Tag: The Spokesman-Review

Columns

Brown sugar cookies bring sweet memories

Cindy Hval

Chocolate chip cake bars, cowboy cookies, gingersnaps, snickerdoodles – on most Saturdays, Mom’s kitchen was filled with the fragrance of fresh-baked cookies.

When my youngest son started kindergarten and I returned to work, Mom assumed my children might never get a homemade cookie again. So she baked. Cookies were her love language.

Mom didn’t drive, so one of us would stop by her house to pick up the goodies. See what she did there? A Saturday visit from her daughter, son-in-law or a grandson was guaranteed.

Of all the treats Mom baked, brown sugar cookies were my favorite. Sweet and chewy with an added spark of cinnamon. It’s impossible to eat just one, so I often secreted a stash away from Derek and my boys.

In August, I came across her handwritten recipe.

My future daughter-in-law was coming to meet the wedding florist in my home to choose flowers for the bouquets and boutonnieres. I planned to serve them tea and cookies, and as I thumbed through my recipes, a flash of Mom’s tidy penmanship caught my eye.

Brown sugar cookies.

I hadn’t tasted them since she moved into an assisted living community seven years ago. I’ve baked a lot of cookies over those years, but I didn’t have the heart to make my favorites.

I wanted to remember how they tasted when she pulled them from the oven and placed a warm cookie in my hand.

I wanted to picture Mom in her element – stirring dough with a wooden spoon in the sunshine yellow mixing bowl and scooping dollops onto her battered and bent cookie sheets.

If I’d known that long ago batch would be the last one she’d be able to bake, I would have savored each bite, feeling her love in the sweetness of every mouthful.

Now, Mom’s memories are jumbled and fragmented. The details of hundreds of meals and thousands of cakes and cookies she churned out are lost somewhere in the depths of dementia.

It felt like it was time to fold new memories into the richness of the old. So, I affixed the recipe to the range hood and assembled the ingredients.

While they baked, I spread one of Mom’s lace cloths on the table and warmed a teapot for my guests, just like she showed me.

The timer rang, and I pulled a pan of cookies from the oven. As usual, I couldn’t wait for them to cool. I juggled one from hand to hand and finally sank my teeth into the deliciousness of brown sugar and cinnamon. They were every bit as wonderful as those that came from Mom’s kitchen.

I shouldn’t have waited so long to make them.

When Naselle arrived, I served the cookies on the glass dessert plates we used at my wedding 38 years ago.

Of course, she loved the cookies.

For her bridal shower, I created a cookbook filled with favorite family recipes. I included Mom’s piecrust and a copy of her handwritten brown sugar cookie recipe.

I hope the memory of the day I finally made Mom’s cookies will be as sweet as the ones I have of her baking for my boys.

But if that moment fades or is lost to me in the haze of age or illness, perhaps my daughter-in-law will bake a batch and remember for me.

Brown Sugar Cookies

1 cup shortening

2 cups brown sugar

2 eggs

2 tablespoons water

2 teaspoons vanilla

3 ½ cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon cinnamon

Cream shortening and sugar. Add eggs, water and vanilla. Sift dry ingredients and mix well. Take small balls of dough and mash down with a glass dipped in sugar and cinnamon.

Bake at 350 degrees for 8-10 minutes on a greased cookie sheet.

All Write

Purple Heart Pin-Up

Cindy Hval

During World War II, pinup girls with porcelain skin, scarlet lips and daintily arched brows offered troops reminders of the girls back home.

Gina Elise loved that glamorous look and decided to use the nostalgia to support contemporary troops. In 2006, she launched Pin-Ups for Vets, a nonprofit with a mission to raise funds for hospitalized veterans and to boost the morale of deployed servicemen.

“Each year, we create a calendar featuring female veterans from across the country,” she said. “The calendar fundraises for everything we do, from donating rehab equipment to VA Hospitals to shipping care packages to troops to our 50-state Veterans Hospital Tour.”

Pin-Up Vets have visited 20,000 veterans in 49 states, delivering gifts of appreciation.

This year, the organization released its 19th calendar, and Miss January hails from Spokane. Kodie Misiura served four years in the Marines and deployed twice to Iraq.

Misiura said she opted to enlist partly out of orneriness because her dad didn’t want his daughter in the military.

“My dad said, ‘Kodie, some guys can’t make it through Marine Corps boot camp. How are you going to?’ ” she recalled. “That’s all it took.”

