Keep Rising

Greetings from Mile 12,142 --

My kitchen is a mess, and I'm the happiest I've been in months.

I'd almost forgotten the power -- and joy -- of baking!

Remember Angry Cookies?  

And Cookie Apocalypse?
And not knowing what to do, but wanting to do something?

Whenever I faced a tough patch, baking always helped get me through. 

I've been off-balance lately -- physically and emotionally -- hobbling around in a "boot" and on crutches.  

Everything is a multistep process these days:  getting ready for work, collecting the mail, traveling from Point A to Point B.  I've become better at planning, more practiced at problem-solving.  Steadier with a backpack.  

But still, it's exhausting.  And laced with loss.

I'm grateful to my body for rising to the challenge -- for doing what's required -- but that's usually all I can manage.

I had written off baking completely.  

It just wasn't worth the energy.

Two weeks after my dad's funeral, my mom and I travel to Vermont.  

I plan the trip and do the driving.
Mom is the Sherpa, lugging everything except my backpack.  

(She's small but mighty!) 

We're going to visit my sister Sam and her family, a trip we've made dozens of times over the years, usually with Dad in the driver's seat.

In Danbury, we pass his favorite stop, the Blue Colony Diner.  We start to text him a photo, and then realize we can't.  When we reach Springfield, we want to tell him we've arrived.  The car feels empty without him.  

This trip is different.  Everything is different.

Maybe for that reason, we divert from our usual path.

Instead of connecting to I-89 at White River Junction, we drive 20 more miles up I-91 to a place I've never been but have always aspired to go...

King Arthur Baking Company --
the headquarters!

To our surprise (and my delight) it's fully accessible. 

The parking spaces are close. 
The doors are automatic.  
The restrooms are roomy.  
The floors are smooth.

That's as close to effortless as it gets on crutches!

I feel absolutely welcome!!

The staff is friendly, helpful, and smiling. The café barista wears a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words...

KEEP RISING.

It's a fun diversion -- and exactly the message we "knead." :)  

We treat ourselves to true Vermont fare:  fig and brie on a homemade baguette, a fall salad with maple dressing, steaming cups of cider with biodegradable lids.  

Then we poke around the factory store.  It's full retail therapy wrapped in the aroma of baking bread.  

Mom does all the carting and carrying!

I'm on my feet (well, foot) for quite a while.  We both are.  But it's not exhausting.  

It's renewing.

Two hours later, we meet up with our favorite Vermonters.  

They don't even notice the delay!

Back at home, I start counting miles again, picking up where I left off almost 2 months ago.

At Mile 12,142, I decide it's time to get back to baking.

I scoot around the kitchen on my wheelie stool.
Pivot on one foot to pull out the ingredients.  

Stand when I need more leverage.

I thought I couldn't bake without my prosthesis on, but it turns out I can...

It's just different. 

I plan out each step.  Try to be organized.  Stand up.  Sit down.  Stand up again.

It's a multistep process, but it's not exhausting.  

It's an exhilarating diversion -- one I want to do, not have to do.

The counter swirls with its messiest storm in months: canned pumpkin, bright red cranberries, granulated sugar, sifted flour, shakers of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.   

I reunite with my bowls and cups and wooden spoons like old friends.

The kitchen fills with the warmth of fall.

I measure and stir and crack a few eggs.  
Drip oil down my sleeve.  

Drop wrappers on the floor.
Crush crumbs with the wheels of my stool.

My hands are busy.  My mind is focused.

Disorder becomes order.  

And that mess on the kitchen counter?  

It rises into something new, and nourishing, and beautiful.

A pumpkin-cranberry bread
to share, gratefully, with friends.

Making time for who and what we love is always worth the trip.

KEEP RISING. 

Wishing you a happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Bake on,

Rebecca

P.S.  Recipe here:  Pumpkin-Cranberry Bread

Where Would You Walk?

Mile Marker 12,072:

I'm grounded at home this weekend.

