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the fruit buffet and other urgencies

2018 September 25
by Rachel Turiel

I am making peach-plum jam, not because it sounds like a lovely combination (though it is), but because the plums are at full-squish and the peach-ripening assembly line of our counters are at capacity and the crew (me) needs to move in another 20 pounds that have fallen from our backyard tree.

Really what I want to do is watch the robins and evening grosbeaks, who spend much of their day nabbing chokecherries from our tree. “They’re back!” I tell the kids each morning. “Those robins are such fatties,” Col replies, gazing out our east window, watching the fluffed up robins swallow chokecherries whole. The grosbeaks—seeking just the seed—painstakingly work the berry over in their beaks, spitting the purple flesh all over our walkway. You can hear the grosbeaks cracking seeds in their jumbo jaws, their beaks stained purple. I feel so much companionship with them.

Rare raven sighting in the chokecherry tree.

Chokecherry syrup on acorn waffles.

Facing my fruit-hoarding tendencies.

Dan has been bowhunting much of September. When he has cell service I get cryptic texts like “7 X 8 @ wallow @ ten yards but no shot!” (Later he told me he could hear the animal slurping up water but with his head facing Dan at the water hole, no ethical shot). He’s hunting with a homemade bow, which is deeply meaningful to him—the challenge, the crafting of his weapon, the intimacy with the animals—but odds are pretty tough. He needs perfect access to vitals, no foliage blocking the shot, 15-yard range max, and ten seconds to pull his bowstring back before some ultra-wary cow elk busts him. You know those subdivision signs “If you lived here you’d be home now.” I keep thinking: “If you had a rifle you’d be home now.” But really, I’m happy for all his happiness.

Dan trying to prove something by eating his traditional bowhunting sandwich at home. More on the bowhunting sandwich in latest issue of Edible Southwest Colorado Magazine.

The kids are not enjoying school tremendously this year. After many years of homeschooling, it feels a bit heartbreaking: waking them up (before the robins have even arrived) and rushing them about so they can be on time for a day of sitting and following someone else’s learning plan. I actually told Col he didn’t have to go to school (which I didn’t exactly mean, but I didn’t exactly not mean, but wanted to hear his response). He said, “I know school’s not supposed to be fun. I need to go so I can learn things and then get a job someday.” And then the whole world dimmed. Really? Is that what your parents are modeling to you?

I just finished two excellent books by female immigrants. This one, a novel by Imbolo Mbue, is a fascinating illustration of what happens when a Cameroonian family yearning for security and belonging intersects with a wealthy American family, which (surprise, surprise) lacks so much connection and vitality it makes you rethink the word ‘privilege.’ And yet, Imbolo Mbue manages to humanize everyone which makes things really interesting. (Thanks Mom, for the recommendation).

And this memoir written by an Iranian immigrant is a light and funny meditation on growing up Iranian in America. Hint: family and food are everything. Rose read Firoozeh Dumas’ kid novel version of the memoir and loved it.

In other news, I’m teaching some new nonviolent communication classes that I’m really excited about. They are filling fast. Come join us! More info here.

Where things get weird: green grape jello. (Or, how to proceed when an entire grape vine ripens at once).

Fruit recipes:

Fruit leather recipe

Fruit cake recipe (not fruitcake, but a wonderful gluten free cake that is accentuated with fruit!)

Spiced, dried pears

Peach BBQ sauce

Grain-free apple crisp

I actually love the particular abundance of seasonal food, how the urgency of ripeness grounds me in work so vital and immediate; how the earth gives freely, encouraging my own generosity, (I love telling the kids’ friends sternly: nowdon’t leave without a box of peaches); how the very caloric abundance calls into question the dysfunction of our American quest for novelty; and how, engaging in this unpaid work I get to detach from the capitalist system for a micro-moment, exploring a different paradigm for determining value and worth.

Dried peaches, plums, pears.

Dried yucca fruit – our favorite.

Between when I started this post and today the robins and grosbeaks have stripped the chokecherry tree bare. Dan has returned, elk-less, though integrating gracefully back into the wild chaos of homelife. Six boxes of peaches are exhaling ripeness into our house, all of which we’re determined to enjoy fresh (i.e. it’s a good time to stop by hungrily) and the apple and pear trees, groaning with weight, wink at me suggestively as I pass them on the way to the chicken coop. School is a conundrum and certainly a manifestation of a larger, dysfunctional system that values economic growth at the expense of human well-being (i.e. no fault of teachers). Right now the best I can do is model connecting to love and life force when my kids are home. (Though I’m contemplating creating a class called “How to raise disobedient children.” Feel me?)

But seriously, enough about me. Tell me about harvest season in your region, about your own back to school paradigm, your bird encounters, book recommendations, recipes. Really, I would love that.



wanting what you have

2018 September 4
by Rachel Turiel

We head out of town for six days, Dan and I hungry for adventure, for family connectedness, for the magic that happens when we’re all together, peeling off layers of modern complexity. The kids are skeptical, unsure if they want to unplug from friends, home, and flush toilets. Rose wonders, her voice slightly accusatory, a lawyer preparing her argument: will there be any mosquitos? “Yes, Rose. There will be mosquitos,” Dan says. “At least one. Named Fred,” I add. She is not amused.

We arrive at our first spot by late afternoon. We’re going to stay in a tipi, we’ve told the kids with the kind of enthusiasm that works on toddlers, or like we’re impersonating telemarketers trying to upsell the experience of camping. The interior—floor rugs, furniture, bed—is covered with a layer of dirt. “I get the bed,” Col announces about the saggy futon dusted in silt. No one argues with him.

The farm is funky, gardens and pigs interspersed with random, handbuilt outbuildings, like someone prepared for an influx of interns who never came.

I am ready to unload the car, to find a broom and sweep out the tipi, when Rose grabs my hand and bursts into tears. She’s sad about finishing the last Harry Potter book in the car, about our dirt-strewn quarters, the composting toilet, and her two friends swimming at the lake together back in Durango without her. At this stage of my education I am so clear that an outburst of feelings is like sap developing in a tree wound, the psyche’s healthy response to emotional pain. There is nothing to fix, to explain, to change. In fact, the most helpful thing I can do is not obstruct the flow, to allow mourning to be a healing response to sadness.