Today marks the 249th birthday of the U.S. Marine Corps. Women make up less than 6% of the Corps.

She’s proud to be one of them.

“Being a Marine is special – being a woman Marine is even more special. The fewer. The prouder,” she said, riffing on the classic Marine slogan: The Few. The Proud. The Marines.

Misiura is also in rare company as one of approximately 500 women in the U.S. military to receive a Purple Heart.

On June 23, 2005, she survived one of the worst days for women in the history of the military when a suicide bomber attacked her convoy. Three of her fellow female Marines died, and 11 more were injured in the blast.

It’s a day she prefers not to discuss. Instead, she focuses on the friendships she formed and the experience she gained.

“The military afforded me every opportunity,” she said.

She currently works in veterans’ services for the state of Washington.

When a fellow Marine sent her the calendar casting call, Misiura was intrigued.

“I’m not a girly girl by any means,” she said. “But I love pinups and that vintage look.”

After reading how the nonprofit supports veterans and active-duty personnel, she decided to go for it.

Pin-Ups for Vets founder Elise said they receive hundreds of submissions from veterans across the country.

“This year’s calendar features 13 female vets with a combined 117 years of service,” she said. “Kodie is one of two Purple Heart recipients in the calendar.”

Misiura said the experience was a whirlwind.

“I flew down to California, and they did my hair, makeup and costume all in one day!”

Elise said the women revel in the process.

“They have a blast,” she said. “We turn them into 1940s bombshells.”

Misiura enjoyed every minute.

“It was cool, because I got to meet some of the other women veterans,” she said.

When the calendars are printed, the Pin-Up vets visit VA hospitals and veteran’s homes to deliver and sign them.

“They have an instant vet-to-vet connection,” Elise said.

But that connection isn’t always so instantaneous. Usually, the veterans don’t know the calendar girls are fellow vets.

Misiura recently visited a veteran’s home in Columbia Falls, Montana. She went from room to room chatting with the vets and offering to sign a calendar for them.

One vet wasn’t inclined to talk. She noticed his display of medals.

“I see you have a Purple Heart,” Misiura said. “Thank you for your service – I have one, too.”

He was shocked, and when she showed him her pinup photo in the calendar, he opened up and began to chat.

“It was a nice way to connect,” she said.

But those without an array of medals to show for their service also command her respect.

“A lot of veterans think if they didn’t deploy, they’re not a vet,” Misiura said. “I tell them signing up shows your courage. A veteran is a veteran is a veteran. It’s a humbling experience to visit them and share our stories.”

For more information or to purchase a calendar visit pinupsforvets.com.

All Write, Columns

Mother of the Groom

Cindy Hval

When pregnant with my first child, I envisioned a beautiful baby girl. I dreamed of the dolls we’d play with and the tea parties we’d share.

“We’ll wear floppy straw hats and floral print dresses and drink tea from china cups,” I told my husband, setting my latest porcelain cup and saucer on a shelf.

If you’ve been reading this column for a while, you already know how that turned out. That first baby was a boy. So was the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Our home was a testosterone tsunami. Until August, when Freya joined our family, even our cats were all boys.

And then, one evening several months ago, our son Zachary brought a beautiful woman with long dark hair and coffee-colored eyes to a family dinner.

She held her own amid Hval volume, and when we played Uno, she didn’t balk at playing several Draw Four cards on me.

I forgave her even before she agreed to marry our thirdborn son.

When Zach showed me the engagement ring he’d chosen, I was on pins and needles until he finally popped the question. He proposed at the neighborhood park where he and his brothers spent many hours as kids.

Wedding preparations began in earnest. Naselle’s mom died several years ago, and when she asked if I’d like to go with her to look at wedding gowns, I cried. It was such an honor to be present when she found the dress of her dreams.

Then, I had the delight of introducing her to a florist friend. I served tea and cookies while we discussed Naselle’s wedding colors and ideas. Her mother’s favorite flower was yellow roses, so they became the focal point of the boutonnières and bouquets.

Speaking of tea, my daughter-in-law loves it. In fact, she and Zach’s first date was at Revival Tea Co. downtown.

Naselle’s bridal shower was a garden tea party at the home of one of her sweet friends. The invitation asked attendees to wear their favorite hats and party dresses.

You can read the tea leaves on this, can’t you?

Yes, I finally had a reason to buy a floppy straw hat and a new floral print dress.

