SOUTHEAST 9TH AND STERRETT STREET

There is a neighborhood intersection in Sellwood that I always visit when I'm in the area, as we were last night. I had the girls with me and I parked the car and made them walk the four corners with me. The pavement itself is painted by the neighbors every year, and though it is a little tire-worn by this time of year, you can clearly see the bright, creative, symmetrical designs covering the entire intersection.

On one corner is the kids' playhouse. There is a gazebo with toys and books--very inviting to the younger set. Another corner harbors the teahouse, with an artistic gem-studded stone bench under another glass-topped gazebo, a clever little table to hold cups, teabags, hot water thermos, and a guestbook. The third corner has an enclosed bookshelf for the book share. Bring a book or magazine you're done with and take what interests you. And the last corner is the neighborhood information board, with notices and messages. Last night the chalkboard read: "Peace and goodwill to all in 2010."

Sellwood has a fun, funky vibe that brings out the not-so-latent hippie in me. I love the creative spirit, the love of beauty, the commitment to the earth and to peace on earth inherent in such neighborhood projects. I like to wander the streets and wonder what my life might be like if I lived there, what my journey would be like if I'd followed my hippie heart more whole-heartedly. Sometimes I think I'd do well in a commune of people devoted to the arts, to the earth, to spirituality or to political activism. As it is, I haven't the vision or the energy to do much on my own in support of such pursuits.

But I do support them. I am so glad that there are so many people in the world, many of whom are my friends, who are living out all my alternate lives for me. We make life choices and other choices disappear. That is inevitable and probably wise. So thank you to all the artists and hippies and activists, the monks and businesswomen and vagabonds who are living my dreams. I hope I am contributing to your dreams by living my own chosen life well.

Peace and goodwill to all of us.

PUPUSAS

We went out to eat last night at a place in Portland called "El Palenque". We ate pupusas, a delicious Salvadorian dish involving two handmade corn tortillas stuffed with stuff. Our "pupusa rebuelta" had cheese and beans and some sort of spiced meat in it and our "pupusa chicarron" was stuffed with seasoned pork. The Salvadorian special included fried plantains with refried black beans and cream, a yummy sweet cheese bread, and a fat tamale with big chunks of vegetables.

The girls were not so brave and stuck to the Mexican side of the menu, but I thoroughly enjoyed trying some new cuisine from our neighbors in El Salvador.

Of all the things you didn't know before now, I bet pupusas never crossed your mind.

Check it out at: www.elpalenque.org

SLEEPOVER

The kids came home this week, bringing the grandkids with them. Garrett and Bayra, Zach and Nate arrived with blow-up mattresses, bottles and bibs, diaper bags, sleepers, stockings, blankets, broccoli and milk. Then Genevieve and Scott, Nolan and Gavin drove up and carried in baskets of gifts, duffel bags and sleeping bags, Legos and punch. Our household of four expanded to twelve for two-plus days, and we had a ball. When they all left on Saturday, Stephen, Grace, Gloria, and I looked at each other, at a loss, wandering in the vast quiet of our house.

It's trite but true: Christmas is a time for family. Gathered around the table together, meal after meal, we all recognized our luck, the blessing of good family, the privilege of being together, of knowing there is love and support sufficient for any challenge. We talked to Gabrielle in Chile, passing the phone around like a treasure. We called Gordon in Japan, wishing him Merry Christmas in a country that doesn't give him the day off. We played games and ate too much food and stayed up late. We shared gifts and memories. We thought of those we miss. We sang "Happy Birthday" to Jesus and devoured his birthday cake. We prayed together, in gratitude for a God who deigned to come as we come, live as we live, suffer all that we suffer and more, a God who values us enough to save us from ourselves, to offer us all that he has and is.

I sincerely hope your Christmas was as sweet as ours and that the new year brings you many joyful moments, as well as interesting challenges and the strength and creativity to meet them with enthusiasm and hope.

SOUR CREAM CAKE

I make this every Christmas. It's a recipe I got from my grandmother, and I'd never had this cake anywhere else until one day I visited my friend, June, and she served me up a piece and ruined my two-month sugar ban. It is an irresistible cake, worth ruining your diet for. And as it turned out, it's a good thing it's not such a family secret, since I couldn't find my well-worn recipe card this year and had to call June to get the recipe.