I hold her and hug her and listen. I put myself in her shoes. “You will miss Harry, Ron and Hermione so much! They were like reliable buddies all summer,” I venture. She cries harder for a moment, but I know this helps the sadness burn cleaner and quicker.

“Hey Rose,” Col interrupts, “There’s a ping-pong table in the farmhouse. Come play!” Rose nods and then tells me, “I want to go play but I just don’t want to be distracted from being sad.”

“You want to get it all out so you can go play with your mind free?”


Rose’s mind clears and she joins Col. The farm manager finds us and explains the rules, like “no fires, unless you really want one.” He grants Dan permission to shoot his bow into the huge mound of horse manure. And he offers to sweep out our lodgings. “I guess we haven’t had visitors for a while,” he says.

Dan cracks a beer. We haul sleeping bags to our newly swept tipi. We watch the farmer toss a wheelbarrow of pot trimmings to the pigs, which they devour (they are lusty eaters, standing in their food troughs as they eat, tossing empty bowls in the air in protest). We visit the 3-month old piglets, who flop onto their sides, letting us scratch their soft bellies, during which they go from instantly alert to deep slumber.

Post-snuggle coma.

Col removes a chicken from my back.

Later, Dan keeps snapping pictures of me cooking dinner on our camp stove. Why? Cause he’s had two beers? Because he’s on vacation? Because I look good in the blazing yellow rabbitbrush? Because wanting what you have is the best strategy for having what you want?

We play fierce, after-dinner rounds of doubles ping-pong, and walking back to our tipi, orange sunset fireworks exploding over the dry hills, Rose asks, “can we stay here two nights?”

Day Two

Driving from Fort Garland, CO to Questa, NM under a sky that seems to unfold exponentially as we head south, Dan, Rose and I discuss the op-ed I want to write called “Why you should delay giving your child a smartphone.” (Dan edited my original title: “Don’t give your child a $%@*! smartphone!”). Col is absorbed in a novel and can’t be accessed.

Me: “So, there’s the addictive part.”

Dan: “What about addictions that are good?”

Me: “I can’t think of any good addictions.”

Rose: “What about books?”

Me: Silence.

40 year old farm with 40 year old playground equipment.

We arrive at the Taos Goji Berry Farm and hear from the hosts that the bears have “been active” in the apple orchard we had reserved for camping. We get an instant upgrade into the cottonwood grove, strung with hammocks and solar lights. We spend the evening unpacking, visiting the farm animals and chatting with the owners who’ve been here over 40 years and say it’s the driest year they remember. We eat lentils, rice and veggies doused in peanut-ginger sauce from a bottle. “A very expensive bottle,” Dan adds, testing the theory that people value things that cost a lot. The kids devour several helpings, the sky pinks up and then fades to black and we crawl into our sleeping bags feeling warm and full, in multiple ways.

Day Three

The kids wake up thinking of nothing but oatmeal. We’ve brought hippie single serve packets and like kings with their gold, each morning is spent counting, fondling, and trading their great, sugary wealth.

Just outside the Goji Berry Farm we discover loaded oak trees, acorns so ripe if you stand under them you can hear them plink to the ground. They are delicious raw, mild and nutty, and we scoop them off the ground on the side of the dusty road.

I am already feeling the wild magic of being together, the layers of complexity peeling away, the simplicity of fewer options, the relief of our four schedules synching up, even if the current agenda item is sip coffee in the cottonwood grove while the kids tally up oatmeal packets.

We hike to hot springs on the Rio Grande, everyone engaging in their own distinct style. This is so fun, Rose shouts as the river currents carry her downstream, again and again. Col digs canals in the sand and Dan and I clock into the hot pool like relaxation is our job.

Hiking out we spy a small herd of bighorn sheep. Col grabs my hand and whispers, “this is so exciting.”

Dan and I are calling this trip ‘The Family Celebration Trip,’ partly because we’re both oriented toward meaning-making (while not so skilled at American fun, outside of I don’t know, reading and stalking elk with whittled stick weapons), and because themes create family cohesiveness (see: meaning!). We introduce this idea to the kids, who are skeptical but lubricated by the chips and salsa we’re eating at a Taos restaurant.

We practice. “I’m celebrating that Col chose veggie filling in his, er deep fried burrito.”

Dan: “I’m celebrating that Rachel is still my dream date after all these years.” The kids groan on cue.

Dan gives them each a sheet, titled “Family Celebration Trip 2018” to fill out while we’re waiting for our food. 1) What do you want to celebrate from your life this past year? 2) What do you want to celebrate about another family member? 3) What is one thing about the world (independent of you) that you want to celebrate? Everyone scribbles away and we agree to read our answers aloud later.

After dinner the sky cracks open and Rose and I run, holding hands, towards our car in the chilling rain.

Day Four

We pack up after the daily oatmeal and coffee celebration. The kids are broken in to our temporary lifestyle, in which we have everything we want because it’s precisely all we have. No one has mentioned electronics since we left home, electronic-less.

This is so good for them, Dan and I whisper, in a stolen moment together. But, also for us. Being present to these children, tending to what arises in the moment without distraction feels like a balm for some modern ailment.

I notice that Rose and I are developing an implicit agreement around challenging emotions. She knows to lay her raw emotion at my feet, that I will hold her fears, anger and jealousies, and that she will emerge feeling lighter. She needs empathy for missing her friends, for school starting, for Col breaking his hammock agreement and not following daily oatmeal protocol. And each time, it feels like we’re underwater together, dog-paddling through the discomfort. And my role is just to stay with her, to exude care, to paddle into the waves alongside her, to say without words: your emotions are nothing to be scared of, to toss away all my previous training that sees pain and wants to distract, fix, educate. And sometimes, I think: this time we might not emerge, like when she says I’m ready to go home“ and we have two more nights away. But I keep swimming, holding her hand, listening, seeing it from her perspective, and suddenly she’s in the hammock calling out cheerfully, “watch this, it’s called the hang-glider move!”