As I sat at a table, with the bride’s two adorable flower girls, I asked the littlest one if she’d been a flower girl before.

She shook her head, taking a dainty sip of tea.

“No, have you?” she asked.

I laughed.

“Yes, but it was a long, long time ago.”

In the harried and hectic weeks leading up to the wedding, I wondered why there weren’t any “Mother of the Groom” movies. After all, there are plenty of “Father of the Bride” films.

On Oct. 5, as I watched my son become a husband, I think I discovered the reason.

There seems to be less worry for the mother of the groom. No drama about losing a son, angst over letting him go, or stress that she’ll be able to provide. Just delight in his happiness.

Zachary has found someone who holds his heart and his dreams in capable and loving hands, and I gained a daughter.

She is the answer to both of our prayers.

Columns

Which is scarier: A zombie or a newspaper columnist?

Cindy Hval

This post from eight years ago showed up recently in my Facebook feed.

“I’m rethinking our maiden Scarywood visit. Derek’s reading the attraction descriptions aloud, and pauses and says, ‘Oh, he’s getting punched.’ He reads some more. ‘Oh. Clowns. Yeah, they’re getting punched.’ ”

Each autumn for the past 15 years, Silverwood Theme Park visits the dark side and transforms into Scarywood Haunted Nights.

After listening to Derek’s violent reaction to the haunt descriptions, I nixed that visit. Bailing my husband out of an Idaho jail might terrify, but not in a fun way.

Years passed. My husband mellowed (I hoped), and the day that memory popped up in my newsfeed happened to be the day I’d agreed to take him to media night at the theme park.

I thought I might need some backup in case he went rogue, so his sister, Camille, and her husband, Kjell, agreed to chaperone.

Our first stop was Lindy’s Restaurant – not for the scares, for the blood. While the park provided complimentary admission, parking, food and drink were on us.

Lindy’s offered fortification in the form of a new Blood Bag cocktail. The recipe includes fruit punch, tequila, Captain Morgan’s rum, triple sec and edible glitter. It’s served in a plastic bag like the kind you see hanging from IV poles in hospitals.

Not wanting to be too “fortified,” we decided one bag per couple was plenty.

Most of Silverwood’s signature rides are open at Scarywood, including the Timber Terror with a twist – the roller coaster runs backward!

Derek, Camille and Kjell were eager to ride, but I’ve been through enough jolts recently. I was left holding the Blood Bags. You’d think my position was enviable, but I couldn’t figure out how to unlock my IV to get the liquid flowing.

In exasperation, I gave it a good squeeze which was why I was wearing most of our blood bag when my husband exited the Timber Terror.

With gruesome red spatters on my white jacket, I fit right in with the cast at the park.

From there, we decided to explore a few of the five haunts.

First up: Chuckle’s 3D Sideshow.

Donning our 3D glasses, we entered the haunted funhouse. Gingerly, we crossed a bridge through a tunnel of spinning lights. Bloody clowns jumped at us, grabbed at us, popped out of boxes and loomed around corners, gleefully terrorizing us.

Fun times!

Then we visited Scarywood’s newest attraction – The Swine.

Billed as “the dark, forgotten chapter of the story you thought you knew,” The Swine is a corn maze populated by killer pigs and an angry Pig Mama.

These piggies aren’t afraid of any wolf’s huffing and puffing. They’re armed with chainsaws and have a thirst for blood.

The sound of pigs squealing accompanied each twist and turn of the maze. Lots of laughing and shrieking ensued, some of it from the pigs, most of it from us.

The following morning, I gleefully enjoyed the bacon Derek cooked for breakfast.

Whose squealing now, little piggy?

Our favorite haunt was Blood Bayou, where cannibals lurk behind every corner and sometimes beneath the stairs. If bloody gore isn’t your thing, you might want to skip this one, but for us it offered the most jump scares (and screams) of the night.

Scarywood also features themed scare zones, including Clown Town (think Pennywise, not Ronald McDonald) and Quarantine Zone (no COVID, but lots of bitey zombies).

Haunted by a roving cast of costumed characters, these areas offer lots of up-close and personal encounters with creatures from every nightmare you’ve had.

The Toybox scare zone proved my undoing. Derek didn’t clock a clown or poke a pig – instead, I was the one who got in trouble.

While we waited to see if Camille and Kjell would survive the Panic Plunge in the dark, blank-eyed broken dolls sidled up to us and otherwise stalked us.

