#i’m so grateful eleven years later there’s still love at the core of what we do and experience together

[lovelovex]

x

[qtakesams]

When Life Goes On, Go with It

Two years ago this month, I moved to Edgewater, Maryland, to complete a summer internship with the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center. SERC, as we call it, is a branch of the Smithsonian Institution that specializes in climate, coastal, terrestrial, and various other types of sciences. Their campus is an hour east of Washington, D.C. They own hundreds of acres of land, on which they house their laboratories and fields.

It was just after my sophomore year of college ended. As with many underclassmen years, mine was turbulent. I endured a drastic shift in my social circle which had, even if temporarily, left me feeling stranded on a campus I was still learning about. I’d had a rough spring semester, finding a lack of motivation to complete any assignment.

Most undergrads face that year: the one where nothing feels right, and each path feels like a dead-end. I had applied for a SERC internship on a bit of a whim. Entering college, I’d seen myself as a fiction writer and editor, planning to end up in a corporate publishing house. Sophomore had shown me I desired other things, and I applied for SERC’s science writing internship completely unsure if I’d actually like the work. What if I didn’t? What if it felt worse than the previous semester? What would I do if I couldn’t bounce back?

All of this, I decided, would be worth the risk. When I got an email from the internship’s advisor in March, offering me the position, I accepted it. The rest, as some might say, is history.

SERC is a hard place to find until you’ve visited a few times. The brown sign is easily skipped by the eyes. Coming from the west, you approach SERC on the left side of the road. Immediately, you forget that you’re technically in the suburbs, less than thirty miles from the epicenter of political heat in America. After a few turns, you arrive at the gate. When SERC is publicly open, you drive on through. When you’re an intern coming back from the bar at night, you have to swipe your ID card. You drive a few more turns, watching closely for deer, before that final right turn that drops you into the parking lot of the intern dorms and the labs.

I fell in love with SERC within days of my arrival. There were the intimidating factors of the place: fellow interns at Ivy Leagues and respected colleges, scientific labs into which the government itself funded millions, no meal plan, and the stick shift vehicle I would drive all summer. I was terrified when my mom drove away. I explored the floor of my building, admiring the kitchen, perusing the book selection. By eleven, I was in bed. I was tried from traveling, but more so, I didn’t know what to do. I’d briefly interacted with the other intern already on my floor, but I didn’t know him well enough to go say hi. There were four interns moved in below my floor, but I hadn’t seen any of them yet. I suddenly seemed wildly out of my element, though I had felt comfortable at SERC the moment I drove through the gate.

Of course, I grew happier at SERC. The happiest I’d been in years. Within weeks, I made strong friends, adjusted to my job, and began to close my GPS when driving to the store.

My work felt good. The articles I wrote and the media I created reached thousands of people, many of which gave positive comments. My words were reaching people, and the people were responding.

I was raised by a scientist, but more importantly, by well-educated, empathetic people. Loving my planet was part of the gig when I was growing up. In high school, I began to see where my privilege in this education existed. My friends at school didn’t seem to care about the things I’d be taught to care about. Water consumption, electricity, knowing the landscape on which your house is built. I knew important moments in history, and how they affected me. I had early knowledge of politics, to the point where I knew who George Bush was before his presidency ended (when I was 10). Ignorance and empathy tend to go hand-in-hand, mostly because ignorance leads to apathy. We’ve seen this cause-and-effect equation hold catastrophic, deadly consequences in 2020.

When I arrived at SERC, it didn’t slip by me that I suddenly had access to information that most people only dream about. Many of us are ignorant (I remain ignorant to 99.9% of what happens on this Earth) by circumstance, not by choice. Accessibility is one of our biggest problems of a global society attempting to function in a digital, climate change-riddled world. Sixty percent of the globe now has Internet access, but that leaves 3.08 billion people without the knowledge they need to protect themselves from the setbacks of climate change. Most of those people, as it would turn out, are terribly affected most by war, poverty, hunger, climate, social injustice, etc. These things intertwine and cause one another. Not always, but often.

My position at SERC gifted me access to science occurring in real-time. When the Pandemic would hit a year later, it would be surprising but not shocking. On a planet where politics and science are brothers, and the population is soaring too high to properly maintain, containing a spreadable virus is like trying to hold a cup of water in your bare hands. Sooner or later, it’s going to slip between the cracks and go everywhere. If it slips far enough, you’ll never find a towel strong enough to collect it all.

In March of 2020, when I moved home to isolate, I knew the rest of college was trashed. Not my degree, necessarily, but the experience of college. I would lose that experience in its normalcy, and therefore the skills which develop from that normalcy.

I did soon realize, however, that we are not always fortunate enough to do something about mass-casualties or problems. There’s not always an answer, straightforward or not. When there is one, you should grab it with both hands.

That summer of 2020, I decided I wanted to pursue a master’s degree after college. Higher education is not unknown in my family; we boast high degrees from prestigious universities. I am the opposite of a First-Generation student (one of my great-grandparents also had a master’s degree). Graduate school had already been on my mind when I started college, but I didn’t know what for. An MFA in fiction had felt the most logical to my teenage self in 2017, but by 2018, that felt out the window. What I had realized by the summer of 2020 was that, in the midst of the chaos and absurdity, was that I could in fact do something about what was going on. I can’t solve climate change, or house the homeless, or save every polar bear, or even eradicate a virus, but I can help in my own way. On some level, I can do something about the many crises. This, in itself, is “doing something”.