I was supposed to be visiting my favorite Vermonters. I'd bought an airline ticket and everything!

Then, out of nowhere, my right foot starts aching.  

(Yes... the real one.)

Technically, it isn't out of nowhere.  

I often get right foot pain, especially at the end of the day.  Sometimes my knee swells, or my ankle, or both.  Like most unilateral amputees, I depend on my "sound side" for balance and performance.  A solid step with my right leg makes my prosthetic knee bend more fluently -- and my gait more natural.  Plus, you can't wear a prosthesis 24/7.  When I take my leg off, my sound side does 100% of the work. 

It's called "overuse."

At first, it's just a pang when I step down on the ball of my foot.  I ignore it and keep walking. 

But a few days later, I can barely bear weight.

Cue the alarms.  

I NEED TO PROTECT MY RIGHT FOOT.  

IT'S THE ONLY ONE I HAVE.

(This has happened before, but I don't want to think about it.  If you want, you can read about it here.) 

And so... 

Twenty-four hours before departure, I make the best -- and only -- decision for my body.  

I cancel the whole trip.  

At that very moment, an article lands in my inbox: 

The Most Walkable City on Each Continent.

Cruel joke?  Maybe.

I click on it anyway.

While I'm on hold with the airline, I open up Kayak and plug in the recommended cities.

• Boston
• Madrid
• Marrakech
• Buenos Aires
• Wellington
• Hoi An

Just for kicks, I set my travel dates for September.  (It's my fantasy, so why not celebrate my birthday in Spain?)

I imagine an epic, multi-city, around-the-world trip for the sole purpose (pun intended) of doing the one thing I cannot do at this very moment.

WALK.

Hey, it's cheaper than you'd think!

Dreaming of travel has always been a coping mechanism for me. 

Years ago, I'd spend lunchtimes at work scrolling through "E-saver" flights and "Travelzoo" discounts.  (Remember those?)

In the months after the accident, when I sat teary-eyed in my therapist's office -- certain I'd "never go anywhere ever again" -- she encouraged me to hop on over to Amazon and find books that would take me places.

I ordered this one first --
And it was too heavy to lift on my crutches!

Later, 400 miles into this journey -- recovering from yet another surgery -- I wrote my own Walking Wish List.  

All the places I'd walk IF or WHEN I could...

Click here to see it.

Now, I'm amazed at how many
of those boxes I've checked off!!

Eventually the American Airlines rep takes me off hold.  

She adjusts my flight plans without a penalty.  My Airbnb host is equally understanding.  It reminds me of the kindness I encounter whenever I travel.

Today, there will be no morning miles.  I'll conserve my limited "foot time" for basic activities at home.

I hobble around the kitchen like a robot crossed with a baby deer.  

I brew a pot of coffee my friend Priti brought back from India.

I open up biscuits and jam from our neighborhood in Paris.

I spoon out granola from my favorite local coffee shop.

Then I gather up everything and limp out to the balcony,

where I gingerly remove my right shoe.

Less than 70 miles ago, I was exploring Paris on foot -- not quite easily, but filled with joie de vivre!  

And now... I'm HERE.

It's hard to reconcile these two truths.  

I have a disability that's both permanent and variable.  It's who I am as a traveler.  

Slow or fast.

Near or far.

Walking, like health, is the most fragile of privileges.

Of all the places to be grounded at Mile 12,072,

I am extra grateful for this
corner of the sky.

Fingers (and 5 toes) crossed, there'll be many miles ahead. 

I'm open to ideas.

Where would you walk?
Rebecca

Perhaps... Paris

Bonjour from Mile 12,062!

Perhaps I'm in Paris...

Sure, I'm eating out of plastic containers, but I'm using real silverware!

Plus, the pesto is homemade, and I'm pretty sure the gazpacho is puréed with local tomatoes. 

Normally I'd just grab takeout.  But I'm determined to keep up the Paris vibe, which includes taking time out -- to eat, breathe, and write.