I’ve seen “Toy Story” too many times to be scared by creepy dolls, so when a ghoulish gal approached me, I casually, said, “Boo!”

Mutely, she slowly shook her head and wagged a finger at me.

Seconds later a security guard approached and said, “You’re not allowed to scare the actors.”

I gulped and nodded.

While Derek gleefully chortled at my mortification, I mumbled, “She started it.”

Sure, there were crazed clowns, killer pigs and cranky cannibals, but apparently, one of the scariest things at Scarywood on opening night was a newspaper columnist saying, “Boo!”

Scarywood tickets are only available online. For dates, times and ticket information visit scarywoodhaunt.com.

Columns

Married to Mr. Fix-it

Cindy Hval

My husband is a fixer.

No, not the mafia kind. He’s the wrench-wielding, screwdriver-toting kind who intuitively knows how to fix things.

He’s been on a roll in the waterworks department this week, starting with our tankless water heater. We’ve had the unit for 15 years, and Derek’s only had to replace one part. But when the heater began loudly moaning and groaning every time we used hot water, I worried.

“The neighbors are going to think our house is haunted,” I complained. “It’s so loud I can hear it in the gazebo, even with my music on!”

While my husband is an excellent fixer, he’s not a proactive one. He generally waits until something is well and truly broken before tackling it. When he wanted to soak in a hot bath after a day of yard work, and the best he got was a half-filled lukewarm tub, Derek decided the heater warranted immediate attention.

The next day our dining room table was littered with water heater guts.

“Bugs!” he said. “Bugs are getting sucked into the fan.”

He said some more things, but when Derek is in repairman mode, he’s pretty much unquotable in a family newspaper.

I don’t mind colorful language when the result is lots of lovely and quiet hot water.

Speaking of running water – it’s all well and good when you want it to run, but it’s awful when it’s a slow steady drip, coming from a valve on the above-mentioned tank.

I know this because my desk is near the tank. That valve has been steadily dripping for over a year. (Remember, Mr. Fixit is also Mr. LaterBaby.)

When the dishpan I put under the leaky valve began filling up rapidly, I alerted Derek.

“I used to empty it every couple of weeks; now I have to empty it every week! It’s dripping faster and faster!”

Crickets.

So, I videotaped the rapidly filling dishpan and texted it to Derek at work.

“If this doesn’t get fixed, we’ll have a flood when we leave town,” I typed.

The next morning there were doo-dads and thingy bobs all over the dining room table.

A few hours later – no more leak!

It’s lovely to write sans the annoying drip, drip accompaniment.

Then the knob on our bathroom fan stopped turning. When you’re taking hot showers, you need a fan to suck up all that steam.

As mentioned, Derek’s a fan of hot water, so the next morning the fan worked.

“How did you fix it?” I asked.

“Glue,” he replied.

Derek is the Glue Master. He knows exactly which kind to use in any given situation. Pro tip: It’s rarely Elmer’s school glue, which is usually what I offer when he yells, “WHERE’S THE GLUE?”

This happens frequently because while he’s an expert when it comes to glue and tools, he’s a novice at remembering where he put them.

When I praised his talents, Derek shrugged.

“I’m good at fixing things,” he said. “Just like my dad.”

Even strangers sense his abilities.

Recently, he was watering the yard, and a neighbor boy on a bike rolled up to the curb.

“Do you have a Band-Aid?” he asked. “I cut my finger and my mom doesn’t have any.”

You don’t raise four sons without a well-stocked first aid kit.

I’ve written about this boy’s older brother, Ricky. Many years ago, I encountered him when he got off the school bus at the wrong stop. He took my hand and together we found his house. After that, he frequently stopped to chat with us whenever we were outside – especially Derek. He often showed up with a broken skateboard or wonky bike and asked for help with repairs.

When he last saw him, Derek loaned him a wrench that had belonged to his dad and cautioned him to return it.

He didn’t.

I ran into Ricky two years ago. He said he was attending a school for kids with mental and behavioral health issues, and he guessed it was going OK.

We haven’t seen him since.

It was a small, inexpensive wrench, but it bothered Derek that Ricky didn’t return it.

“I wanted him to learn to respect tools and other people’s property,” he explained.

My husband can fix many things, but broken boys are tough to mend.

From the window, I watched Derek bandage the younger brother’s finger. The boy wiggled it, smiled and pedaled off.