SOUR CREAM CAKE

1 cup butter (don't use margarine)
3 cups sugar
6 large eggs, separated
3 cups flour
1/4 tsp. baking soda
8 oz. sour cream
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. almond flavoring

Heat oven to 300*. Butter and flour a 10" tube pan. Cream butter and sugar very well, about 5 minutes. Beat in egg yolks one at a time. Combine dry ingredients. Mix sour cream with vanilla and almond flavorings. Alternate adding flour mixture and sour cream mixture, beginning and ending with flour mixture. Beat egg whites until stiff. Fold into the batter. Pour into tube pan and bake 1 1/2 to 1 3/4 hours.

Yum!

23 DECEMBER 1972

The Christmas lights that evening were a shining reflection of my mood as I headed over to the church in Santa Rosa, California from my home in Sebastopol. I rode with Matt, my boyfriend and baptizer, and my family followed behind. It had been a long, emotional day, perhaps more for others close to me than for myself. I was at peace, totally confident that my dad would at last sign the permission form that would allow me to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints at 16 years old. My mother, a fellow Christian, understood that this was the next step for me in my walk with Christ, and had already given consent.

The missionaries called at midday to suggest, "Maybe we should wait on this."

"No. He'll come around. It will all work out as planned."

Matt called. "Do you think we ought to postpone this?"

"No. Don't worry. It's all okay. Just come get me at 6:00."

I couldn't stop smiling. This felt so right. I knew what my dad, and probably my mom too, was worried about. They thought I might be doing this for Matt, because he was a Mormon and I was a sixteen-year-old in love. Both Matt and I knew better. This was a soul-choice, my choice. I knew that what Matt and the missionaries had taught me about the gospel and about the Mormon Church was true. I knew it in the still soul spaces beyond my mind, beyond explanation, beyond this world. Once you know something like that, it never lets you go.

When we got to the church, I found that many of my LDS friends were there already. They were there to share my joy, and their support surprised and moved me. Then I saw my family walk in, dressed up as only we Southerners can do it, and my heart melted with love for them all. And there was my dad, who loves me, his face still worn with worry. But I saw traces of faith and hope there, too.

I stepped into the warm water, where Matt waited. He raised his hand, pronounced the simple, powerful words of the baptismal rite, and immersed me in the water. As I emerged into his arms, I felt as free as I have ever felt, clean, new, and ready for whatever lay ahead.

Later, Matt's father placed his hands on my head in the confirmation ritual, and said, "Receive the Holy Ghost." I had never seen this done before. The details had not been explained to me. So I did not expect that sweet rush of warmth from my head to my feet, like God moving in and taking over. He has never left. I have never asked him to.

It has been 37 years today. Every year on this important anniversary, I sink deeper into prayerful gratitude for what it has meant to me to be a Mormon. It has changed my life, in ways far beyond what I could dream of on that December evening in 1972. It is not a perfect church, because it is comprised of imperfect people. But the power is here. The truth is here. God is here.

And I am here, to stand as a witness of Christ, to walk with him wherever he leads.

THE EDGE OF LOVE

It's quirky, love is. Some loves you choose, some choose you. It's the love that chooses you that is the most dangerous, the most haunting, the most promising. And the love you choose--that is how you make a life.

I was bored tonight, so I rented a movie out of the red box at Safeway, a BBC film I'd never heard of called "The Edge of Love." I chose it because it's based on the life and loves of Dylan Thomas and because I loved Keira Knightly in "Atonement" and she stars in this, too, along with Sienna Miller and Matthew Rhys. It's well done, certainly worth the $1 and the two hours.

It's the edges of love that intrigue and instruct. And aren't we all living and loving on the edge?

LIZ LEMON SWINDLE

She's an artist. Does a lot of interesting pictures of Jesus. I met her once, when she came to Vancouver to do a fireside with Kenneth Cope, an LDS musician. I love her work. So when I went I went to visit Patti in Salt Lake City recently, I noticed that she had a few Liz Lemon Swindle paintings on her walls. One hung at the foot of her bed, so that it was the first thing I saw when I woke in the morning. It's a painting called "Mother" and it depicts Jesus hugging a woman from behind, his arms around her shoulders, his cheek on her hair, her hand on his encircling arm. Jesus has his eyes shut, as if he is blessing the woman. The woman--perhaps meant to be his mother, but I see her as me--squints in the light which falls full on her face, a soft smile on her lips. Pure joy and serenity. It's the way I feel when I feel the arms of Jesus around me.