I open my pocket journal, which I found in a bin at Cést Deux Euros, the Parisian equivalent of a dollar store.

In the spirit of Paris, I start "perhapsing." 

Perhapsing is a technique I learned in my travel memoir class --  a method of filling in sketchy details and unknowns with our own speculations.  It's entirely "legal," as long as I tell you I'm perhapsing.  

So, I am. :)

It was one of my favorite exercises of the week.

Picture this:  One afternoon in the Jardin du Palais Royal, a blur of pink catches my eye.

At first, she's just a dramatic photo from afar!

But then I move in.  Park myself on a pillar nearby.

(Far enough to be discreet, close enough to be within earshot.)

She and her parents are positioned in the shape of a scalene triangle.  

Mom is closer to her, more engaged.  
Dad sits farther back, on his phone.

They're speaking in Spanish (I think), so perhapsing is my only option.  I observe -- and put the clues together.

"Mommy, watch!"

"One!" Cartwheel.  
"Two!" Cartwheel.  
"Three!" Cartwheel.

She cascades across the courtyard.  Mom laughs.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

She scrambles onto a pillar, pink sweatshirt flapping behind.  

Mom poises her camera.

The girl shoots a peace sign.

Puts her hands on her hips.

Strikes a disco move -- Travolta-like -- pointing to the sky.

Mom snaps, and snaps, and snaps.

Dad looks up.  Smiles.  Goes back to his phone.

Mother and daughter huddle together -- a curtain of long hair -- as Mom flips through the photos.

Then the girl skips to her father.  Pokes her head between his face and his phone.

"Daddy, did you take a photo?"

He looks up.  Smiles.  Pecks her on the cheek.

I scribble in my journal so I won't forget this moment and this place, this perhapsed dialogue, and all the details I've perhapsed about this family.

It's just an exercise, but it's opened up a world to me.

Au revoir, Palais Royal!

At Mile 12,062, I'm back in Philly -- and a world away.

The couple next to me is discussing Scandinavian cake, with a plastic bag of peanuts sitting between them on the table.  

It's odd on both counts.  

We're at Talula's Daily, which serves neither Scandinavian cake nor peanuts.

I listen in -- and start perhapsing.  (Perhaps the man's name is Herb...)

"I'm thinking of a simple dessert, like a Scandinavian cake," his wife says.

Herb nods, nudging the bag of peanuts with his finger.  

"Well, what do you think of that?"

He pauses.  "I just don't think you have to try so hard."

"She's young.  She's having health problems."

"So?"

"So a Scandinavian cake isn't hard.  You can just serve it with some light cream or lemon.  She used to work at the hospital, you know."

Herb touches the knot on the bag.  He wants to open it, but now that she's shifted from cake to health problems, he isn't sure.  

"You mind?" he says.

She sighs.  "Whatever you want.  I'm very agreeable today."

Perhaps they're going to visit their daughter's friend, the one with health problems.  Perhaps their own daughter is traveling (perhaps in Paris!), and perhaps they feel guilty about that.  Perhaps Herb is missing the Phillies game, and the peanuts are as close as he can get. 

For perhaps a half hour, I am transported from this table in Philly to a graceful café in the center of Paris.

It's a good place to be.

I look up from my journal.

It's unseasonably cool for Philly, with a mask of clouds and a breeze that feels like rain.  

Perhaps I've brought this weather back from Paris.  

I get up to leave.  

Then, in a unwelcome burst of reality, my leg bumps the chair -- metal on metal -- and my elbow knocks the fork handle, the one that's balanced on the edge of the plastic container.  

And the whole thing -- sandwich and all -- nearly catapults to the ground.  

By some miracle, I catch it.

I'm not graceful, and this isn't Paris...

Perhaps... I'm still me. :)

Walk on,
Rebecca

News from the Balcony

-- Newsflash --

My "June-blooming strawberry" has a jumpstart on the season!

