St. Francis, where we enjoyed brunch and beverages before touring Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright's Arizona dwelling. (Incidentally, we can now check off two of the four major FLLW landmarks in the US.) A couple pictures, the first at the pub and the second at brunch:

So a busy, festive week. It was good to have some festivity, though. I know that I, at least, am feeling fatigue as we near the end of a full school year. It's not quite what it was in college, and there is more time for refreshment on weekends than there ever was at Hillsdale. Nevertheless, it has been a long year, and I am looking forward to the leisure of summer.

Of course, we have 3 weeks left, plus exams. That should leave us plenty of time to accrue good stories. Look for more to come.

Why, hello there.

Well, we are officially the worst bloggers ever. I can't tell you how many times in the past two months one of has said, "Can you update the blog?" The other always replies in grunts, and so it never gets done. Instead of composing something artful and interesting, I thought I'd present a few literal snapshots of our recent adventures, as sort of a stop-gap measure. Besides, then it will officially be Philip's turn to update, and he will be sure to write something nice.


Before the adventures, a slice of daily life. I love taking pictures of what I cook, although I almost never share them (because that's weird, right?). But this is a typical dinner chez Zoutendam. On the menu was homemade sesame chicken with sauteed asparagus over jasmine rice. It looks like it was a Friday evening, since I made cosmopolitans. We didn't have a strainer or a shaker so I used a water bottle and sieve. Because we are classy like that.


My parents gave Philip a yearly zoo pass for his birthday, so this is from our second trip. We love zoos, and my favorite discovery this time was actually from the Arizona Trail (native Arizona wildlife): the prairie dog village. I could watch these little guys for hours (and would have, if Philip hadn't dragged me away to see the bobcat (I want one!)), but I settled for taking about a hundred photos of them.


Here's Philip at the start of a hike we took about a month ago. The hike was in the White Tanks Mountain Regional Park, just west of Phoenix. The hike was a long one (at least for me, a novice hiker)--more than an hour longer than the three hours we had predicted--and I definitely didn't look as optimistic as Philip does in this photo by the time we were done. In fact, I plopped down at a trailhead .4 miles from our real trailhead and sent Philip running off to bring the car around. Philip must have been afraid of his wife's foul temper, since he let me eat pancakes in bed afterward. But pancakes cure all ills, and in fact I now remember this hike even . . . slightly fondly.


The white tanks, about a thousand feet higher than where Philip is standing in the last picture. It doesn't look like much, but it was actually amazing to find little clear pools in the middle of a desert. All in all, the hike was between 7 and 8 miles and it took us about 4 and a half hours.


My mom came to visit me this past weekend! Or, really, she came to see Barley. As I've told others before, when I was young, I never thought that I would grow up to be the kind of woman whose best friends are her sister and her mother (in fact, I thought that was crazy), but here I am, considering myself blessed to have it so.


We all went to the Grand Canyon. It was the first time for all three of us, and although we only spent about five hours there, it was well worth the four-hour drive. Here we are at the bottom of our short hike into the canyon (descending several hundred feet in 3/4 mile), squinting into the ferocious wind.


One picture can't capture everything we saw, but this was my favorite from the day. It was hard for me to even conceive of the Grand Canyon despite having seen pictures, and I loved that fact that we couldn't see any of the Canyon really until we walked up to the rim, and then suddenly the earth opened up and there it was for miles on all sides.

I apologize for cheating by using photos as a substitute for compositional elegance (which obviously would have abounded otherwise . . . ). But hopefully those of you who are kind enough to take an interest in our lives are satisfied for another two months or so. Until then, God bless.

God Enriches

Erin and I often note that our new adult lives still resemble our college days. We walk to class; our friends live just downstairs; we receive--and relish--at least a few free meals each week. What's more, we work with a very young faculty at school. Most of our colleagues are recently graduated, like us. We had a network-wide inservice meeting today, and I was reminded that though we lack the wisdom and gravity of seasoned teachers and older souls, what we do have is a joyful, vibrant spirit in our workplace that would not be possible I think, without our collective youth. I am thankful for that.

It appears that life next year will actually look even more like college. We're delighted to report that we'll be joined at Glendale Prep by Manuel and Cara Valle, a couple of dear friends from Hillsdale. Cara was Erin's roommate through the first two years at HC, and Manuel was my housemate last year. It will be as if we've just switched roommates.

Manuel and Cara flew in for a visit a couple of weeks ago. We spent part of a weekend exploring new places downtown and a few trails in Sedona, and then our visitors had their interviews and teaching demonstrations on a Monday. The visit must have gone pretty well, as they were both offered jobs within a week and took only a day to accept the offer. We loved the rich time we spent with them, and we are overjoyed to know that our lives have not gone separate ways as we must have assumed last May. I don't think we ever envisioned this when we moved to Arizona.