Science writing is a polarizing subject, of this I have been aware my entire life. Unfortunately, we’ve made science political, though politics are generally opinion (with strong empathy) and science is fact. It’s a tough, competitive field, but so is everything else. If you want to “make it” in this world, you have to willingly shed blood, tears, and probably sweat profusely. As I watched the COVID cases skyrocket simultaneously to the people I knew who cared not to stay home, I could tell something was off. People weren’t listening. If they were, it was usually to the ignorant voices on television.

I could feel my cheeks burning as I watched the Johns Hopkins map. It seemed cruel that we, as a society, could do that to ourselves. That we could allow this virus to spread and kill, but also that we had put ourselves in this position. I had already been envisioning myself as a science writer every day since my time at SERC had begun. Finally reckoning with the knowledge that not everybody is a scientist, nor cares to be one, was the icing on the cake. I couldn’t fix it all, but I could offer my help. So, I would.

When I began this blog two years ago, it was solely for abroad purposes. It was a fabulous way to let anybody who cared know what I was experiencing and how I was handling those experiences. Studying abroad, no matter how or where or how long, is difficult. Studying in general, for any length of time on any subject, is mindboggling tedious. I give kudos to my friends and family who have any advanced, foreign, or nontraditional education.

What I discovered after I began writing blog posts and sharing my thoughts is that there’s always more to the story than the words on the page. That’s why I’ve added to this blog in the year and a half since my abroad semester ended; there is always more to tell.

In a few weeks, I begin my master’s degree at Northwestern University in Chicago. My degree is in journalism, with a specialization in Science and Health reporting. I’m nervous to my core, as I am with any new adventure. I just graduated college last weekend, so my emotions are running wild. Yet, I have a feeling I’m about to finally be where I’ve wanted to be for years. I love words. I love messing with them, shaping them, using them to fit whatever project I want. I also love science. I love knowing what is happening around me, and why and how it is. Combining them already feels like a dream come true, so I’m sure the next year will feel magical.

The classes of 2020 and 2021 are probably the most resilient in history. A Pandemic, racial and social injustice, wildfires, remote learning, wifi issues. We’ve seen it all, and it’s made us stronger every day.

I think I’ve worn this blog out for this phase of life. My thoughts on what I’ve talked about here are valid and important, but they don’t exist alone. For somebody who’s pretty much been writing since she could hold a pencil, I hate journaling. I’ve tried so many times, and never succeeded, with the exception of this blog. That said, it gave me an incredibly strong, consistent manner of getting my thoughts on the page, for which I am endlessly grateful. If you’ve kept reading my thoughts and words, you should know I’m endlessly grateful for you, too.

All of this is saying that, whether you’re ready or not, life keeps going. Life can be cruel, it can be challenging, it can be beautiful. No matter what, it keeps going. As my friend Ferris once said, if you don’t stop and look around from time to time, you could miss it. So much changed so drastically in the last year. I’m still processing it. I might always be processing it. Most importantly, I think, is that I’ve learned to flow with it wherever it goes. It’s harder sometimes than other, but the result is usually worth the grind.

You might read my stuff in the Times once day, or (my personal favorite dream) National Geographic. I don’t know honestly know where I’m going, but I’m okay with that because I do know that I’m on my way. I’m still going. When life continues, you should go, too. You never quite know where the climb will lead, but you do know that the view will be great.

[magicalwardrobe-mw]

Magic at your fingertips.

Summary: Emma Swan was a strange child. The dozens of families she’d been into could attest to that. Lights would twinkle when she was scared and glasses would break when she was angry.

Then a woman dressed in blue found her sleeping behind a dumpster and decided to tell her she was a witch.

(Or the Hogwarts AU nobody had asked for).

Find it in AO3.

Chapter One: Just the beginning.

When Emma was little she used to imagine her parents loved her very much. She used to believe they would have taken care of her if they could, but something happened that made them leave her alone in the middle of the road. She used to hope they would appear someday, take her away from the foster families that didn’t care for her and they would love her like she never had been.

After all, if they didn’t care for her would they have left her with a handmade woollen blanket with her name stitched on?

But the years on the foster system, jumping from family to family, made her childish beliefs disappear like smoke.

Emma Swan was a strange child. The dozens of families she’d been into could attest to that. Lights would twinkle when she was scared and glasses would break when she was angry. Sometimes objects would move around the room of their own accord and there was that one time Mr. Thompson’s skin had turned blue when he was trying to hurt her.

That was probably why nobody wanted her.

Emma was a freak.

So she ran away, until the police caught her and then she waited some weeks, a part of her still hoping that family would be the one, and then she would run again.

That’s it, until a woman dressed in blue found her sleeping behind a dumpster and decided to tell her she was a witch.

Because of course.

Emma, just turned eleven, hadn’t believed her. She had outgrown fairy tales long ago. But then the woman (“I’m Professor Blue”) had offered to take her to a coffee shop and pay for lunch if only Emma heard her out.

And Emma, cold, hungry and tired, followed her.

“I teach at Hogwarts,” Professor Blue said while they were making their way through the busy London streets. “Charms,” she added. “It’s a powerful kind of magic.”

Emma nodded though she kept looking around. The street was full of people and she really didn’t want anyone to see her walking with that madwoman.

“Where are we going?” Emma asked. “We’ve passed like a dozen coffee shops by now.”

Professor Blue blinked down at her. “Oh! We aren’t going to a coffee shop! We are going to a pub. The Leaky Cauldron. Is one of the most famous pubs in wizarding London, you’ll see. It’s also the entrance to Diagon Alley, which is part of our visit.”