Col needs less empathy, but more help uncovering what’s important to him in the moment. Like last night, we’re in our tent in the cottonwood grove, and he finishes the book stapled to his hands for the past three days and immediately starts talking, singing, poking me, rolling on top of me. “Hey Col, I noticed you finished your book and now it seems like you’re wanting something from me. I’m really wanting to read and relax. Do you know what you want?”

“Attention,” he says, point blank.

“Oh. Ok. How ‘bout I rub your back while I read?”

Col: “That would be wonderful.”

Day Five

We wake up back in Colorado, in a snug A-frame cabin on the Conejos River. We drove in on the heels of a storm and the willows are shiny, the meadows rain polished, and everything is the tawny color of summer fading out. We set off early for fishing, and already by 10am the sky is more cloud than blue.

The kids cast and reel, cast and reel while a wild storm charges down valley. The sky turns grey-blue and the first drops of rain come fast. We hustle back to the car, feet soaked, lightning smacking nearby peaks. As Dan drives down the muddy, washboard road, lightning cracking open the sky, a balloon Rose is playing with in the backseat pops suddenly just behind Dan’s head. He jumps about a foot. “You didn’t think that was actually lightning did you?” Rose asks. “Well, no, but it’s like you’re about to shoot a deer, ready to pull the trigger and your buddy shouts ‘BANG’!”

Back at our cabin rain obscures the valley. I make hot chocolate, coffee and snacks, and we gather to complete our celebration exploration, which includes reading our pep-talks from last year, writing new ones and setting goals. Col scribbles, “I want to be nicer to Rose.”

Can we just stay here forever, doing our nerdy family exercises, playing board games, hiding out from the complexities of American culture, eating out of our cooler where everything tastes amazing because it’s exactly what we have?

We play endless rounds of Exploding Kittens on the pullout futon in front of the glowing woodstove, Dan shelling acorns (1, then 2, then 100). Col accuses Rose of cheating every time she wins. She tells him, indignantly, in a spectacular storm of mixed metaphors, “Well, you’re not the brightest knife in the shaft!” I ponder the mystery of family. How for so many years the kids seemed to inhabit every molecule of our personal space, their needs tendrilling out so compellingly that I couldn’t distinguish my own from theirs. And now, as they inch slowly farther from us, their worlds expanding, it is us sometimes pursuing them, wanting to be in their orbit.

The sun sweeps away clouds. Day passes into evening. Our focus is on what is right in front of us, and it feels like celebration: dinner, two fresh trout; the kids’ shared laughter; the shooting star Rose and I spot simultaneously; this current, fleeting configuration of family.

There were no mosquitos.

summer wrap up

2018 August 21
by Rachel Turiel

The kids are folding laundry, a chore I’ve asked them to complete before I bribe them to walk downtown together with ice cream money so I can work uninterrupted. “This is not a bribe,” I tell them, and they nod cooperatively, allowing me to think I am upholding my values. While they’re folding two loads worth of laundry, Col stops, holds up some of his clothes and asks Rose, “do you think this is a good outfit for the first day of school?”

Rose answers him as if this is not a monumentous moment in the history of their sibling relationship*, a moment in which Col is publicly acknowledging that his little sister has wisdom and experience that he doesn’t, that he is interested in her knowledge, and furthermore, that he considers her judgment valuable.

“I think you might be a bit hot,” she replies.

A few more things:

We just returned from a fantastic six-day trip in Colorado and New Mexico, in which we camped on eclectic farms. We saw adult pigs devour marijuana trimmings, and played fierce games of doubles ping-pong in the farm community building. More on that soon.

Col and Rose found the hummingbird vortex on the Lake Fork of the Conejos River.

We came home to a bursting garden.

Why do garden tomatoes make me feel so wealthy?

Oh snap, this is not a college fund.

Also, this is BIG. I discovered that you can make this recipe for roasted tomato sauce, omit the olive oil and water-bath can it. And then you add the olive oil when you open the jar. It is just as tasty and it’s better not to heat olive oil too high anyway. BIG news, right?

Rose says this photo is called ‘green’:

Latest odd home project: Noyaux Liqueur (apricot kernel liqueur – why not? Just make sure you disable the cyanide first. Should work with peach pits too).

A sign that bowhunting season is coming:

Dan’s new “elk ears” he made of actual hide and hair. Questions welcome.

We always have a book we read on trips. It coalesces us around something, brings us together, gives a shape to our evenings around the campfire. On this trip we read the most fantastic book by Carl Hiaasen. I think it would be appropriate for ages 10 – 14. It’s sort of a mystery, full of absurd though fully believable suspense and the unlikely hero makes it all worth it. He’s a former Florida governor, presumed dead, a rough outlaw who is also champion of animals and other voiceless and vulnerable beings. Plus, it takes place in Florida and is full of gators and sea turtles and huge, deep rivers.

I think that’s it for now. Oh, wait – have I told you how much I appreciate you all coming back here, reading my stories, commenting, sticking with this space as my kids become teenagers? Well, I do. So much.

* later I asked Rose what it was like to have Col seek her fashion advice. “I was so surprised,” she said. “But I knew just to act like it was normal.” Attagirl.



letting the mental guard dog of sibling disputes off its chain

2018 July 31
by Rachel Turiel

The thought comes to me like a thunderbolt; from someplace beyond my mind’s usual mundane chatter. Col is in Washington DC with his grandma. Rose is inside reading Harry Potter. And I am plucking cabbage worms off brassica plants, contemplating how peaceful it’s been since the all-day meal special of sibling bickering has fallen off the menu. And then the thought that stills me is this: I am not responsible for my children’s relationship.

Col in Congressman Tipton’s DC office requesting that Tipton join the bi-partisan climate solutions caucus, specifically because of pikas and skiing.

Of course I want my children to be best friends. In my fantasies the two of them are allies, bolstered by a two-lane flow of support, compassion, collaboration and cooperation. When the world is confusing and painful I want them, as fellow participants in the genetic and social experiment of our family, to turn to each other. Though really, I’d settle for them just being able to squeeze onto the same couch without anyone throwing elbows.