I was so moved by the painting that I bought a copy while in Salt Lake City. And three others, as well. "Mother" now sits in a frame on my desk. It's right in front of me right now, a constant reminder that I am always held in the arms of Jesus, even when I'm unaware.

And so are you.

Visit www.reparteegallery.com to see Liz's work.

SINGING FOR JESUS

Whew! This has been a long week of performances, almost every day. Though I loved watching my kids and grandkids perform in their various recitals and shows, what I loved best was singing for Jesus.

Last Sunday night I sang in the Vancouver East Stake choir at our Christmas Devotional. It was a lovely program, culminating in our rousing (though somewhat less than technically stellar)"Hallelujah Chorus" by Handel. We had an ice storm that day, so severe that church was cancelled, so it was especially nice to be able to gather together that evening to celebrate our Savior's birth.

On Saturday, the Portland Mormon Choir and Orchestra put on two shows. It was a 14-hour day for all of us involved, but I always experience such joy singing in such a great choir. There's nothing that stirs my soul so much as belting out "O come let us adore him" with the French horns blasting in my face (I stand right behind them), the stage lights in my eyes, like the bright star of Bethlehem, my fellow singers surrounding me in waves of praise, my awareness of the audience sharing our joy.

And this morning, I stood at the pulpit in our own chapel with my husband, daughter, and son and sang "O Come, O Come Emmanuel", inviting the Lord to come to us. Grace accompanied us beautifully on the violin, with our friend, Lana, on the organ. We are not great singers, really, but one of our deepest family pleasures is making music together. And the best music of all is when I'm singing for Jesus.

MESSES AND MERCY

I am constantly cleaning up other people's messes. It aggravates me to no end. So I am usually grumbling while I'm cleaning up messes that aren't mine. Sure, I do plenty of "Get down here and get your mess cleaned up!" but still, there is always more mess, more mayhem, more aggravation.

I look to Jesus always. So the other day, while grumblingly cleaning up yet another mess that wasn't mine, I thought of Jesus' life and muttered, "Jesus never had to clean up other people's . . ."

I caught myself right away. And spent the rest of the day repenting. Because that's exactly what Jesus' life and mission were all about: cleaning up other people's messes. Mine included. And I make plenty of messes and mistakes. He cleans up after me every single day, day after day, despite my best efforts not to make a mess of my life.

This has changed my approach to the inevitable messes and mistakes of others that affect me. If I want mercy--and Lord knows I need it--I have to show mercy. I have to have a merciful heart. I come every day to the feet of my Savior with my pile of messes and mishaps. And every day, he cleans up after me. No grumbling. No begrudging. Just sweet, healing mercy.

Ah, how I love my Jesus.

THE GRANDKIDS PERFORM

Wednesday night Fin and Max performed in a great abridged version of "The Nutcracker" at their Portland school, the Village Free School. Fin proved quite adept with his wooden sword, so much so that we were afraid he (the Rat King) would actually defeat the Nutcracker and they'd have to go to improv theater on the spot. Max marched around like a real live soldier and played a particularly mischievous party kid with aplomb. The Russian dancers (including Fin) did a hula-hoop routine that you'll probably never see in any other Nutcracker production. Fantastic fun!

And today Nolan nailed the role of Wise Man in his preschool Nativity performance. Because none of the actors had speaking parts, it required great skill to portray the emotion and motive of the characters. Lots of waving, grinning, and adjusting of costumes did the trick quite admirably. Nolan's jeweled headband proved to be especially intriguing to his Wise Man character, requiring much fastening and unfastening during the entire performance, ending up settling on his eyebrows with just the right rakish flair. Baby Jesus was quite impressed!

INTERNATIONAL POSTAGE

I am finally finished preparing all the Christmas cards and packages to send out. What was fun this year is the number of cards we sent to international friends. Our Big Trip this year brought us into contact with some wonderful people from around the world. Some we met in person, like the Mongolian family of our daughter-in-law, Bayra. That was a very special treat, since we now claim them as family. We also met Efrem and Luciana in Verona, Italy, who so kindly let us use their second home there. And Katja and Thom in Copenhagen, whom we met at church one day and found ourselves the next day touring the city with them and having supper in their apartment with their family. And we so enjoyed staying with the Paltins family in Hamburg, whose son was our exchange student in Oregon about 15 years ago!