The Leaky Cauldron, Emma could see, wasn’t all that great. It was dark and smelled of alcohol, there weren’t any electric lights and the only illumination came from the candles and through the dirty windows.

“Come on,” Professor Blue said. “Why don’t you go find a table? I’ll get us something to eat.”

‘Something to eat’ was enough food to feed an army, not that Emma was complaining. She hadn’t eaten in two days and free food was free food.

“Now, why don’t you let me tell you about Hogwarts, huh?” and Professor Blue got out a long, thin stick and waved in the air. In the table suddenly appeared the same strange letter Emma had been throwing in the trash for weeks (sensibly thinking it was some kind of prank) and Professor Blue cleared her throat.

“How did you…?”

The answer was simple. “Magic.”

Diagon Alley was something else. The shops were close together and street was very crowded for a Tuesday at noon in late October. But as Professor Blue had explained over lunch, it was the heart of the British wizarding community.

Their first stop was Gringotts, the bank. Instead of humans behind the counter, there were small creatures with pointy teeth and ears. Goblins, Professor Blue had said.

There they got out some money form a vault put aside for orphans like her, with no family to pay for their supplies and no money of their own. It made Emma feel like charity and she didn’t like that feeling. At all.

Professor Blue took her to the second-hand stores where they got her books and some equipment (“you will have until next September to read these books. I expect you to be prepared”). The robes she was supposed to get them some weeks before she left for school (“girls your age are always growing”) as did the Potions kit.

And then they stopped for a wand (cedar, phoenix feather core, ten inches, springy), which took a surprisingly long amount of time, and Professor Blue declared their shopping trip over. She handed her a train ticket and explained how she had to get into the Platform once the time came.

Then she asked her the directions for her current foster home. And that’s where things got interesting.

Ingrid Fisher seemed like a nice woman. But Emma had been around enough seemingly nice people to know it didn’t always match.

When Emma had told Professor Blue of her current living situation (had she really thought Emma was behind a dumpster for fun?) the woman had gotten them to the Ministry to fix it.

Since Emma know knew of her true nature it would be inadvisable to send her back to live with muggles. So the young girl had been sent to waiting room in the Ministry while they looked for a magical foster family to take her in.

At least the food from the Ministry cafeteria was good, not what Emma had been expecting. And they gave it to her for free, which made it even better.

It had taken them almost four days until they found Ingrid Fisher. Emma was just happy to finally leave the big Ministry she had already explored from top to bottom and sleep on a real bed.

Ingrid lived on Horizont Alley over her ice-cream shop. It was pretty popular with the families and she even let Emma help her paying her with ice-cream and some pocket money.

Emma had to admit Ingrid was pretty great.

She didn’t ask for Emma to see her as a mother («Mother sounds so old, I’d like better to be an older sister») and didn’t seem to mind her sky-high walls. She was smart, almost always knowing what was going on through Emma’s mind. After half a year, the girl started regarding the older woman as her somewhat family.

Maybe magic wouldn’t be so bad after all.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O

“Are you excited?”

Emma looked up from the book she was pretending to read. “What?”

Ingrid smiled warmly at her from the other side of the kitchen table. “For Hogwarts,” she said. “Are you excited?”

“I guess,” Emma made a grimace that tried to be a smile. “Mostly nervous,” she said.

“I was the same,” confessed Ingrid. “I woke up at five in the morning,” Emma grunted at that. “and couldn’t eat a thing. I regretted it later,” she admitted. “It’s a long trip to Hogwarts to go without eating almost anything. And the trolley lady’s sweets are good but they don’t make much of a meal.”

The «that’s why I made you lunch» was left hanging in the air.

Ingrid cleared her throat. “But still, I don’t get why you’re so nervous. You already know a couple of your classmates.”

Emma’s face deadpanned. “I know Jasmine and that’s it,” she said.

Emma had been attending a sort-of-magic-primary-school, though it wasn’t very different than a muggle one, in Horizont Alley with the rest of kids from the entire magical shopping district. There weren’t a lot of kids in Emma’s class, and most of them would keep going to that school (to help their parents on the shops or because the just didn’t have enough magical ability for Hogwarts) or go to other magical schools aside from Hogwarts.

Jasmine was the only one of her classmates to join her in Scotland. Her father owned a branch of successful, and expensive, luxury goods and they certainty could afford losing her most of the year.

“She’s nice and all but she’s kinda stuck up,” Emma said.

Ingrid laughed. “Well, with her family as rich as it is I can’t blame her. She even seems more down-to-earth than I expected.”

Emma just grimaced again and forced herself to eat some of the scrambled eggs in front of her. Ingrid’s face softened and the knot on Emma’s throat tightened.

“Don’t worry,” Ingrid said. “You’ll be fine,” she promised.

Emma managed to gulp down the bite. “Will you write to me?” she asked trying not to sound vulnerable and failing spectacularly.

“You don’t even have to ask,” she assured.

Emma had ended up in a compartment with Jasmine, who had been all too happy to see a familiar face, two enthusiastic redheads named Ariel and Merida and a moody boy who had been on the compartment when they’d arrived and refused to look out the window to even introduce himself.

«Rude» Emma had thought with a scowl.

“Oh, I’m a muggleborn,” Merida had said when the conversation had, inevitably, switched to their families. “Mah family was verra surprised when mah letter came.”