Partially I long for this because it would bestow harmony upon our home, but also I’ve been shackled to a story about what’s good, right and best. Siblings should protect each other! They should be confidantes! If Dan and I model kindness, it should trickle down! (Small clue: believing in what follows a “should” is the short path to suffering). And truthfully, when I am attached to one particular outcome, then I lose choice in how to respond because I become the proverbial hammer searching desperately for a nail, missing the truth of what is.

Sibling relationships are a wild and mysterious thing. Something deep and old and unknowable is working itself out while it looks like Col and Rose are simply arguing over who gets the first shower after camping. My squirrely mind wants to control, fix and steer. It wants to wave my red flag when I hear Col charging Rose $3 to claim her own lost earrings that he found (true story). But who am I to engineer their path? They get to snap the pieces of their relationship puzzle together. If the pieces don’t fit, they can rotate or reconfigure them, sand them down, trade them out.

As a leader in this family I have the responsibility to model compassionate expression, to offer support, and to care for everyone’s needs without directing the outcome. It’s liberating to drop this task—the job of making sure my kids are friends—from the long list of what’s required to run a household.

Miramonte Reservoir, a bit south of Norwood, Co. Dan: “Didn’t the Rolling Stones play here? Oh wait, that was Altamont.”

Col returns from DC and I try out this new stance, repeating it frequently to counteract the worn neural pathways of my mind that suggest we’re all doomed because Col and Rose aren’t magnetized to each other.

And yet, strangely, they are. Their elbow game on the couch is a source of breathless laughter. Col wants to play soccer in the street, but only if his sister joins. Somehow our house does seem more peaceful, but not because my wanting it made it so, it’s that my mind is more peaceful because there’s less wanting. The despair I’ve felt about the kids not relating as I’d wish leads me to try to control external circumstances, rather than learn to tolerate that which I can’t control.

Also, because I’ve let my mental guard dog of sibling disputes off its chain, I’m less likely to micro-analyze Col and Rose’s interactions, looking for who left fingerprints of guilt on the surface of their last conflict. This means I get to see them more clearly. Miki Kashtan, founder of Bay Area Nonviolent Communication suggests that we turn the channel from the “boring movie of our mind,” the one that predictably features the repetitive script of our fears and biases. “It’s much more interesting to see the reality of what’s actually going on,” Kashtan says.

The reality is this: Col wins three consecutive games of chess then offers strategic advice to Rose, which she declines. They jump on the neighbor’s trampoline. They return for snacks. Rose makes Col toast and suggests he say ‘thank you.’ He doesn’t show gratitude to her satisfaction. She sighs, sings a few bars from the musical Grease and requests that Col sing Danny’s part while she takes Sandy’s. I observe it all without commentary, without making evaluations on my friendship-o-meter, nor do I grasp to this moment, sweet as their giggly singing is. Surely there is a sibling throw-down in their future. And just as likely there will be the inexplicable magic of a brother and sister crooning along to a 70s musical in a relationship of their making, the ending not yet written.

waiting and non-waiting

2018 July 10
by Rachel Turiel

Dearie Dearest Dear Ones,

I am trying not to spend this summer waiting, waiting for the morning smoke to clear, waiting for the evening temperature to drop, waiting for the monsoons to come and put the fire out. It’s come to my attention that when we’re waiting, we’re not exactly living. And speaking of living, wearing ice-cold wet socks to bed is the best personal air-conditioning unit I’ve discovered. I hope you never have to try this.

This is smoke (not a cloud) over Hesperus Peak. My Herald column on how the weathering the fire is like raising children.

Besides the oppressive smoke and above average temps, summer has been everything I loved about homeschooling (being with the kids!) without the inherent challenges (the obligation to actually teach them something).

Apparently we’ve neglected to sign our kids up for much in the way of summer activities so they’ve been finding their own way. Col has been drawing WWII airplanes, and I do my best to see and appreciate his work without getting hung up on the images of planes shot down and consumed in a fireball of death.

Thanks Greg and Jo for the amazing colored pencils. Col would like you all to know that his WWII airplane images are available for sale. (Spitfire not pictured). He’s also open to ideas on how to market his images.

Rose has been channeling her inner retiree. I come home from teaching and she’s glued beads to yarn, yarn to jars, and jars to jars to make side by side q-tip and cotton ball dispensers. She’s used a pint of expensive, raw honey to concoct a honey-oat scrub, has added lemon balm to our ice cube trays, and melted every lip balm in the house together so all separate beeswax-based products can unify into a melting pot of diversity. I get a little anxious when I see her rummaging through the medicine cabinet with eager fingers, but keep telling myself that it’s cheaper than camp.

When the kids leave the house, I become air traffic controller, keeping track of my little planes lifting off and landing around town, changing destination and passengers, making emergency landings at garage sales (where craft supplies are legion), and doing my trust-breathing exercises while they are off radar in the river.

Today, during our morning snuggle, in which Col enters a hypnotic state of affectionate goodwill, he sighed and told me “Daddy’s my number one role model,” and then quickly explained, “Because he’s a boy. You’re number two.” The kids are not impressed with my ability to track their daily flight schedule, but are pretty certain that with just a bit of extra practice Dan could join any World Cup team should they need an extra player. Recently Rose assured us that once her three months of acute chiropractic care was over, Daddy could probably study up and take over her maintenance care.

Cherry pitting and World Cup.

I am equally full of hypnotic professions of affection at bedtime and last night I was in Col’s bed telling him how much I appreciated his resiliency, his ability to name feelings and adjust to circumstances out of his control. “You know, when your friend cancelled plans and you just said ‘I’m disappointed but what else…” I must have been beaming some crazy mom adoration from my eyes because Col interrupted me to say, “Mom, this is awkward,” he said. “Can I read now?”

Alpine spring beauty.

Dan and I have taken some lovely trips into the high mountains. Col asked me why I was so eager to go backpacking and all I could think to say was that it was a treat to enter into the culture of wild things.