I won’t be surprised if he starts bringing broken things by the house.

Derek will do his best to repair what he can.

That’s just what fixers do.

Columns

Saying no to online shopping

Cindy Hval

As if requesting a straw with my water at restaurants isn’t quirky enough, my friend Sarah recently discovered I have another quirk.

I don’t shop online. Ever.

“How can this be?” she asked. “You’re an introvert. You can order groceries without ever leaving your home, yet you go to the grocery store every week!”

Sarah shops almost exclusively from her phone or computer. Food, household products, clothes, shoes and even undergarments are delivered to her door.

She does enjoy supporting local businesses by browsing at the small shops in the Garland District, and she buys most of her books at Wishing Tree Books in the South Perry neighborhood. But everything else, from broccoli to breath mints, comes from online vendors.

I am an introvert who has to extrovert a lot for work, so she’s right in assuming that given a choice, I’d rather avoid people-ing during non-work hours. However, scratch-cooking and meal planning relaxes me, and honestly, I don’t trust strangers to pick out my produce.

I’ve seen Instacart shoppers toss heads of lettuce into their gigantic trolleys without looking for rusty brown spots. I’ve watched as they shove packages of rib eyes into plastic bags without checking for moderate marbling.

To be fair, how could a stranger know how marbled I like my steak or how ripe I want my cantaloupe?

As I told another friend, “I don’t want anyone else thumping my melons. I can do it myself.”

She guffawed but knew exactly what I meant.

While I don’t exactly love loading up on toilet paper and bottled water at Costco, free samples are back! This is a great way to find out if you should indulge in that pricey Havarti or stick with the giant block of cheddar.

Of course, I always buy something there that’s not on my list. But gosh darn it, I needed that cute black-and-white skort and those huge fluffy beach towels, each one large enough to enfold two adults!

And my Fred Meyer forays often change up pre-planned menus. Recently, I found some gorgeous hothouse tomatoes (not on my list) and a sale on whole wheat pasta. I scrapped the planned grilled chicken and salad and decided to make pasta pomodoro.

Sure, I could have had tomatoes delivered via Instacart, but it was seeing their lush ripeness that made me want to cook with them.

Food aside, I can’t imagine ordering clothes online. For a writer, I’m pretty unimaginative. I can’t picture how a blouse or a pair of slacks will look on me by gazing at a photo.

I know you can return online purchases, but I don’t want the hassle. I’d rather grit my teeth, go to a store, and try things on in the fitting room.

But the most compelling reason I prefer to shop at brick-and-mortar stores is screen exhaustion. I spend five days a week at my desk in front of my computer. If I’m not at my computer, I’m on my phone, calling, texting or Googling. The last thing I want to do at the end of the day or on a weekend is spend more time online.

I don’t want to look at a picture of a peach. I want to feel its soft fuzz and weigh the heft of it in my hand. Instead of clicking on an image of a floral bouquet, I want to see what’s blooming at Trader Joe’s.

I guess I really do want to stop and smell the roses.

Pushing my chair away from my desk, grabbing my car keys and heading to the shops gives me a welcome disconnect from screen time.

Even better, it allows me to connect with my neighborhood and the people who live and work in it. A box left on my doorstep can’t do that.

All Write, Columns

Things My Husband Says

Cindy Hval

This column has been 38 years in the making. In fact, it’s been brewing so long it’s hard to know where to begin.

By now, most readers are familiar with my semiregular compilations of #ThingsMyMomSays – the hashtag I use to keep track of my mother’s amusing musings. But far more voluminous, due to 38 years of close proximity, are #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

Derek has often been cited, quoted and otherwise featured in the 18 years I’ve written in this space. When his buddies ask if he minds being mentioned in such a public format, his standard response is: “As long as she gets paid for it, I’m good.”

Fingers crossed that holds true after today’s column because honestly, he’s provided enough material for a novella-size memoir. See, I’m married to an extrovert who processes almost all of his thoughts audibly – even when he’s sleeping. So much so, “He’s Been Talking in His Sleep” is a category of its own. Other categories include, “Derek’s Malapropisms” or “Dadisms” as our sons call them, “Life According to Derek” and “Married Life.”

I’m sure there are more categories, but I’m already running out of space, so without further ado, here are #ThingsMyHusbandSays.

He’s been talking in his sleep

• In the middle of the night, Derek said something I didn’t quite catch.