There is more, though less significant, news, and I'll add a little of that here. Our last post was just before Christmas, and I'm the one to blame, of course, for the dearth of humorous updates and amusing trifles.

Erin and I survived our first series of parent-teacher conferences. Four days, up to 25 conferences--15 minutes, one after another--each day. Exhausting, but mostly good. There must always be a few crazies in every batch of parents, but my classes, happily, are mostly free from them. I was only yelled at, indirectly, once. I don't think anyone yelled at Erin; in fact, as a rare female faculty member and a kind soul, she received several hugs. All I got was handshakes. Anyway, it was an illuminating experience: many of the conferences gave us a broader vision of the students as children and souls, not just bodies in the classroom.

In other important news, I improved my record to 2-0 as a head baseball coach. Though most weeks I am the second assistant coach, both of the higher-ups were absent on the week of a doubleheader, so the duties fell to me. I had a lot of help from several parents and co-teachers--all of whom knew far more about middle school baseball than myself--but I was the one handing the lineup card to the ump. So I take all of the credit. It helps my case that I was gone on the week of our only loss this season. See, they really need me.

I give you this Barley update in conclusion. Barley is happy, cuddly, and fat, though not so fat as he was when we first returned from Christmas vacation. His sitters--kind souls all--overfed the little guy, and he's been on a diet ever since. He doesn't really mind. He did give us a little bit of a scare last week with some digestion problems. Erin took him to the vet, who suggested a $175 x-ray to see if he was constipated. Erin rightly suggested that we just wait a couple of days to see. Turns out he's fine.

PZ

Christmas Time in the Suburbs.

There's a certain euphoria, a certain giddy freedom attendant upon the realization that no, I no longer have to go out--half dressed and frantic on a winter morning--to scrape the ice from my car and start the engine fifteen minutes before leaving for work. I call this feeling "What I Like About Arizona Winter." I call everything else "What I Don't Like About Arizona Winter."

Arizona, you think you're so special, attracting the snowbirds and all, but you aren't fooling us. No, when you rolled out the hot cider in the grocery stories in October, we were not fooled, because the high on October 18 was 92 degrees. We knew that, to make hot cider, we needed merely forget the jug in the trunk for a day or two.

You did not fool us when we went for light-seeing walks and saw your light-up snowmen next to your front-yard cacti (although your nativity scenes look very realistic and arid and all).

And finally, Phoenix, you did not fool us with the title "World's Friendliest Airport," but that's another story.

And so with great contentment I find myself in Kansas on Christmas Eve. There's no snow on the ground (yet!) but at least things are brown and ugly like they ought to be. At least all possible allergens are frozen and dead. At least there are no freaking palm trees.

At least we are with family. Patient Philip has been putting up with all of the Risch-family Christmas traditions, which include compulsive kitty watching, obsessive present wrapping (We. Are. Martha. Stewart.), and obscene food cooking; and which will culminate tomorrow in Anne and Erin's Matching Christmas Eve Skirts the candle-light Christmas Eve service after which we will tell the same story about 4-year-old Drew crying silent tears as burning wax dripped down his hand the first time he was allowed to have a candle of his own. Then will come Christmas Day, as carefully scripted as a play, because we, the Risch Family, have spent two decades aggressively honing in on the traditions that suit us best.

For us, like many families, even the smallest and quirkiest traditions are a source of great joy during the holidays. Sometimes it's hard to remember that what we're celebrating was not in fact traditional at all, but rather a radical, shattering event--the Word becoming flesh.

Tour de French Restaurants

Philip and I have decided to tour the French restaurants in the area and compare our experiences. Nominally, this is so that I can compile a little directory for my French students, who are obsessed with French food because it seems almost Martian to them, it's so foreign. Really, it's an excuse for us to eat out more. (Bad, bad, bad . . .)

Last night, to celebrate Philip's birthday, we went to Voltaire's in Scottsdale. According to the website, only swanky people like this eat there:



Unfortunately we didn't see any shiny-haired men with streaks of gray at the temple entertaining luscious blonds fifteen years younger. We found that the clientale was really more of the "wealthy sixty-something" type.

Which meant that we felt right at home.