On one trip, a ptarmigan made a big fuss over us, circling our sleeping bags at dusk and calling (presumably to her young, letting them know who not to trust); coyote sounds bounced around the peaks; we found scorched oak leaves carried on the wind fifteen miles from the fire; and always, the wildflowers spearing up through the rocks, snowmelt, smoke, drought fills me with awe and admiration to be in the presence of their wild culture. One morning we found a group of elk bedded in a meadow. The lead cow gave some deep, warning grunts, alerting her posse to our whereabouts. “Have you heard that sound before?” I asked. “Unfortunately, many times,” Dan replied.

Books! I enjoyed this memoir of an unbelievably challenging childhood under patriarchy and tradition gone wrong; this gorgeously-written post-apocalyptic novel that takes place in Colorado, where beyond the zombie-violence it was oddly tender and touching, and this beautifully-written novel about a summer camp in the Colorado mountains where idealism meets realism. What’s my next book? Seeking recommendations! (p.s. buy from your local, independent bookstore or look for at your library).

I am offering a Family Nonviolent Communication Workshop at the end of July. Col helped me make this flyer. He also helps me enter into the depth of scary, messy conflict, scrabbling around for our most useful tools of curiosity and care, and coming out into resilient, thriving, connecting resolution. I want this for all of you.

There are a few spaces left. More info here. If you are local and want to be on my mailing list, let me know.

Washing greens:

Drying greens:

Effing boots.

All the love,


p.s. (whispering, giddily) I don’t think we’re waiting any longer for the monsoons.

uncontrolled fire edge and gluten free rhubarb cake

2018 June 20
by Rachel Turiel

Dear Ones,

There’s so much that’s happened since we last met here.

Col went to DC with his grandmother and sent us this postcard:

True. I’m not sure he’s ever had as much to talk about in 13 years.

A forest fire’s been raging a couple miles north of us, which seems to have settled some due to recent rain, though isn’t expected to be completely out until the monsoons (fingers-crossed) come in mid-late July. It’s hard to explain how consuming it’s been fighting this fire, I mean checking hourly for updates on weather, air quality, fire activity, evacuated friends. (We have an evacuated chicken taking refuge in our coop, which adds to my sense of purpose). Everyday there’s a new map depicting the jagged red line of the “uncontrolled fire edge.” I keep thinking there’s something by a similar name that lives in my mind, something I try to control, keep contained, while conducting frequent strategic meetings to give myself the illusion that a semblance of certainty is possible.

Outstanding fire photos here by beloved local photographer Jerry McBride.

We made it to the forest for a camping trip just before the entire San Juan Forest got put on Stage 3 fire restrictions, i.e. shut down. (Also shut down: all open space surrounding Durango. Anyone want to start a ladies walking club at the mall?).

Dessert platter to celebrate my birthday! Gifts not pictured: new socks and spatulas!

Possible grown up version of the people above, but in different configuration.

I haven’t forgotten about the rhubarb cake recipe. Stay tuned.

We fell in love with a foster dog, who left us for his forever family. (I guess that’s how it’s supposed to work, but still).

Now that we can’t go into the forest, or go outside (because of smoke) we spend a lot of time watching the World Cup. I keep thinking of the Quiddich World Cup in Harry Potter, imagining Peruvian and Iranian soccer teams arriving via portkey to Russia. We’re rooting for Mexico, Peru, Senegal and Iceland. (Ok, and Japan, Portugal, Argentina…).

We like to catch the weekday 6am World Cup game on the nano-screen before Dan leaves for work.

Indoor chess game VIXIII

Dan being Dan figured out that there’s some public land that not managed by Forest Service and for Father’s Day we all got an emotional high being in contact with wild plants and marmots for the day.

Indian Paintbrush.

Purple Fringe.

The 13-year old hand holder.

At one point Col requested to walk alone with just me. We’ve been telling our kids forever that they can tell us anything, anytime, of any nature. I prepared myself. Col grabbed my hand and said, “Mama? You know that new lego airplane I’ve been working on? That’s what I want to talk about.”  (He was nervous about snapping on the wheel struts, but proud that he figured out how to fit two lego pilots side by side. Feelings!). Whew.

Since the smoke has improved I’ve been turning the kids loose on bikes with their shared flip phone. Five minutes ago I got this text from Col: headg. And then I descrambled it in my mother de-crypter and got: heading home. 10/4 little pilot.

I really want to share this Rhubarb Cake Recipe with you because:

  1. Rhubarb season may be ending in your locale.
  2. I made this recipe up all by myself!
  3. It’s insanely delicious: golden crust, light crumb, rhubarby tang-smack to the taste buds, and in the scheme of modern diets, pretty healthy.
  4. If you’re past rhubarb season, sub in cherries, apricots or whatever fruit is coming into your region.

Eat with coffee.

Make sure you have eggs.

Rhubarb Cake

1 cup almond flour

1/2 cup buckwheat flour

(fine to sub both flours for wheat flour)

3/4 cup butter or coconut oil (gosh, this sounds like an awful lot of butter. If this scares you, try and 1/2 cup and report back to me).

1/2 cup sugar or honey

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 tsp salt

1 tsp baking soda

3-4 stalks apricots or 3/4 – 1 cup chopped fruit

Preheat oven to 350F. Mix all ingredients except flours together, including fruit. Slowly add in flours just to moisten. Place in greased bread pan, cast iron pan, pie pan and bake for 25 – 35 minutes. (Cast iron cooks quicker than glass or ceramic, so stay attuned).

All the love,


15 minute grain-free peanut butter chocolate chip cookies

2018 May 25
by Rachel Turiel

“There is no shortage of grosbeaks,” Dan reassures me after a five minute lull in the morning siege on the feeder is followed by hordes of evening grosbeaks returning to their personal safehouse, where Col and Dan are poised to chase neighborhood cats off with BB guns. A small table of evening grosbeaks at the breakfast rush.

Here’s a different kind of bird (one of our new flock of chickens). Col took this picture and I couldn’t help thinking: one sweet, slightly-awkward and emergent adolescent photographing another.

As per May usual, we’re issuing daily quotas on consumption of greens. If you’re not eating a gallon of lettuce, chard, spinach, etc…you’re not pulling your weight. Full disclosure, there’s a 50% chance of finding an elm seed in your salad and a .549% chance of finding a small insect, marinated in salad dressing and still alive. Aphids don’t even count.