At first Emma hadn’t understood a word that came from Merida’s mouth due to her thick accent, but she was getting better.

“Well I’ve got a big family and all my sisters have already gone to Hogwarts so it wasn’t a big surprise. I think most of our teachers won’t be happy when they see another Waters around,” Ariel explained.

The three girls bit back a smile and Jasmine sighed wishfully. “I wish I had siblings,” she said. “My father does his best but it can get lonely. He’s the owner of the Agrabah line so he was a lot of work.”

Ariel’s eyes went wide. “Your father owns Agrabah?” she gaped at Jasmine. “Holy Morgana!”

Emma could see Jasmine starting to regret ever saying anything about Agrabah so she decided to help her out (also stopping the questions about her family before they could even start). “Where do you think you’re gonna end up?” she asked. “Which house, I mean.”

That distracted Ariel enough and Jasmine sent her a grateful look across the compartment.

“Oh, I don’t know!” Ariel beamed excited. “I guess Gryffindor would be great, because bravery and stuff, you know? But the other houses could be awesome, too. I wouldn’t say no to Ravenclaw but I don’t think I’m smart enough to go there. And all that studying…” she shivered.

Merida smiled. “Me too,” she said. “As long as isnae Slytherin…”

That broke the silent guy out from his brooding. “What’s wrong with Slytherin?” he snapped at Merida.

“Well… everybody says is th’ hoose where all th’ evil wizards go,” she said.

The kids blue eyes flashed. “My brother is in Slytherin and he’s the best wizard in the world!” he said. “Besides, you shouldn’t judge a whole house just by some people.”

“Isnae just some people,” Merida muttered.

The guy glared at her but Merida remained silent, even if Emma could see she was dying to burst out in a screaming match with him. The fiery redhead looked at the other girls, probably seeking their support.

“My father is in Slytherin,” Jasmine said almost like an excuse. “Most of the greatest businesses are owned by Slytherins, in fact.”

Ariel also looked sheepishly at Merida. “A couple of my sisters are in Slytherin,” she admitted. “Though we are so many it would have been really weird if all of us ended up in the same house.”

And then they all looked at Emma, as if daring her to pick a side. “From what I’ve heard, there’s a lot of bad people who came out of Slytherin,” she started. “But I don’t think that means all of them are bad? Maybe it’s just that Slytherins have more potential to become bad?”

That didn’t seem to satisfy the boy, for he scowled at her and stormed off the compartment with a huff.

“Geez! I wonder what crawled up his arse and died!”

The three girls gaped at Emma and her crass language.

Even if Emma had become used to magic there were some things that would still surprise her from time to time.

Like a singing hat.

It was raining when the train had dropped them at Hogsmeade, the town right next to Hogwarts. Instead of taking the carriages, the first years had to follow a stern looking woman (named Maleficent of all things) through a dark path to the shore where some boats awaited them. And while the view of the castle was amazing from the water, Emma would have preferred a less wet and cold route.

Professor Blue had greeted them on the doors of the castle and guided them to a small room and then gave a speech about the Hogwarts houses, and the House Cup and the Sorting that Emma, truthfully, didn’t pay much attention to.

But Ingrid had already explained it all to her, and even Professor Blue had, too, on their trip to Diagon Alley.

Everybody started muttering nervously once she left and Emma had to admit the Sorting thing sounded a little painful. But Ingrid would have told her if it was something of that kind, right?

Professor Blue wasn’t gone for long and they followed her to a huge hall with a ceiling that looked to the night sky. And that was pretty cool.

And then the hat started to sing.

And everybody stared at it like it was the most normal thing ever.

When the hat finished its song, Professor Blue walked to stand next to the stool the hat was sitting on and unrolled a long parchment. “When I read your name you will come up here, I will put the hat over your head and, after it sorts you, you shall go to your House table. Now… Agrabah, Jasmine!”

Jasmine tried to mask her nervousness but she looked pale and her wide eyes denoted her fear. She walked up the stairs and remained some long moments under the hat, which tilted from side to side as if musing, until it shouted:

“RAVENCLAW!”

The Ravenclaw table burst into a warm applause for their newest recruit, and they did it again when the next kid, Arendelle, Elsa, also belonged to their house.

Baker, Celia, a short blind witch that confidently walked to the stool, was next. The hat sorted her in Slytherin after some seconds and the house cheered for her. One of the older kids jumped from the table to help her get to a free seat.

“Beasley, Adam!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Bell, Tina!” Professor Blue called.

Bell was a short blond girl who, as it seemed, gave the hat some problems, for it spend almost two full minutes thinking before placing her in Hufflepuff.

Blanchard, Mary Margaret was next, and she seemed excited more than scared. “HUFFLEPUF!” the hat proclaimed just barely touching her head.

Then there was Booth, August, another Ravenclaw, and a guy unfortunate enough to be named Fulbert Deforest, who was the first Gryffindor. De Vil, Cruella also had it bad in the name department and Emma wasn’t even really surprised to see her going into Slytherin.

“Dunbroch, Merida!”

The Scottish girl had just sat down on the stool, the hat barely grazing her head, when she was proclaimed a Gryffindor. For her satisfied smile, she was pretty happy with her new house.

After that Emma sort of spaced out, already nervous enough to pay any more attention to the sorting. She stared at the stool without seeing, her palms started to sweat and blood pounded on her ears.

(The Slytherin guy from the compartment turned out to be a Hufflepuff. Emma didn’t think he was nice enough to be a badger and she had hoped he would end in his loved house just so that Emma wouldn’t have any chance to end up with him).