“What?” I asked.

“The whole town disappeared,” he said.

“What town? Where?”

“I dunno. I think it was Deer Park.”

At this point, I realize he’s asleep.

“Do you think it was the Rapture?” I asked.

Then came his emphatic reply: “God. Does. Not. Rapture. Zucchini.”

He rolled over and started snoring, but I was awake most of the night worrying about all the zucchini being left behind.

• I was awakened shortly after dawn by Derek’s garbled screaming. I poked him awake. “Are you having a bad dream?” I asked.

“No,” he mumbled. “Winning a prize.”

“A prize for what?”

“Loudest scream,” he says, and rolling over he added, “Now, I don’t know if I won.”

• Around 1 a.m. on a different night, I woke up to him singing “Happy Birthday.”

Laughing, I nudged him. “Why are you singing ‘Happy Birthday?’ ”

“Because it’s nice,” he said.

Then he sang it again.

Derek’s Dadisms

• “I wouldn’t feed that to a dead horse.”

• “I almost bit the farm.”

• “He looks like an uncle I never met.”

• Him: “Don’t forget we need to go to Mad Dog.”

Me: “Where?”

Him: “Angry Dog. The Brewery!”

Me: “You mean Laughing Dog?”

Him: “WOOF!”

• Derek: “I told him I’m tired of you poo-haing me.”

Me: “What did you tell him?”

Derek: “I said, I’m sick of you poo-haing me!”

I think he meant poo-pooing.

Life according to Derek

• While discussing insecurities, my husband confessed, “I’m insecure that my ninja skills have deteriorated.”

“I didn’t know that you even had ninja skills,” I replied.

“See? This is why I’m insecure,” he said.

• Derek had a buddy over to discuss home improvement projects. This is what I overheard.

“Dude, did I ever tell you about the time I got beat up by a blind guy?” Derek asked. “All those fights in middle school and I get taken out by a blind guy in my 40s!”

P.S.: It was at a Bob Dylan concert.

• Read this headline to my husband, “Surprised nun gives birth”.

“Is she surprised she’s a nun?” he asked.

• Potty training our twin grandsons proved educational.

Me: “It’s so cute that the boys wave goodbye to their poop when they flush the toilet.”

Him: “Doesn’t everyone?”

Married life

• I dreamed I had another baby boy. I was in the hospital and looked down and there he was!

“Did you see that?” I said to Derek in my dream. “The baby’s already here!”

In the morning, I recounted my dream to Derek.

His response?

“I hope we got a discount for self-delivery.”

• I got what I thought were aftershave samples in the mail.

I gave them to Derek, who liberally dabbed himself before we went out to dinner.

“How do I smell?” he asked.

“Oh no!” I said. “That is definitely perfume!”

“But you GAVE it to ME!”

“I’m so sorry! I guess I don’t read French very well,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Don’t blame me if dudes are hitting on me all night.”

• Him: “I was trying to replace the toilet paper when the spring shot out, and I dropped the brand-new roll in the toilet.”

Me: “Are you attempting to explain why you never replace the toilet paper?”

Him: “It was a mega roll. It made a BIG splash! Toilet water everywhere!”

• The first thing my husband said to me this morning: “Hey honey, check out this headline, ‘Journalists drink too much, are bad at managing their emotions and operate at a lower level than average, according to a new study.’ ”

This conversation prompted a new hashtag #wearestillmarried.

Let’s hope that remains true after this column!

Columns

This post was brought to you by coffee

Cindy Hval

It started with magic.

A toy coffee pot filled with brown liquid that “disappeared” when you tipped it to pour. I’d take my “Magic Pouring Perk” around the table when my parents had friends over after church and pretend to top off their cups of Sanka.

I usually got tips for my service, but what I really wanted was to sample the Sanka.

Alas, I wasn’t allowed a sip. Mom said coffee (even decaf) was an “adult beverage.”

And so, it wasn’t until college that I fell in love with the brew that continues to make mornings bearable.

I worked as a waitress, and one Saturday morning, I poured myself a mug from the large urn we brewed it in. It was so dark and strong, it took my breath away.

“Put some cream in it,” a fellow server advised.

I did, and as I sipped the earthy, milky beverage, I felt energized. The Friday night fog lifted. I cradled that brown mug and knew my life had changed.

At home, my parents favored Taster’s Choice. The instant coffee tasted like brown water when compared to the rich restaurant roast, so I confined my caffeine consumption to work hours. This was several years before drive-thru coffee stands sprouted throughout the Northwest.