We seem to be having a few checking account issues currently, namely that money doesn’t seem to stick around there very long, but Dan reminds me that we still have apples in the root cellar in May, and maybe I’ll see if I can trade those apples for the kids’ soccer fees, like an old timey bartering community! (Actually, I am trading greens for the space I’m using to teach my current NVC class. Thanks to the lovely LeeAnn at Stitch).

The garden is a bit like a museum lately, delicate pieces unveiled by day, only to be covered at first whiff of nightfall. 

Rose was selected to represent her school in a 5th grade-wide community dance competition. She and her partner danced the merengue. Her partner wasn’t Dan, but he helped her practice.

Our days have been slightly crazy lately with everyone’s end of the school year presentations and graduations; Rose vigilantly at the table penning cards of gratitude to each teacher past dark; getting the summer issue of Edible magazine to the printers; my mind thinking that 3:00am is a good time to wake up and figure stuff out; and, carting teen chickens outside every morning, and back upstairs each night. Thank god for books and bedtime. I loved this memoir, about the author’s seventeen brushes with death, which was harrowing, entertaining, horrifying and ultimately inspiring. And then this gorgeous, incredibly-written novel about a family whose fifth son is transgender and how the family orbit changes to accommodate this reality.

The other day Col confided that he hates it when “Daddy assumes that when I ask for screen time it means I’m bored.” I asked him if he wanted to let Dan know this, and then maybe issue a request. Fifteen minutes later Col popped up in Dan’s workshop (where I was fiddling in the adjacent greenhouse). “Hey Daddy, I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said, earnestness turned up to eleven. And without making Dan at fault, Col squeaked out what’s up for him followed by the request that Dan not respond to screentime requests with assumptions of his boredom. Dan received him with gratitude and I could see Col’s personal power inflate. Later he said, “I’m so proud that I talked to Daddy.” And we celebrated that instead of nibbling on the empty calories of resentment, Col got to express his feelings to his Daddy, who was happy to hear what was true for his son. This is the exact model we use in my nonviolent communication classes – how to express what’s true for you while caring for the relationship.

Oh wait – you were here for the 15 minute cookie recipe? Here it is!

These cookies are super delicious, only take 15 minutes to make (including baking, but not clean up), and are approved by my children who are highly suspicious that I am hiding kale in everything I bake. Thanks Steph, for the recipe!

Grain Free Peanut Butter Cookies 

Heat oven to 335F
Combine in large bowl:
1 egg
1 cup peanut butter
1/2 cup sugar (brown or white or mix)
a splash of molasses
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 cup dark chocolate chips
Drop rounded tablespoons of dough onto greased cookie sheet, press down with fork and bake for 7 – 10 minutes @ 335F.
Hippie Version
Sub out almond butter for peanut butter
Add 1/2 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
Reduce sugar to 1/3 cup
Add 1/4 cup raisins
Love and cookies,

the art and craft of making a request

2018 May 16
by Rachel Turiel

It’s 8pm on a weeknight, which means we should be ushering small people through the stations of winding down: read aloud, teeth brushing, pajamas, and ultimately the long, one-way march towards bunkbeds. But, everyone’s trying to wring the last moments out of a fading spring evening.

Col is reading a dystopian novel on the couch. Two feet away Rose is choreographing a dance to Joni Mitchell’s Carey, which she is also singing, managing to take up an impressive amount of space, physically and auditorially in our 800 square foot house.

I warn the kids bedtime is approaching and Col throws an arm out to hook his father, passing through the living room. “Come snuggle me, Daddy,” Col pleads, and even though there’s a whiff of stalling the inevitable, Dan embraces the invitation.

I watch Col’s small body tucked into Dan’s, thinking, this is what boys need, men who can model intimacy, who can be soft and gentle, who…suddenly and suspiciously Rose’s dance routine comes to an abrupt halt and she launches herself on top of the snuggling pair.

“Hey – get off! Me and Daddy are snuggling!” Col shouts.

“I have enough love for both of you,” Dan calmly replies, rolling each kid up in an arm.

The couch becomes a tumult of arms and legs. Col jumps off the couch and like a military strategist begins striking his sister from the floor. Snap judgments infiltrate my mind: Col is a bully. Rose is interfering. And then, the stories unspool: It’s hopeless, they’ll never be friends, Thanksgiving circa 2038 will be a disaster. Dan raises his voice, telling Col to stop, and then resumes his preschool teacher demeanor and asks, “Col, is there a request you’d like to make?”

“Yes. Can you tell Rose to stay out of this?”

“Can you make a request that tells me what you want, not what you want Rose to do?”

“I just want to snuggle you alone,” Col replies.

“Ok. I’m happy to do that. Can you wait until Rose and I have a couple more minutes snuggle time?”


A quiet calm settles over the house. I feel my nervous system decelerate from red to green. No one is wrong, nor needs discipline. Mother Theresa says, “if you judge people, you have no time to love them.” Here are kids that need to be loved, who have longings to uncover. One kid wants the special feeling of physical connection alone with his dad, another kid wants reassurance that even if others are connecting, she’s loved, included and belongs. Requesting that which contributes to our happiness is a skill that enables us to access power in our own lives.

It’s a bit like magic, really – the way a request (would you be willing to set the table tonight?) will recruit all the cells of our willingness, while a demand (I need you to set the table tonight) acts as an affront to our autonomy. When we grudgingly cooperate with a demand out of guilt or fear we actually miss out on the good feelings generated by our own generosity. And, we’re likely not to do our best work. Marshall Rosenberg says, “As long as I think I ‘should’ do it, I’ll resist it, even if I want very much to do it.”

I love receiving clear, doable requests. It’s satisfying to get clarity on how we can contribute to someone’s well being. Studies show that we receive much happiness from acts of generosity, and yet many of us are more likely to launch a complaint rather than letting others know what can be done to bring more ease or joy to our lives. News flash: expectations unvoiced go unmet.