(Because Emma knew herself and she knew Slytherin was not for her. Or Ravenclaw for that matter).

They got to the S’s and Emma thought she was going to throw up. One guy went to Gryffindor and another to Slytherin. And then she knew she was close.

“Svensson, Kristoff!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Swan, Emma!”

Her heart stopped. Emma took a deep breath and forced herself to go sit on the stool. She could do it, she could do it.

Professor Blue nodded at her in recognition and she lowered the hat.

«Ugh» she heard a voice say. Was that the hat?

“GRYFFINDOR!” it announced right after.

«Well,» Emma thought to herself as she stood up, her knees shaking with relief. «That wasn’t so bad».

The Gryffindor table was cheering for her and Emma sat down between a blond boy and a happy brunette.

“Hi!” she said. “Great house, isn’t it?”

Emma smiled. “I’m just happy to be in a house, you know?”

The blond boy snorted. “I also was worried that I would somehow fail the Sorting.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” one of the oldest girls with a shiny badge on her tunic smiled at them. “There’s always a house for everybody,” she assured. “I’m Milah, by the way. Milah Gold. I’m the Head Girl.”

They all turned their attentions to the sorting after that. The hat called Hufflepuff for the girl under the hat and she scurried to her house, clearly relieved.

“Waters, Ariel!” Professor Blue read.

Ariel hadn’t even sat in the stool for more than a second when the hat put her in Gryffindor. Then came the last kid, Whale Victor, who ended up in Ravenclaw.

Professor Blue dispatched the hat and the stool while the Headmaster, Merlin Knight (it was rumoured he was a descendant for the Merlin) stood up to say some words.

“I know you all must be starving, I know I am,” he joked. “So all I’m going to say is «Let’s eat»!”

And suddenly all the empty plates filled with all kinds of food. Emma dug in, far too hungry to care for the people around her and ate in silence while Merida drilled poor Milah into all there was to know about Hogwarts. Some of the older kids also joined and soon they were explaining the secrets of the school to a bunch of very nervous eleven-years-old.

Around the time of deserts, things had calmed down enough. Emma was listening to Ruby Lucas, the girl sitting next to her, talk about her Grandmother when she spotted the Rocky Road half-hidden between a bowl of strawberries and some pudding.

She launched herself towards it at the same time her other neighbour did. They both stopped to look at each other with one hand on the platter each.

Emma blinked and the guy copied her. She narrowed her eyes, readying for a quick snatch when she realized the absurdity of the situation.

The guy’s lips twitched with amusement and he helped her lift the ice-cream over the strawberries towards them. Emma handed him a spoon and they shared a knowing look, then they both dug in directly from the platter.

“So…” he said. “You like Rocky Road, huh?”

Emma smiled at him. “It’s my favourite.”

“Mine too,” he beamed. “I’m David Nolan,” he introduced himself.

She grinned, her mouth full of chocolate. “Emma Swan.”

[milevenisendgame]

The Seventh of November

This is a day Jim Hopper never thought he would see.  This is a day that he would sometimes think about, and what could have been, and how it would simply never be.   It was a day, like so many others, that was stolen from him.  Just like she was stolen from him.

He would never teach her how to ride a bike without training wheels, or to drive a car.  He wouldn’t get to see her off to her first date or her high school prom.  (Nor would he experience the great amusement of watching whatever pesky teenage boy squirm as he arrived to pick her up, finding her police officer dad sitting quite comfortably at the Hopper dining table while polishing his guns.)  He wouldn’t get to see her walk across the stage on graduation day to receive her high school diploma.  Nor college.  He would never walk her down the aisle on her wedding day to give her away to a man she grew up to love almost more than anyone.  (But never more than she loved him.  That wasn’t possible.)  Except he wished it waspossible.

But it wasn’t.

Jim Hopper would never see his daughter do any of those things because she was stolen from him.  A black hole called cancer took her life away at the tender and innocent age of just seven.  It had broken him to his core, and there were days where he had nearly given up himself, days where he wished he’d have gone with her.  But life had other plans for Jim Hopper.

It all started on November 7, 1983, when a frantic, chain smoking Joyce Byers showed up in his office at the Hawkins Police Station.  Her 12 year old son, Will, had gone missing; he’d never come home the night before. Jim didn’t take it so seriously at first; boys will be boys, and Jim was sure he’d turn up eventually.  Except he didn’t.

No.  Not again.  Not another kid.  

Once upon a time back in their high school days, Jim and Joyce were very close.  Life happened and they drifted apart throughout the years; they both grew up, got married, had children, divorced.

But if Jim knew anything about Joyce Byers, he knew she was a good person, and a damn good mother; a fierce, protective mother.  And now her son was missing.  Jim lost his little girl, and he was not about to sit back and watch Joyce lose her boy.

Not Joyce.

Jim would not rest until he found Will Byers safe and well, because he would be damned if another kid died on his watch.  Not again.

Little did he know his life was about to change forever.

And that change came in the form of a little girl called Eleven. A little girl that Will’s little friends had found and rescued in the woods while they snuck out to search for him.  A little girl with telekinetic powers who saved all their asses and helped them find Will once and for all.  A little girl who needed to be saved herself.  A little girl who needed a father.  A real father.

And it just so happened, Jim Hopper needed a daughter.

El changed everything.  She gave him a purpose.  She gave him a reason to smile again.  And little by little, she gave him back all those days he never thought he’d see.