From the moment we entered, we knew this was our sort of place. There was a large sign asking us to turn our cell phones off before we entered the restaurant. Then Martin, the maitre d', greeted us like friends and took us to our table. Because the restaurant was so small and yet uncrowded, everyone spoke in hushed tones so as not to be overheard or disturb others. The atmosphere was one of civility and courtesy and homeyness. We sat next to a little old British couple who were apparently frequent visitors to the restaurant, as the maitre d' brought the woman a little cushion to sit on and all of the waiters knew exactly what they ordered. I didn't ask Philip, but I myself was wracked with jealousy by how classy this couple was, despite the woman's bright teal polyester suit.

I also loved that the restaurant was absolutely unbattered by trends. The wallpaper was a mix between the Wedgewood china pattern we don't own and the Pottery Barn bedspread we almost bought. The waitresses wore black vests, bowties, and pleated white dress shirts that refused to compliment, much less flatter, anyone's figure. The menu was small, which bespeaks confidence. Yes, Voltaire's has old-school style.

Philip and I both began with soupe à l'oignon parisienee. It was the best French onion soup I've ever had--veal stock with gruyère melted on top. For the main course, Philip had steak au poivre (pepper steak) and I had canard à l'orange (orange roasted duckling). Both came with the chef's selection of vegetables, in which he managed to make eggplant taste divine. For dessert, I had crème brûlée (the only part of the meal I found a little lackluster, despite the fact the a NY chef had sworn Voltaire's Chef David to secrecy about the recipe) and Philip had profiteroles, a dessert he had one night when he was visiting me in Paris. I was so happy with the meal that I felt the $107 bill was fair and just.

Voltaire's probably won't be my first recommendation to my students, as it's not really a "family" restaurant. But I think it will be hard for me to find another French restaurant I like better.

Beards and Bears

I grew out my beard over Fall Break, about a month ago. I didn't want to look like my students' baby-faced high school siblings any more. The results at school, unfortunately, have been disappointing: my 7th graders told Erin that they find it "distracting," whatever that means, and my 8th graders told her that I could hide (or raise? I don't remember, since no one talks to me about it) a small animal in it. But yesterday, it finally proved its worth. When I walked into Peace Surplus and Outdoors about 10:00 AM to buy a Flagstaff trail map, my beard was longer than the cashier's, and I didn't have to feel like a poser.

Yesterday Erin and I finally left the Valley and went somewhere in Arizona where trees grow naturally. We made the two hour drive to Flagstaff, climbing 6000 feet out of the desert and into real mountains, and it was lovely. Here's a helpful comparison:

Phoenix, high for 10/29/10: 94 degrees

Flagstaff, high for 10/29/10: 58 degrees

Phoenix, vegetation: Saguaro cacti, prickly pear cacti, other cacti, still other cacti, 2 bushes, 5 imported palm trees

Flagstaff, vegetation: entire forests of pine trees, fir trees, aspens, oaks, even some maples

We spent about 6 hours in the area all told. Much of that time was spent driving, first down a forest service road that was blocked off half way through closed because of a recent fire, and then all the way back around town to plan B, a different hiking trail down another forest road. The road was rough, but Bernie (our Subaru) held up, and thankfully so: we found some lovely aspens along the road still adorned in yellow, and the trail was pretty much ideal as well. Our hike took us through pine forests, into two different meadows, and past even more aspens in various states of color. According to our calculations, we did 6 miles, and we felt like we could do more--pretty good for the Lazies at that elevation. Also, and certainly most important, we made a woodland friend. Just as we came to an opening in the woods on the return trip, a black bear lumbered down onto the path and stood up to take a look at us before moving on. This was a legitimate wildlife encounter, people. We weren't near any campsites or trashcans, and we didn't have any food out; this must have been his real habitat. We felt like true woodsmen.

(My lovely and accomplished wife has documented our hike--all but the bear, who was too quick for the camera--and our drive down FR 151. Check out the photos.)

When we left Flagstaff, we took a scenic highway instead of the interstate. About 5 miles south of town we found ourselves winding down into the surprisingly large Oak Creek Canyon. This was a close second, in my opinion, to the bear sighting. It was gorgeous, and I would really like to go back. Many of the trees that clung to the canyon walls had turned but kept their leaves, and so we found even more fall color. The rock formations, too, were lovely all the way to Sedona.

Now, my dad warned me about Sedona; apparently it's an important location to hippies, psychics, and UFO geeks. Apparently, Dad was right--at least in so much as Sedona has found a way to make money off of people interested in hippies and psychics and UFOs. We passed plenty of shops in the corny downtown strip that offered "aura photographs" or vortex tours. Our favorite store, "The Victorian Cowgirl," offered western-style lacy dresses, wedding attire, and seances.