Not long after I met coffee, I met my husband. His dad had immigrated to the U.S. from Norway at 19 and preferred his coffee so strong you could almost chew it. Consequently, Derek wouldn’t touch it.

We were given a Proctor-Silex 10-cup coffee maker for a wedding gift. We were too poor for Folgers (which, at the time, I considered the epitome of fine coffee), so I bought store-brand medium roast in large cans. About this time, flavored creamers became popular, and that’s all it took for Derek to convert.

By the time our kids came along, Spokane had gone Starbuck’s crazy. It seemed like there was a coffee drive-thru at every corner, so we sampled lattes and sipped mochas. I’m not a fan of those sweet drinks, but our coffee shop experiences introduced us to the flavor of freshly roasted whole beans.

Coffee drinking is a sophisticated slippery slope. As our earning power increased, so did our taste in java. One Christmas, we got our first coffee grinder. No more store brand cans, no more fancy Folgers, now we let Millstone beans rain into bags at the grocery store like we used to let jelly beans fill sacks at the candy shop.

Our sons drank coffee from their early teens, and our youngest took over the brewing operation in middle school.

We burned through coffee makers and grinders at an astonishing rate – each one a bit fancier. Derek, the former java-shunner, became a connoisseur, purchasing machines too complicated for my limited technical abilities.

Self-preservation led me to purchase my first Keurig machine. If, for some reason, my husband or son failed to brew the beverage (or worse, drank it all before I got up), I had to be able to procure my own.

The benefits and risks of consuming coffee continue to be debated, which is why an S-R headline caught my eye.

“How drinking coffee may lower your risk for diabetes.”

According to the Feb. 28 story, each cup of coffee a person drinks (up to 6 cups) lowers the risk of developing Type 2 diabetes by about 6%.

As someone with family members who’ve had Type 2 diabetes, I pay attention to the latest research regarding the disease.

The article went on to explain that coffee is a rich source of polyphenols – compounds in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains that are known to confer health benefits.

“A cup of coffee also contains fiber – up to 1.8 grams, or roughly half the amount you’d find in one serving of broccoli.”

To which I say, Duh! It’s made of beans!

According to the story, experts recommend that healthy adults consume no more than four or five cups of brewed coffee daily. Studies show that two to five cups is the range in which people are most likely to see health benefits such as a reduced risk of diabetes, heart disease and some cancers.

As I type this, the intoxicating aroma of French roast wafts from my Wonder Woman mug. I’m glad science says my morning brew is good for me, but I already knew that. It makes walking, talking and working possible every day.

Now that’s magical.

Columns

The ongoing embarrassment of life with a StupidPhone

Cindy Hval

I may be old enough to remember rotary phones, but like many Gen Xers, I’ve adapted to technology.

The whole Blackberry thing bypassed me, so when I got my first cellphone, I used the text function the way God intended – slowly picking through the alphabet with my pointer finger.

Hipper friends whizzed out messages using the two-thumb method, while I just shook my head. My thumbs don’t work that way.

I employed proper punctuation and grammar and eschewed texting lingo except for an occasional LOL or OMG. Seriously, how much time would I save by typing “u” instead of “you?”

But with more and more of my work and personal communication done via text, I realized my hunt-and-peck method took too much time.

Then I discovered the little microphone on my phone transcribes my spoken words to text. It should be a terrific time-saver, but unfortunately, I didn’t get a smartphone – I got a stupidphone. How else to explain the mortifying messages it regularly sends? Messages I then must decode and resend to the recipients.

For example, the exciting news of my first book’s publication got garbled. I sent an announcement to those in my contact list. Instead of “Publisher wants ‘War Bonds’ for spring catalog,” my pals were informed, “Publisher wants your buns for spring catalog.”

I’m unable to share the replies because most of them were GIFs and emojis unsuitable for print.

My phone can’t even get my name right.

Talk to text changes Cindy Hval to “Cindy of All.” I was OK with that, but lately, it learned a new trick. I texted a source and it identified me as “Cindy Evolved from The Spokesman-Review.” I’ve just decided to go with that and am considering amending my business cards.

When I tried to tell my husband I had an interview at the Jundt Museum it turned into Bundt Museum. We don’t have one of those in Spokane, but I’d cover it if we did.