He was there for El’s first day of high school.  Her first day of school ever.  He was there to see her off before every school dance, and much to his own surprise, he behaved himself and always kept his guns away.  He beamed with pride and cried tears of joy when she walked across the stage at Hawkins High School and received the diploma that she earned through sweat, blood, and tears.  And once more just four short years later when she earned her college degree.

And El was there for him, too.  A few short months after she started school, she was there to help Jim get ready for his first official date with Joyce.  She was there again along with Will and his older brother Jonathan when Jim and Joyce sat them all around a dinner table and announced their impending marriage.  She was standing at the altar on their wedding day, joyful tears streaming down her face and tempting to ruin her carefully done make-up as the Byers and Hopper families became one.  Jim attributed all of his newfound happiness to El; it all began with her.  She would never replace the little girl Jim lost, but she certainly filled a void in Jim’s heart; she took that hole and filled it with love, laughter, pride and happiness.

When El came into Jim’s life, she was already a packaged deal with Michael Wheeler, one of Will Byers’ friends who found her in the woods that night back on November 7, 1983.  It was Mike who’d taken her home and hid her in his basement for a week, Mike who’d clothed and fed her, Mike who protected her, Mike who’d given her a proper name.

“Well, my name’s Mike.  Short for Michael.  Maybe we can call you El?  Short for Eleven?”

And from then on out, she was El.  Mike’s El.  She was his before she was ever Jim’s, and although he’d never admit it when the kids were younger, especially in the years of raging teenage hormones, Jim was eternally grateful to Mike for saving the cold, scared little girl in the woods in 1983 and bringing her into his life.

It was early in the morning before dawn at the Byers-Hopper house.  The kids were all home for Christmas break from their junior year of college.  El was still in bed, but Mike couldn’t sleep.   Instead, he ended up downstairs at the kitchen table having coffee with Jim.

“Listen, when you’re ready to propose, don’t come asking for my permission.  That choice is hers.  But we both know she’s going to say yes.  So just do me a favor, will ya?  Let me know before you’re going to do it, yeah?”

The kid went wide-eyed and choked on the coffee he was sipping, but smiled as he cleared his throat and quickly recovered.

“Yeah… Yeah, Hop, of course.  I promise.”

And as expected, the kid was true to his word.

The fall after they graduated college, Jim Hopper walked down the aisle with his little girl, his beautiful, strong, brave little girl, the little girl who quite literally gave him his life back after so much loss and pain, and he happily gave her hand to the boy, no, to the young man who made it all possible.  Jane Eleanor Hopper, her legal name after the forged adoption, became Jane Eleanor Wheeler, Mrs. Michael Theodore Wheeler, or if you asked her, just El.  El Wheeler.

Jim couldn’t have been more proud.

Until now.

It was November again, many years after the events of 1983.

With his beautiful wife by his side, her dainty little hand held in his large gruff one, they walked down the long sterile hallway until they reached their destination. “Room 315. This is it!” Joyce said as she beamed up at him.

Jim took a deep breath and attempted to rub the sleep from his eyes; it had been a long drive from Hawkins.

“Are you ready?” asked Joyce, her pretty brown eyes full of encouragement and understanding, just as always.

“Yeah,” Jim smiled down at her, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze. “I’m ready.”

Joyce grinned and tapped on the door in front of them. A few short moments later, it opened to reveal a tall lanky young man with a mop full of dark hair on the other side. “Mike, sweetie!” Joyce exclaimed as she wrapped her son-in-law up in a warm embrace.

“Hey, Joyce!” he squeezed back, and nodded to Jim, “Hey Hop! Thanks for coming, guys.”

“Are you kidding?” Jim snorted. “Where else would we be?”

Mike didn’t say anything back as Joyce released him, but the huge grin on his face and the hint of a twinkle in his eyes told Jim everything he needed to know. He knew that look. He knew it very well.  He had seen it reflecting back at him for many years now.

“C’mere, kid,” Jim said as he pulled his son-in-law close for a hug himself, seemingly taking the younger man by surprise. But Mike was hugging him back automatically, and when the two men separated, Mike said, “Come on, guys. There’s someone who would love to meet you.”

Jim and Joyce followed Mike through the door where they found El sitting up in a hospital bed, cradling a soft yellow bundle close to her chest. The most beautiful dimpled smile stretched across her face as she beamed up at the three of them. Her skin was absolutely radiant and glowing.  She looked like the epitome of happiness. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Mom,” she cooed to them.

“Hey, kid,” Jim said softly, smiling so big his face was hurting. “You look so good, honey. So happy.”

“I am,” she said, still smiling. Then she looked over at Mike who had joined her and was now sitting on the edge of her hospital bed. “We all are.”

Jim watched as Mike placed a sweet kiss to his daughter’s temple, and in the next instant, they were both staring down in awe at the tiny yellow bundle still cradled up against El’s chest. It moved! And in that moment, both Jim and Joyce released matching audible gasps, Jim squeezing his wife’s hand, Joyce placing her free hand over jaw-dropped mouth.

El and Mike looked up at them.

“Would you like to hold her?” El asked sweetly.

Jim couldn’t find his voice, but good thing for him, Joyce always knew just what to say.

“We would love to, sweetie,” Joyce cooed to her daughter before looking over to her husband. “But please, Dad first.”

“Come on Grandpa, get over here,” called Mike, making both El and Joyce erupt in quiet giggles.

Jim rolled his eyes, but he could feel the smile curling onto his lips in spite of himself.