Others we met online, as we arranged home exchanges, but these feel like real relationships, too. Genevieve met those who stayed in our home, so we have that once-removed live connection. There is the O'Sullivan family from London, and the Goris family from Antwerp, and our Persian friends from Copenhagen, the Ghasemi family. Still others generously shared their homes with us: Louis and Nicole from Pau, France let us use their Marrakech home, and Claire and Julien rented us their beautiful Paris flat in July.

It was such fun to address Christmas cards to all our new friends from around the world. Even two of our children, Gordon and Gabrielle, required international postage. I love that the world is so small, that we are all family, that most people everywhere just want to be kind and good and happy.

Merry Christmas to all!

FIRSTS

Tonight was Grace's first performance as a violinist in an orchestra. Her violin teacher put together an orchestra for Christmas and she quite enjoyed playing her part in bringing Christmas joy to the residents of a local Assisted Living facility.
She is preparing to audition for the Portland Metropolitan Youth Symphony in January, so this was good ensemble practice.

At the very same time, in another local Assisted Living facility just down the road, Gloria played four Christmas songs in her first piano recital. She did a superb job after just eight weeks of lessons.

Obviously, we had to divide and conquer tonight as parents. Not ideal, but we deal.
I heard Grace's orchestra rehearsing on Saturday, so I went to Gloria's piano recital tonight. Besides paying attention to the music and the musicians, I was busy comparing the two facilities--both very nice, by all appearances. Gloria liked the place she played at and assured me that she would check me in when the time comes. Oh, and live in the same neighborhod and come see me every day, because she reports she is going to have a big family and won't have room for me in her house. So I guess I'm all set to get old. Whew! That's a relief!

BROTHERS

This week I watched two movies about brothers. One was handily called "Brothers" and the other "G-Force". I actually fell asleep during the action scenes in "G-Force" so I can't speak with any authority about that. But I did catch the sweet scenes about the brother guinea pigs finding each other again. And the ending involved a star-faced mole being swayed from his vengeful agenda by the realization that he did, indeed, have a family to belong to. All very tidy and nice.

"Brothers" ended quite untidily, but very powerfully, with Tobey McGuire's character ruminating: "I have seen the end of war. The question is, can I find a way to live again?" The movie is about two brothers, one a war hero who presumably is killed in action and who returns home with a dark secret, the other an ex-con who finds his emotional bearings by befriending his brother's wife and daughters. It is expertly cast and flawlessly acted. I like movies that explore family themes and impossible situations, and this one does just that, in a very real, grips-you-till-it-hurts way.

One warning: it's rated R for sporadic, frequent use of the "F" word and for a bit of war violence. Make your own choice, but I judged it the best movie I've seen in quite a while.

THE TRIBE

My friend, Tracey, calls it your Tribe--you know, those people in the world with whom you feel you belong, with whom your spirit resonates. Finding one of your tribe is always a deeply soul-satisfying experience, like coming home to yourself.

You find them unexpectedly, because you can't predict who they are. Age makes no difference, or race or language, though it helps to be able to communicate, since that is often the way you identify another member of your tribe. Not always, though. Sometimes a look or a smile, a shared experience or even a dream will bond and bind you.

Once you have identified a member of your tribe, you belong to each other forever. Not in some creepy, Hollywood way, but for real. These are the people you instinctively trust to understand you, to cover your back, to fight on your side. You may not even know them well, but your spirit recognizes them. Some people call them "kindred spirits." That's apt, too.

I imagine I'm not the only one who often feels misunderstood and alone in a harsh world. So I am deeply grateful for the scattered members of my tribe. Knowing you are out there calms and encourages me. And I love you, too.

WITH A FLAME BURN CLEAR AND BRIGHTLY

Try as I might, I couldn't get a good fire going this morning. I used all the right tools: firestarters, paper, kindling, good wood, lighter. But though it was burning, it wasn't burning hot enough to give off much heat.

I assessed the situation in consternation. I was cold. I wanted warmth. Then I remembered that just as I had opened the woodstove this morning, I briefly thought, "These ashes are too deep; I should clean this out today before I start a fire." But I didn't, deciding that it could wait a day or two more.

Now I am nursing a poor fire all day, wishing I'd done the best thing at the best time. It reminded me of a song we are singing at our Portland Mormon Choir and Orchestra concert next week called "Fum, Fum, Fum". A line towards the end goes: "Oh let the night shine lightly. With a flame burn clear and brightly . . ." We sing that last line over and over, terracing the dynamics, adding voices and notes until it finally bursts into a full-voiced, joyous flame of song.