Later, during the high level debriefings that often take place after the kids have gone to bed I thank Dan for how he handled the couch skirmish. “I learned it all from you,” he replies. Which is true, just for the record.

How to Make a Request using principles of nonviolent communication

Col and Rose become empowered by the tool of making requests and approach us with their desire to replace our homemade, unscented deer tallow soap in the bathroom with store-bought liquid soap.

  • Requests are clear and specific. Instead of “Can we start using a nice soap in the bathroom?” they might say, “Would you be willing to buy liquid soap for our bathroom when you go shopping on Sunday?”
  • Requests express what you want, not what you don’t want. Instead of “Will you please stop putting deer tallow soap in the bathroom?” they might say, “Can we replace the bar soap with liquid soap?”
  • Requests are doable. A successful request won’t compromise anyone’s values, and usually doesn’t contain the words “never” or “always.”
  • Unlike a demand, a request maintains everyone’s dignity by allowing for the option to say no, or for negotiations. I don’t like the idea of recycling plastic liquid soap containers regularly, so in agreeing to use liquid soap I want to know that the kids will help me refill reusable containers with bulk liquid soap.
  • Requests are more enjoyable to meet when we know how it will contribute to others’ happiness. “That liquid soap seems more sanitary, easier to use, and doesn’t crumble into pieces as it wears down, and we think it looks better when we have friends over.”

*One spot remains in my 5-week June, Tuesday night Living Nonviolent Communication Class. Details here.

these are the good old days

2018 May 3
by Rachel Turiel

Sorry – couldn’t help myself on this one.

We are coming into the seasonal festival that is blooming fruit trees. I am mesmerized from our upstairs windows, mesmerized from on the ground in the garden, mesmerized on the hiking trails above town looking down at the canopies of blossomy fireworks. Also, I’m just a little challenged by the part where two seconds after the whole town has gone up in a blaze of pink, spring is over. It’s like the paradox of life expressed in a peach tree, or a season. Already, after a recent rain storm, the gutters are filled with the pink confetti of downed blossoms.

Francis Weller says “Grief and love are sisters, woven together from the beginning. Their kinship reminds us that there is no love that does not contain loss and no loss that is not a reminder of the love we carry for what we once held close.”

I mean, I’m not sure he was referring to fruit trees, but still, this is helpful.

Because even the kids growing and changing contains loss. Remember when the kids were little and they lived in our world of gardening and butchering animals and traipsing off to the forest? I think now we’re living in their world of school events and weekend soccer games and opinions about shoe styles.

My new favorite bumper sticker is: “These are the good old days.” These days. How could this not be true? I can get all drunk on nostalgia, on the memories of fat toddler Rosie who couldn’t sustain ill will towards anyone for more than 30 seconds. But, there is a ten year old girl who’s here right now, who wants me to check out her turquoise toenails, her ukulele song, her merengue dance skills. Who wants to know that she matters and is seen and appreciated. Every night we say our thankfuls before eating and  Dan often mentions being thankful just to all be here at the table together, which about covers it (even as it includes someone’s onion phobia and someone else so eager to communicate while eating it presents a small choking hazard).

This ten year old in these good old days.

Also, Col shot an invasive dove with his BB gun, skinned and gutted it, and ate that baby for breakfast, juice dripping down his chin like a goddamed boy-king.

The elderberry trees, grape vine and hops are all slithering out of the soil, turning the world green like magic. I like to walk around the garden, not doing any actual work, just taking in all the emergence. The kids no longer follow me around the garden wanting to plant ten pea seeds in one square inch or water a plant to its death. The other day, I was driving Col to a friends house and like a detached, friendly uncle he asked, “So, what’ve you got going in the garden this year?”

I was planning to announce my upcoming nonviolent communication classes here but apparently it takes about a month to write a new post and they all filled. I do have one spot open in my Tuesday evening June/July class. Details here. I’m also doing private NVC consults and enjoying them so much. If this appeals to you, contact me.

I found this book serendipitously in our Free Little Library and loved the descriptions of tidal life, adolescent boyhood, the strange and dulling mask of adulthood. It actually put me in a bit of a panic that there are likely many more excellent books that I might just never meet up with. And the kids and I just finished the first book in this series, which was absolutely delightful.

Other signs of the coming of spring:

Me to Dan: How long will you be out here working on that elk hide?

Dan: Probably the rest of my life.

not pictured: a nascent adolescent boy getting ready to leave for a week at the Grand Canyon and Phoenix (for a study in contrasts?) under the guise of school. Will he eat any vegetables? Will he properly hydrate?

not pictured: Rose’s turquoise toenails poking out of brand new sandals her friend Iris gave her. You try telling Rose that true happiness doesn’t come from things.

I am continuing to get my Mediterranean tahini fix with this tahini sauce. We use it as salad dressing (add a splash of vinegar), as a dip, to ladle over steamed veggies. It’s perfectly creamy and nutty.

Just in case you needed a little more fat and protein with your fat and protein.

Tahini Sauce

Makes 2 cups. Blend the following:

1 cup water

1/2 cup tahini

1/2 cup lemon or juice of one medium sized lemon

1 minced garlic clove

tsp salt

sprinkle of paprika (optional)

Thank you for all your kindness and encouragement on my last post. I really enjoyed reading your comments.

Send news from your corner of the world. What are you reading? What are you eating? How do you use tahini?



The wind is in from Africa

2018 April 12
by Rachel Turiel

Hello Dear Ones,

I’m not entirely sure what to write about here anymore, what with my varied audience (Hello, 11-year old Iris and 80+ year old Tutu!) and having sort of said it all before. But you’re still here! And I’m deeply grateful for that.

Did you want to know about our greenhouse and cold frames? About how in April I’m remembering that eating locally is not about searching out what you most desire as if combing through shiny stones on the beach, but more like getting doused by the hide tide of spinach. It’s the vegetarian coming of Frankenstein: chard, kale, spinach, arugula swelling under spring conditions, requiring us to stay home and eat salad.


Rosie in Athens, with the Parthenon silhouetted on hill behind her. What you can’t see: cats, everywhere feral cats, who are fed and loved by the locals.