As a late-bloomer myself, I'm impressed I even planted it before June!

Squished into a flower box 4 inches wide, hanging 3 stories above the city street, I wasn't even sure it would survive.  

Add to that...

swinging spring temps, 
soggy soil, 

rain for days.

Yet against all odds, it's thriving.  And early!!

Maybe it's a sign -- Should I turn over a new leaf too?  Maybe I'll too be an "early bird" from now on!

(If you know me, you're probably laughing.)

Truth is, I exist in time differently.

This spring, I've been searching for my body's own rhythms.  

Trying to accept them. Work with them.

Move in harmony with the way things are.

And discover my own pace along the way.

So for now, I'll just bloom where I'm planted.  

Consider the sweetness to come.

And enjoy the view!

Happy May!

Taste is Travel

Café Tolia is the newest spot in our Philly neighborhood.  

It's spacious and warm with exposed brick and white-washed walls.  The owners are friendly and welcoming.  Elbe bakes the pastries.  (I'm not sure how.  She must get up at 2 AM!)  

The walls are covered with black and white photos, also by Elbe, of their family's travels and transitions through Europe.

I'm with my friend and walking buddy Mark.  We arrive just minutes after they open.

When we walk together, Mark always gets a cappuccino and I always get a coffee.  We always take them to go, and we always keep walking.   I always eat fruit and yogurt when I get home.

But today, Mark suggests trying a pastry.  We haven't planned for this, but I have to admit I'm curious.  

As if to convince me, Elbe emerges from the kitchen with a wooden platter of buns fresh from the oven.  

Turkish pastries, but with French and Mediterranean flavors.

(Come on, you'd be tempted too!)

"They're savory, with lavender and herbs de Provence inside," she tells us, "and also some cheese and olives."

She had me at lavender.

But the thing is, I have certain routines, especially to start the day.  It's one way I manage my digestive issues.

Eating outside that comfort zone can feel, well... uncomfortable.

On the other hand, I've been working on my "flexibility muscles" for both mind and body.  

Why?  Being flexible is necessary for travel.

I want to travel.  
I love to travel.  
I want to love traveling!

(It's just uncomfortable sometimes.)

So I'm practicing...

I give into the buns.

As we unexpectedly take a seat -- instead of taking our coffees to go -- I relax into the pastry.  

Feel the butter on my fingertips. 

Taste the tangy olives, the subtle herbs. 
Watch crumbles of feta fall onto my plate.

Mark and I talk about how taste creates experience.  How it can define a place as much as, or more than, our other senses.

How taste and travel go together.

I tell him about a trip I took to Bordeaux in 2010, the summer before my accident.  

I was braver back then.  Fearlessly independent.  More flexible.  Less clingy to routines.

I biked everywhere.  Hiked everywhere.

Ate everything!

Each morning I set out to discover what the locals were eating for petit-dejeuner, and that's what I'd order too.

But even back then, I was just one person -- and a petite 90-pounder at that.  Although I wanted to taste everything, I just didn't have room to put it!  

One morning I sat in the window of a local café watching some teenagers seated outside.

As I savored my own chausson aux pommes, I observed their fantastic spread:

du jus d'orange
du chocolat chaud
du thé
du café
du gateau
des pains
du jambon
des fromages
des oeufs!

"It was all so spectacular," I tell Mark, "I recorded their entire meal in my journal!" 

When I get home, I search out that very page...

...it turns out to be 2 pages!!

Thirteen years later, I can still taste that morning.  I still remember that meal like it was yesterday.

Maybe it's because of my own challenges that eating something new feels so special.

It's like freedom.  Like setting worry aside, just for the moment.  Like making room for uncertainty and welcoming it in.  

Mark and I finish our pastries.  And before I know it, I'm back home again.  

But taste is travel.  

And this morning's adventure made an old route feel new again.  

Like we left our neighborhood -- and ventured much, much further.