And I thought about the ashes I allow to gather too long in my soul, stunting my attempts to burn clear and brightly, my fire dim and hard to maintain. It seems such a simple thing, to do the best thing at the best time--before problems ensue--but the moments come and go sometimes without our attentive notice.

At the very next opportunity, when my little fire dies down and all is still and cold, I am going to clean out my ashes.

HARD CHOICES

My pillow's name is "Choices", according to its packaging. One side is soft and fluffy and the other is made of some sort of gel or whatever they use in temperapedic mattresses. I like that side usually, because it molds itself to my head and gives great support.

Except when it's cold. It has been very cold here lately and my bedroom is the coldest room in the house. We heat with wood, but we're too lazy to get up and keep the fire going all night, so we wake up to a 46 degree house. And that's in the warm part, where the thermostat is. I don't know how cold it is in my bedroom, but it feels like camping. Tucked up in my bed, my nose is cold.

But the bed is nice and warm. I'm telling you, heated mattress pads are the best thing ever! You would think the heat would soften up that gel or whatever it is in the choicest side of my pillow. But no, it is as hard as a plank. It actually makes me laugh, it is so unlike a pillow. So I flip it over to the soft side, but right through the fluff, I can feel that plank. Either side, a hard choice.

I toss Choices on the floor, and substitute my huggy pillow for my head. Not my first choice, but I'm sleeping fine.

PUEDO LEER EN ESPANOL--MAS O MENOS

I'm trying to learn Spanish. I studied it for a couple of years in high school, but that was oh so many moons ago. I would really like to be at least semi-fluent in a second language. I'm good at English. So surely I could be at least so-so at Spanish, wouldn't you think?

To that end, last year I read the Book of Mormon (El Libro de Mormon) in Spanish. For the first 100 pages or so, I had to read with both the Spanish and English translations open in my lap. But then I got to a point where I could read it in Spanish without constantly checking the translation and actually understand it pretty well. And finally, towards the end of the book, I could read and understand enough to even feel the Spirit at times.

I bought some "Learn Spanish" books, too, and tried to be disciplined about studying every day. That didn't work too well too long, though I did retain a vague recollection of verb conjugations. I also took a community education class for a term. We met in a classroom at Washougal High School and the best part about the class was the opportunity it afforded to speak and listen in Spanish. Then, when we were in Guatemala last April, I had 2 weeks of one-on-one instruction--four hours every day. That intense studyincreased my vocabulary and improved my listening comprehension quite a bit and my speaking ability a little bit.

Now I am reading Doctrine and Covenants (Doctrina y Convenios) in Spanish and writing Gabrielle each week in Spanish, which I'm sure is pretty laughable on her end in Santiago, Chile, but it's good practice for me, anyway. I also bought "Eclipse" by Stephenie Meyer in Spanish, but that's going to be slow going. I started it one day last week and realized I'm going to have to start this the same way I did the Book of Mormon, with both texts in front of me. I heard the movie is being released next June, so that's my goal, to finish before the movie comes out.

I'm telling you so you can keep me accountable. And if you speak Spanish, por favor, me ayuda!

GETTING A JOB . . . OR NOT

Now that Grace and Gloria are in school most days, I have more time. So I thought maybe I should get a job. I have mulled this for years, actually. There's the guilt to weigh--about never having supported myself financially. The guilt itself is useless, but it's there, nonetheless. Then there are the logistical and spiritual ramifications: how much time per week do I want to spend working for someone else? what about my creative pursuits? how will my kids and grandkids be affected? what about my travel addiction? how can I find meaningful, fulfilling, part time work? why should I take a good job from someone else who really needs it?

As you can surmise, this kind of round-and-round thinking severely limits my pursuit of employment. But one day, I was in the bank, the bank I've been with for over 30 years, and the bank lady was helping me link some accounts. She was diddling around on the computer while I watched, and it looked like so much fun (I like to diddle around with electronic money, too)that I commented, "Your job looks like fun! Do you like it?"

She replied, "I have degrees in Criminal Justice and Psychology and I never thought I'd end up working in a bank, but I absolutely love my job. There's a part time job open at this branch. You should apply."

Full of that blazing passion that fuels so many of my impulsive moves, I began to fill out the online application form. Later that day, I learned that my daughter-in-law, sole earner in her family at the moment, had lost her job and needed a new one.
She is an accountant with years of bank experience. I looked at her resume, then at mine (laughable) and decided right away not to hire me. Or even to apply. I figured I had learned of the job for Bayra's benefit.