Grandpa. That was going to take some getting used to.

Jim and Joyce made their way over to the two chairs that were directly next to El’s bed. “Are you ready to meet Grandpa and Grandma Hopper, little one?” El softly cooed to the sweet little bundle cradled in her arms. And then she gave the tiny bundle to Mike who pressed a gentle kiss atop her little head before placing her in Jim’s arms. “This is your Grandpa,” he cooed to his baby girl.

Mike joined El once more, sitting on the edge of her bed, both of them smiling brightly as they watched their daughter being held by her grandfather for the very first time.

Joyce was sitting right next to him, their knees touching due to the close proximity. She leaned over Jim’s shoulder to gaze down at the baby girl, both of them absolutely mesmerized by her and taking her all in.

She had El’s cute little button nose and a head full of silky soft hair almost as dark as Mike’s. She had El’s eyes, too. Bright eyes that were looking right up at him. And Jim Hopper was done for. “Alright. You got me. I’m wrapped around your little finger already, little girl.”

Mike and El shared a chuckle.

“Just like her Mommy,” Joyce added.

“Always,” Jim said as he looked over at El and caught her eye, the smile she gave him in return absolutely radiating with happiness and admiration.

“She’s so beautiful,” Jim said, looking down at the baby girl and then back up to her parents. “You guys did good.”

El turned to Mike. “We did, didn’t we?” she asked him as a playful grin danced upon her lips.

“Yeah, we did,” Mike replied and rubbed his nose against hers in a sweet Eskimo kiss.

“So,” said Joyce, still fawning over the little one nuzzled in her husband’s arms, “does this beautiful baby girl have a name?”

“Yeah,” Jim added. “Are you finally ready to tell us this top secret name so that I have something to call my granddaughter?”

“Oh, please!” El chortled. “You’re just going to call her, ‘hey, kid’ for the rest of her life anyway.”

Mike nodded in agreement with his wife, shit-eating grin and all.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim said with a roll of his eyes. “Let’s hear it!” And after a beat, he cooed to his new granddaughter, “What did Mommy and Daddy saddle you with, huh?”

“Jim!” Joyce reprimanded, “I’m sure it’s a lovely name.”

And boy, was she right.

Jim gave his wife a wink before focusing his attention on his daughter and son-in-law across from him.

The new parents were smiling at each other, sharing all knowing looks. They’ve known her name since the very beginning, but they never told another living soul aside from each other. Not even Will or the rest of those kids they referred to as “The Party” while growing up.

“It’s a surprise!” El had told him at the gender reveal party Karen Wheeler had insisted on throwing for them over the summer. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

And if there was one thing El always did, she kept her promises.

Thank you very much, Mike Wheeler.

“Dad,” El interrupted his train of thought, “We’d like to officially introduce you to your granddaughter.” She looked over at Joyce. “Mom, you too.”

She paused and glanced over at Mike beside her, all bright smiles and love and happiness written all over both of their faces before she spoke again.

“We’re so excited for Sara Teresa Wheeler to finally meet her grandparents.”

Jim’s eyes grew wide and he felt his breath hitch. His throat closed up and he couldn’t remember how to speak. Before he knew it, there were silent tears running down both of his cheeks. El’s eyes were glistening, too, as well as Mike’s and Joyce’s. There was not a dry eye in the room aside from the ones belonging to the sweet precious baby girl that had now fallen asleep in his arms.

“S... S... Sara?”

“Yes,” El nodded, a single tear escaping from her eye and running down her cheek. “Sara for the daughter that was taken from you, and Teresa for the mother who never even got to hold me.” El let out a light breathy sob, but still managed to smile. Mike immediately wrapped his arms around her and placed a kiss to the top of her head for comfort.

“Do you like it?” she asked, still held tightly in Mike's embrace, her big brown doe eyes glistening, full of hope and seeking approval.

Did he like it? Jim more than liked it, and he had just been reduced to an absolutely trashy puddle of emotions.

“I’m so honored,” he said, smiling through his tears. “I love it. And I love you,” he said to El, before looking over to Mike, “I love ALL of you, and I’m so proud. Look what you did!” He lowered his gaze to the little sleeping beauty cradled safely in his arms. “You made me a Grandpa,” he whispered, eyes still on Sara.

“We did,” El said to Mike who ghosted the faintest of blushes on his pale cheeks before pressing his forehead against El’s and smiling at her lovingly.

Jim ever so gently handed Sara over to Joyce, kissing both of his girls on their foreheads before going to El and Mike and wrapping his arms around them both.

“Thank you so much. This is the happiest, proudest day of my life.”

And it was. It really, truly was.

[abnahaya]

EDance

Once an EDancer, always an EDancer!

This is gonna be a long, heartfelt post with loads of pictures!

Okay, so this kinda happened at the same time with the previous post. Due to the merger, my old dance team had to merge with FBS’ dance team, too. It was actually more convenient since we shared the same coach, and FBS’ dance team was super famous at the time that you gotta go through auditions first! We were given the opportunity to join the team without audition since you know, everyone wished students from FBS would be friends with the ex-STiBA.

Long story short, my original team mates fell back one by one, I never knew the real reasons —I was the outcast, remember?- but they just gradually stopped showing up at the practice, leaving me and one other girl. Well, I have always had the personality when I’m kinda reserved and shy at first before opening up and be a total lunatic. But honestly, I stayed for the dance. I didn’t know any of these guys, we weren’t “friends” yet, the people I knew started disappearing, yet if I wanted to follow them (later, they revived the old dance team as an independent group), like, I didn’t get along with them anyway? So I had nothing to lose, and I just had fallen in love with streetdancing  —eventho my hip-hop sucks ass!