Bordeaux 2010 :)

To Market, To Market...

These peppers deserve their own postcard!

On an unexpected early morning, I spot them in the crowded aisle of a little Italian grocery shop called Claudio.  

"Claudio's" (as the locals say) is at the northern end of South Philly's Italian Market.  It's across from Gleaner's Café, a longtime favorite coffee stop.

After coffee, Ellen wants to pop inside for "one thing."

(It's been years since I've been in Claudio's.  So... why not?)

What starts out as a quick errand turns into a full-fledged field trip.

Don't you just love when that happens??

See, peppers aren't really the point of this postcard -- MARKETS are!

In the years of the pandemic and not traveling, I forgot the way a local market can be a travel adventure in itself.

When we step inside, all those memories come rushing back.

Take Copenhagen -- my last trip before the world shut down.

Natalie and I arrived in Copenhagen in the evening dusk.  Granted, sunset was at 3:45 PM, but after an overnight flight, a connection in London, a train from the airport, and dragging our luggage along the drizzly sidewalk, we were too exhausted to search for a restaurant. 

Instead, we were lured by the fluorescent lights of our neighborhood Lidl...

Smoked salmon!  
Dark rye!  
Local yogurt!
Bars of chocolate!  

Our eyes widened.  

Every shelf was exciting!  
Seeing Danish shoppers was exciting!  
Counting our kroner at check-out was exciting!

"The Lidl" became our regular stop
on the way home each night!

If you have mobility or health issues like I do, local markets SCORE BIG.  They're a relief  -- and a necessity -- when traveling.

They offer flat terrain,
climate control (sometimes), 
and a welcome reprieve from heavy restaurant food.

One can't subsist on pastries alone --
or at least I can't!

In Austria, where "Gluten" Morgen was a daily greeting, Marla and I (and my tender digestive system) took refuge in local shops where we could pick up fresh fruit, salads...

...and my personal fave,
homemade Austrian muesli!

And in Nice, on my very first trip overseas as an amputee, Mary and I discovered the famous and colorful outdoor market, Cours Saleya.  

A perfect place for early morning walks!

Shopping à la francaise (aka "French style")
was even better than eating out!

Our food vocabulary blossomed.  We progressed from pointing and pantomiming to actually talking our way through transactions.  

By the end of the week, we even asked a fromagière
to wrap cheese for our airline trip home!

Today's stop at Claudio's reminds me how a market is a glimpse into local life -- wherever you are.  

We stand in line behind a South Philly dad.

He orders fresh mozzarella balls,

a log of soppressata longer than my forearm, 
and a super-sized container of marinated octopus, complete with suckers.  

His wife and kids stand patiently beside him cradling bags of hand-shaped pasta.  

As they reach the check-out counter, his daughter points to a four-pack of fancy Italian lemon spritzers.  She looks hopefully at her dad.  

He nods.  And she adds it to their purchase.

"I'd like to go to his house for dinner," Ellen whispers.

By the time we step outside, it's like we just returned from Italy...

via South Philly!

No plane fare, packing, or planning.  Just minutes from home.

My souvenir -- a $6.99 jar of Sicilian-style roasted peppers with pine nuts and golden raisins. :)

Pretty good bang for the buck.

Shop on!

Happy travels,
Rebecca

Cookie Bar

When you see a sign like this, you just have to go in!

I mean, right??

An errand this week takes me to Doylestown.  It's ridiculously far from the city, so once I'm there, I have to at least take a little stroll.

That's when I see the Cookie Bar.  

I take in the vibrant mural, the sky blue shutters, and the little white building that houses this delicious idea.  My mind goes wild with the potential of it all.

What is a Cookie Bar?
Is it a bar that serves cookies?
Or a design-your-own-cookie assembly line?

I imagine a bartender in a baker's cap, a rainbow-tiled bar top, and of course, an array of "top shelf" milks and syrups that would line the wall behind it.