We are still waiting to hear if the bank will hire Bayra. Prayers are welcome.

HOOD RIVER

My friend, June, gave me a wonderful gift last week. She works for the Rogue Valley Water District and they have an annual conference in Hood River, Oregon every year, just across the state line (the river) in the Columbia River Gorge. She invited me to come stay in her hotel room with her for three nights during the conference. It was glorious.

I enjoyed one long day of doing nothing, then another wandering the town without agenda or timetable. I did all the puzzles in the newspaper every day and watched home shows on TV and cooking shows and an HBO movie. I hung the "Do not disturb" sign on the door and stayed in my pajamas until I got so hungry I had to go foraging for food at 3:00 in the afternoon. The first day, I only made it one floor down to the hotel restaurant, got a salad to go, and ate it in the room. The next day, I ventured into town to the Three Rivers Inn and gorged on artichoke soup, crab cakes, beet salad, and creme brulee.

June was pretty involved in her conference, so I saw little of her, but the evenings were great fun--a slumber party with my best friend. It was the perfect combination of solitude and friendship.

By the way, Hood River is the windsurfing capital of the world, so if you're up to zipping wildly across river waves on a little board, with what appears to be very little control of velocity or direction, then falling into very cold water while trying not to get bonked on the head or draped in a sail, come on over. I'll watch.

SOLITUDE

I'm alone in the house now. I don't speak. I don't have music on. There's no sound except the ticking of the clock, the whirring of the woodstove fan, and the occasional rattling of the windows on this blustery day.

I have a numbered task list for today and I do each thing slowly, with mindfulness and enjoyment. I have just one more hour before my peace is shattered by the return of school children. My anxiety level rises as the minute hand moves around the face of the clock.

It's not that I don't like the company of my family. I do. But there is something built into me that cries for solitude. And lots of it. I've always been like this, so it must be inate, not simply the result of 30+ years of active parenting. When I was nine years old, I read a book about a hermit and told my mother, in relieved glee, that I had finally discovered what I wanted to be when I grew up: a hermit.

Sometimes I go out to the monastery in Lafayette, Oregon for a few days of focused solitude. It restores my soul as I look inward and upward. I could live like that.

Some days are gifts of peace -- like this one. I treasure my few hours of solitude and try to use them to prepare to better serve.

And now, on to the next task, which, happily for you, is the next blog post.

Peace to you.

MAEVE BINCHY

I was at the gym one day and saw a book in the pass-along pile by Maeve Binchy called "Glass Lake." I really didn't know the author, though I had her lumped in with authors I have thus far refused to read, like Nora Roberts and that Collins gal.
But I needed a new novel, so I took it home and read it.

She's an Irish author, and the book is set in Ireland, which is what made it such an enjoyable read. On our round-the-world trip, Ireland was one of my favorite spots. I love it when a book can evoke a place so beautifully, so that you feel you are there again. It's pure escapism--lovely, heady, nostalgic.

Binchy develops some strong characters in the story and you care what happens to them, even though there's not really much plot. It's a slow, slice-of-life sort of story, similar to Rosamund Pilcher's work, for instance. It's not a page-turning thriller, though once you're pulled into the life of Lough Glass, it's hard to come back to your own. Those kinds of books are nice, because you can read as fast or as slow as you want, since you're not reading for story as much as character and place.

I'd read another of hers, if I saw one lying around. I'm not sure I'll go look her up at the library--there are SO many good books that I haven't yet read--but if it sounds like your kind of tale, give her a go.

JAKE'S GRILL

Girls' lunch: Monday, 30 November 2009

Diners: Lisa, June, Sue, Genevieve, Bayra, Bethany

Restaurant: Jake's Grill

Location: in the Hotel Governor on the 600 block of SW 10th Avenue in Portland

Menu: good selection of American food

Examples:
roasted beet salad with goat cheese and candied pecans,
French dip
sirloin, garlic potatoes, green beans (the Blue Plate special)
three-cheese macaroni
crusted mahi-mahi

Prices: excellent value; we all ordered entrees for under $10

Ambience:
warm, cozy, dark wood and brass, beautiful old building with perfect upgrades

Social report:
Fun! Old friends and family join in catching up and planning ahead.

Advice:
Yes, Try Jake's Grill. We meant to eat at the Culinary School, but it was closed, so we chose this because it was there. Good choice. Great food. Excellent value. Call me and I'll meet you there next time.