On several occasions, my shortcut landed me in hot water with Derek. For example, every time I talk-text about meeting my friend Jill for lunch or Happy Hour, Jill becomes JOE.

“You spend a lot of time with this Joe guy,” said Derek. “Should I be worried?”

Then I tried to let him know one of his favorite Van Halen songs was playing.

“Daniel Santa got in my car, and Hot for Teacher came on the radio,” I texted.

“So. You took Santa for a ride?” he asked.

It went downhill from there and I still don’t know who Daniel Santa is.

Speaking of Jill/Joe, recently, I tried to confirm a lunch location with her, and “On Monroe, for heaven’s sake,” became “On Monroe, we’re having sex.”

I guess you can see why Derek’s worried.

Even Dame Agatha Christie isn’t spared. Talk-text changed “There’s a new Agatha Christie on Prime” to “There’s a nude Agatha Christie on Prime.”

No one wants to see that.

Once, I tried to confirm a spa appointment, and my phone changed it to spay appointment. So, I guess I’ve been fixed.

Sometimes, my mishaps end up in our family lexicon, like the time I let our son, Sam, know I’d made some treats.

“I saved you some fudge in a Ziploc bag in the fridge. The white time is butter dum fudge. It’s new and it’s really good.

  • kind
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Good grief.”

Haha! You talk texted that didn’t you?” he replied.

Now, every Christmas I make Butter Dum fudge.

I should know better, but I often use the talk-text feature to post on social media. I invented a new sandwich when “Patty Melt” became “Party Melt” on a food blogger’s Instagram account.

When I tried to vent my frustration to a friend about my latest phone-induced embarrassment, “talk to text” turned into “talk to test.”

Apparently, that’s an exam I continue to fail.

Columns

First Valentine’s Day Deflating

Cindy Hval

My husband and I have reached the time of life when downsizing seems prudent. No, I’m not talking about selling our home or offloading possessions, I’m talking about reducing our waistlines.

Keeping track of things like blood sugar looms ever more important as we age. That’s why, when Valentine’s Day approached, I suggested we skip the usual exchange of chocolates.

Derek agreed, but I could tell by the twinkle in his eye he had something else in mind. More on that in a minute.

We’re in our second year as empty-nesters, and we continue to adapt.

During the years our sons lived at home, Valentine’s morning was special. They awoke to a lace-topped table filled with heart-shaped dishes of cinnamon, cherry and conversation heart candies. A card and a box of chocolates waited at each place and, when they opened the refrigerator, they discovered that Cupid had magically turned the milk pink.

Even after the older boys moved out, they stopped by to get their cards, candy and hugs from Mom. With the departure of our youngest last year, for the first time in 25-plus years, Cupid skipped our frig, and the heart-shaped dishes and lace tablecloth remained tucked away.

We were back to where it began – just the two of us.

That’s not to say our first Valentine’s Day as man and wife was especially romantic, but it was certainly memorable.

As newlyweds, we attended college full-time and worked three jobs between the two of us to keep our Love Boat afloat. I knew we couldn’t afford to go out on Valentine’s Day, but I did my best to make it special.

When Derek arrived home late on that fateful Feb. 14, I’d roasted two tiny Cornish game hens with potatoes and herbs and set our wobbly card table with a vinyl cloth and our wedding gift stoneware. I’d placed a small box of chocolates and a red enveloped card at his place.

“This looks nice,” he said, kissing me.

Then he noticed the card and heart-shaped box.

“Oh! It’s Valentine’s Day?”

At that, I burst into tears, ran the six steps to our bedroom and collapsed on our waterbed, heartbroken.

“Don’t cry! I’m sorry I forgot! I’ll be right back!” Derek yelled, slamming the apartment door behind him.

I was still face-down on our now-soggy bed when he returned.

He switched on the bedroom light and announced, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Babe!”

Sniffling, I sat up.

That’s when he thrust a helium-filled balloon into my hand. I tugged the attached ribbon, looking for the card.

There was no card.

No candy.

No flowers.

Just a Pepto Bismol-pink balloon.

Our waterbed got even waterier. My bewildered and exhausted husband went back out and returned with a card. We ate cold game hen and potatoes and made up the way newlyweds do.

Our sons know this story well, as I’ve shared it as a cautionary tale (future daughter-in-laws will thank me.)

Yet this year, when I suggested skipping the exchange of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, Derek nodded.

“But balloons are OK, right?” he asked.