But wait, maybe it's not that kind of bar at all...

Maybe it's like a salad bar -- for cookies!  Yes, that makes more sense!!

Just picture it.  

A self-serve counter lined with neat scoops of cookie dough.  Chips, candy, nuts, and berries in bright little bowls.  And at the end of the bar, the pièce de résistance: a bake-your-own-cookie machine -- a cross between an Easy Bake Oven and that "conveyer belt toaster thingy" at the Comfort Inn! 

I'd be fine either way.  With a Cookie Bar, you can't go wrong!

Finally I venture inside and...

Well... there are cookies.  And they are cut into bars.  There are some regular ones too, just freshly made.  They look good. They smell good.

I take a few home to try.  My dad samples one, and he likes it. 

Yet I can't help feeling a tad let down.  

It's a good bakery.  I'm glad I didn't pass it by.

It just couldn't quite compete with all the hype... in my head. :)

Years ago, my cousin Brett and my friend Kym would talk together about starting a business.  

An IDEA business.

They'd start a company whose sole purpose was to produce ideas for other people.  (I believe they were planning to sell them, but they never got that far!)

As they talked about it, their inventory of ideas grew.  Creativity is contagious.  I was excited just listening to them!

Brett and Kym aren't here anymore.  I miss them both -- and their energy.

And I think of them in moments like this.

They would have loved the idea of a Cookie Bar!

So... 

If you agree, I've got an offer for you:

One idea.  A Cookie Bar.  Re-imagine it as you will.

I have enough on my plate.  

Go ahead.  Run with it.

You can have it for FREE.

Croissant Therapy

Mile Marker 8825:

When you think of unbound happiness, what comes to mind?  

And how do you get there - especially in a global pandemic?  

Some Kind of... Cookies

Mile Marker 8460:

Don't just sit there, do something.  But what about when there's nothing we CAN do?

Mile 8,460 starts with a text from Nurse Deb, on the front lines. 

Granola for One

Mile Marker 8399:

Where are we?

Or more accurately, WHEN are we?

Oh.  Hello Saturday.

Anyone else feel like the days should be wearing name tags this week?  

Souperficial Wounds

Mile Marker 8297:

Wow, I walk great in these socks!

Let me stop right there.

If you have a prosthetic leg, don't walk in socks.  And if you do walk in socks, don't carry soup.  And if you do carry soup while walking in socks...

The Hygge Cure

Mile Marker 7975:

Some people make a packing list.  I make an anxiety list.

Last spring, when Natalie and I bought our airline tickets, Copenhagen in November seemed like a fantastic idea.  It was the land of Christmas markets, castles, and this mysterious thing called hygge.

The problem is... November.  

Book Club, the Universe, and Everything...

Mile Marker 7584:

What do space travel and book club have in common?

Well today, snacks.  

One-Way Ticket

Mile Marker 7566:

I have a new philosophy:

It's better to go than not to go.

I'm sure there's a famous quote that could express it in a catchier way, but I don't want to take the time to search for it.  

The Food Train

Mile Marker 7070:

Buttered pretzels.  Roasting chickens.  Freshly glazed donuts.  Gooey cinnamon rolls.  It's Philly's tastiest traffic jam.

We shuffle along in the crowd, heel-to-toe, winter coats brushing against each other in the narrow aisles.

If you've been a tourist in Philly, you know it's all about the food.  Cheesesteaks.  Water Ice.  Chinatown.  The Italian Market.  Regular stops on the Philly food train.

But if you want it ALL, follow our footsteps at Mile 7,070.

My Favorite Miles - Austria 2018

50 miles in Austria!  

So much fun.  So many adventures.  And OMG, the climbing!

The hills are so alive, it's tough to pare them down.  And apologies to the von Trapp family, but I'm gonna sing it out loud -- 

These are a few of my favorite miles...

Cucumbers & Ranch

Mile Marker 6260:

Rainbow eats a cucumber.

This is big news.