We probably ate at the most prosaic location in Sedona, a Panera lookalike called "Wildflower Bread Company." Most of the other clientele were married oldsters. So we fit in pretty well. The food, too, was delicious.

We don't have any photos--aura or otherwise--from Sedona because some psychic UFOs sucked them up through a vortex.

Those who have no social life, teach.

We're finally finding out why people live in the Valley (or the Valley of Death, as I think of it). We eat dinner on our porch most nights now, sitting in our matching deck chairs like the octogenarians we are at heart. Occasionally there is some of the beauty of a midwest fall, but also without the urgency concomitant with that beauty, since "winter" here means that you don't have to put on deodorant twice a day anymore. Last week the highs were in the 80s and one of my kids told me that it felt like Christmas.

Since the weather has finally cooled off, it was the perfect time for the Iliathon at school. At the Iliathon, the students are allowed to spend the night at school and the Iliad is read throughout the night. Everyone laid out their sleeping bags on the grass and the cute little Arizona natives put on their stocking hats and mittens so that they, like Hector, might brave the trials alloted to them. All of the teachers were in charge of a book, and they read the opening lines and then helped the students to read a hundred lines at a time. My favorite was a tiny sixth grader who read his hundred lines in a perfect Sean Connery accent, the only suitable tone for such a noble tale.

All of our social engagements are actually with the students (or the faculty). This past Monday evening I spent two hours flipping crêpes for my French students to devour in fifteen minutes on Tuesday afternoon. They came after school and brought the toppings and made little Mont Blancs of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. They were spazzing out they were so excited and one student actually brought a griddle on which to make bacon, since that's the way they eat crêpes at their house. I tried to convince him that that's not really a French habitude, but he wasn't fooled--he knew what he wanted, dangit, and if his mom had to pre-cook the bacon in the morning so it could be put in the faculty fridge and warmed up to pile on crêpes with the bananas and nutella, by golly, he was going to have bacon.

I've also realized that I no longer worry about fitting in with my peers, but I do compulsively craft my teacher persona. Obviously someday I'd like to be as inspiring as this photo, but until then, I have to settle for being funny enough to offset the bad grades I chronically give my students. I realized that I actually compose jokes at night to work into my lessons. Last night I came running out of the bedroom to tell Philip that when I gave my students back their math tests today, and they asked how I'd graded them so fast, I would say, "I. Am. A. Robitic. Teacher," in my most mechanical voice. I think Philip's doubts were two-fold: how did I know my students would ask that question, and why did I think they would laugh at my joke? (Philip is pretty used to my robot voice, as well as my Alicia Keys impressions.) But since I can read seventh grade minds, I went in confidently. And I think they did laugh hard enough to overlook the fact that I could have curved their tests but didn't. And so I ended another week at school by tricking the students into loving my classes.

Domestic Bliss

Erin gave me a choice tonight regarding what I should do first: I could either help her with the sheets or update the blog. I chose the sheets, which means that I put this off for even a few more minutes. But now I'm back in he blogosphere, here to satisfy the clamoring audience that Erin tells me has been asking for me.

I think this is my first post as Mrs. Zoutendam's husband. Not as Mr. Zoutendam, though; I've been Mr. Zoutendam to 90 people for a couple of months. That still seems a little strange, especially because I've always associated the title "Mister" with mustaches.

Anyway, back to the point. This is my first post since getting married. Marriage is great--well, to be more specific, being married to Erin is great. It's wonderful to relax together after a long day at school, it's great to laugh together and cook together, and Erin smells delightful all of the time. Seriously, she always smells great. I don't think that's true for me.

Our little home is still messy, but it's becoming more ordered. Each weekend we try to take another step towards putting everything in its place. Last weekend, we finally got a dresser, and this weekend, I was going to deep clean the kitchen, but instead I bought a wireless router and a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum is still in the trunk of the car, but the wireless interest is up, which is how I can write this post in the kitchen and Erin can watch TV on the bed.

The bed/TV this is especially good right now because Erin's been pretty sick the last few days. The doctor said it was viral, so Erin can only rest until it goes away. So . . . bed and TV. She is beginning to feel better, and hopefully she'll be ready to return to school Monday.

Speaking of which, school is going well. We just started the second quarter last week, and it was nice to start something new again. There are fewer things on the grading pile, there is more time to plan (and relax), and we have moved past the first round of rookie mistakes. We've also written our first round of student evaluations--that's one paragraph for each student, noting strengths and weakness and areas for improvement, and in case you're wondering, those take the better part of a week (i.e. our Fall "break" week).

That does it for this installment. I hope to post more often, and I hope to add more interesting specifics, so you'll want to keep clamoring.