Or, did you want to hear about how we just returned from a trip to Greece and Israel with my parents? How right now I am drinking Arabic coffee (where the grounds remain in the cup extracting ever more jitters as you drink), bought from Mustafa in Haifa, who brewed his with cardamom and was wise enough to serve very small amounts.

Col lounging on an Israeli artist’s sculpture made of old military equipment in the Golan Heights where we met U.N. “military observers” from New Zealand who were keeping an eye on the border of Israel and Syria, making sure agreements were kept.

We spent a few days on the lovely Greek island, Rhodes (charmingly spelled Ρόδος in Greek and charmingly pronounced “Row-dose” by the locals), where generations of Turiels lived for at least 450 years, speaking their own language (Ladino – mix of Spanish and Hebrew), marrying distant cousins and living very good lives under the Mediterranean shade of fig trees while trying to avoid the wrath of each new wave of conquerors (Romans, Crusaders, Ottomans, Italians, and eventually the Nazis, who took every last Jew on Rhodes).

Found in the beautiful “new” synagogue, built in 1571.

Names of the Rhodes men, women and children with the last name Turiel who died in the concentration camps.

The ancient wall outside the old Jewish quarter of Rhodes, Greece.

From nearly 100-year old photos we found my father’s mother’s house on Rhodes. (We tried to find my grandfather’s house from the cryptic words he wrote after sailing from Rhodes to America in 1920: “Go to seahorse fountain, look across, above the wine seller, that was our place.” We ate dolmas, hummus, feta and enormous beans called “gigantes,” everything lubed with local olive oil. We woke up to African soil blown across the Mediterranean Sea coating our rental car. For days I sang Joni Mitchell’s lyrics “The wind is in from Africa/last night I couldn’t sleep.”

Col eating a giant shrimp still wearing it’s head, tail and numerous legs…shudder…and a plate of gigantes.

Futbol at the Roman ruins at Bet She’an National Park, Israel. Israel had a lot of brutal regime-change throughout its millennia of recorded history. 

Israel was a whirlwind of historical sites and intensity. “Jerusalem is a heavy city. Dense with God,” our tour guide said. “God is everywhere,” my dad suggested. “Maybe a little bit more God in Jerusalem,” she countered.

We were in Jerusalem on Passover and Easter Sunday, where the church bells rang (and rang and rang…) from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where Jesus is said to have risen from his tomb. Not a quarter-mile away Jews of all types made pilgrimages to the Western (wailing) Wall (including Hasidic Jews dressed for Russian winter, and a fierce 10-year old American girl determined to lodge her message to God between the 2000+ year old stones on the “women’s side” of the wall despite getting thwarted by women so deep in their religious trance-walk towards the wall they may not have noticed they were throwing elbows like pro soccer players). And not a quarter-mile from the wall sits the Dome of the Rock, 3rd holiest of Muslim sites, where Mohammed ascended to heaven on his white-winged horse. No non-Muslim can enter, despite it being built on the ruins of the destroyed 1st and 2nd Jewish temple. Oy vey; a very heavy city.

On a lighter note (pun intended), the Dead Sea was wonderfully buoyant and festive. Beyoncé playing on the loud-speaker as people of all nations dipped in the healing waters, floating like corks. Those are the hills of Jordan across the Dead Sea.

Dan, taking advantage of the healing mud of the Dead Sea.

The Mahane Yehuda (Jewish Market) was a highlight, as was all the food in Israel. We bought za’atar and “chicken spice:” rosemary, paprika, dried citrus peels, sea salt, which we’ve already added to “backyard” chicken soup. (We also brought home dried figs, apricots, halvah, chocolate, apricot bars, coffee…)

If you make Aliyah (Any Jews of “the diaspora” moving to the homeland of Israel), these men will give you a kilo of dried figs. Otherwise, it’s 100 shekels.

There’s so much more to say about Israel. Like, how we almost got used to the young Israeli soldiers, male and female, riding the bus with semi-automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. (Though, the ultra-orthodox families with their traditional garb, gender divisions and solemn faces appeared somehow more foreign). Or, how the inside of Israeli and Arabic falafel was deliciously green with minced parsley. Or, how I don’t think I ate quite enough tahini sauce ladled over cucumber and tomato salads. Or how, my whole Jewish identity is in a bit of upheaval now, contemplating the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict, in which no one is a winner, even as one side gains land and another side gains international sympathy. In which each side has found ways to justify murder and history has become a bendable story.

And, I’m wondering how we can hold fast to our differing heritages, stories, traditions without creating a wall of separation around ourselves or making others wrong for theirs? (This goes for the macro: Israel/Palestine and also the micro: our own families). When do our stories of victimhood cause more suffering than empowerment? I think I need a post-Israel ” Jewish heritage and non-violence” support group. You feel me?


-insert huge segue here-

Or did you maybe want to hear how I had a fancypants NYC literary agent who loved my memoir about Col’s premature birth at 25 weeks and finding fellowship in the foreign land of the Denver Ronald McDonald House where we lived for four months. He sent it to 15 big, commercial publishing houses, all of whom sent the nicest rejections, after which my agent broke up with me and now I have absolutely no idea what to do? Taking suggestions!


Or, perhaps you wanted to hear how I told Dan last night that we had two big things to celebrate. One was that when we all woke up late due to jet lag, Col whispered to me, “I’m worried that I’ll be late to school because Rosie takes so long to get ready.” He didn’t threaten, blame, judge or accuse Rose. He expressed his feelings and sought support. This day might become the new holy day in our house, commemorating the possibility of peace.

And, later, when I told Rose that she had a birthday party to go to that same afternoon, she scurried around trying to find a present for her friend and then told me, “Mama, I’m a bit annoyed that you didn’t tell me about this party until today. I really like to have time to make a card.” Again, no blame or judgment, just a clear expression of feelings and letting me know what’s important to her (time to prepare gifts). Double holy day!

What else? I’m trying to re-create all this amazing food we ate in the Mediterranean: roasted eggplant with tahini dressing, cilantro marinade, shaksuka. Recipes coming soon.

Birdwatching in style in the Galilee.