I think it started to come together when one of the senior on the team asked me to join them to enroll in a competition. I was very excited. Although, honestly speaking, I had lots of difficulties catching up. This team was the team, you know, the people that just blended so well with good chemistry and all? I was an outsider, both to the team habits and choreo. I remember we only had about a week to train for the competition, and I was working my ass off so hard that I didn’t have time to think about being an outcast again. I just wanted to give it my all and not making the team looked silly on stage!

That was my very first competition with EDance. I hated the picture back then (because I was still white-washed and despised my tan skin) but now when I’m looking at it, fuck, I look alright! I mean, there weren’t any high-quality phone camera back then so we couldn’t do the tone justice, but right now all I can think about is how proud I am of myself. I started gotten into make up (and because I didn’t have many friends, I had lots of time practicing make up in my room) and it helped me bonding with the other members. I’m very grateful for the people in the picture: Ninit & Tepi who gave me the chance, Ko Allen who kept dancing with me until he graduated, and even Hezky who became a really good friend and still danced with me until when we both lived in Bali. Oh, and we won the thing! Not bad for a first-timer, huh?

As the official dance team of the faculty, EDance also performed in every single faculty party (re: the opening/closing celebration), including LoVED and EDO. It was my first time performing with such a big crew —EDance had twice the numbers of my first dance team- and it was such a different experience! I wasn’t particularly a fan of a megacrew performance but holy cow, there are things that can only look good when performed with a big crew! I’m beyond blessed to learn it with EDance.

On my second year dancing —third year in Uni- it was time for my generation (re: batch) to take over the leadership in the organization. I wasn’t elected or something, but by that time, I have grown so close to Elevernes that we basically became a whole squad, and we kinda have big influence on each other, and to the team. That year, our coach stepped down because he wanted to pursue formal career, so we found a new one. It was my best friend's boyfriend —then, ex now- The new coach brought a whole new flavor to our dance team, we went from full-blown hip-hop to more of girl’s hip-hop and then, slutty (LOL!) depending on the personality of the team. 

I’d say it was the beginning our my golden era of dancing. I moved out to the same boarding house with my best friends, which were also my dance team mates, and we spent many hours practicing for fun, watching dance videos, and basically just being excited for performing and enrolling competitions. EDance was at the peak of its time, we had the best dancers in the University, having the same vision and mission, the crazy fearless attitude, and just the same level of passion for dancing. We basically invented the trend of sexy and fierce girls-style dance in the city (it was a small city, so it wasn’t that great, but also because it was such a small city and everyone knows everyone else, it was pretty cool) because the core team of the crew were the same students from our batch, Eleveners, who just had the same vibration for that particular dance style.

Sadly, all good things must come to and end. And I regret that my end at EDance wasn’t a pleasant one. I started dating this guy and he gradually become very toxic and abusive that I was utterly gas-lighted and was too scared to leave his side.He told me he didn’t like my friends from the dance team and wanted me to hang out with them less (I ended up spending 24/7 with him for more than a year!). There were some moments when I felt like I gotta choose between dancing and my boyfriend, and my insecure-stupid ass chose the latter. I grew distant from my friends, and eventually I neglected dancing.

The turning point was when I, as a member of the “core” team, was offered to join a competition, and I had no hesitation to refuse it. But along the way, my boyfriend was getting more and more intimidating that I was too scared to leave him alone (coz I felt like he’d cheat on me if I didn’t stick around), and I ghosted my friends. I kept justifying my action telling myself —and some other friends- that I couldn’t join the competition because I had a final exam. It wasn’t entirely a lie, because I did have final exam, but deep down I knew what pissed my friends off was my ghosting, the fact that I ignored them and let them freak out on the last minute. It was one of my life regrets. 

After that incident, I only showed up for one more project, a dance video produced by the faculty’s filmography club. My relationship with my friends was already bad, most of them stopped talked to me, and I even got unofficially “kicked out” from the core team. I was in a weak mental state — from both the dating abuse and the guilt- and I thought to myself that I couldn’t go on like this. So the next semester, on the last year of my university life, I stopped coming to the practice.

I truly wished things went differently from how it was. EDance was the first true dance family that I had, it will always be the highlight of my life, and sometimes I’m so angry at myself for being so unreasonably stupid at that time. But you know, we all struggle with different demons inside, and I’m just the kind of person who needed to be thrown down to thrive, so I guess I deserved that. I am now in good relationships with all my EDance friends, time indeed had healed us, however, I think I do owe them a huge apology for my actions. Although I was hurting, I had no right to ruin their joys either. 

So yeah, that’s how my EDanceperience went by, it’s been eight years since I first found by this family, but I will always be an EDancer at heart, forever. 

[micebrandy29-blog]

even more perfect apple pie

I did not intend to go on an apple pie making bender. I merely did what we always do in October: go apple picking, balk at the price of a bag, insist upon filling it way past the brim (because: economics) and then we ate some apples on the way home home and the bag was still overflowing. So I made an apple pie with 4.25 pounds of apples in it and the bag looked exactly as full as it had been at the orchard. Might they still be growing in there? It’s the only explanation.

I started with the apple pie recipe that’s been on this site for 12 years, but over the years I’ve tweaked it a little at home in small ways (different spice levels, some brown sugar worked in, thinner slices). This time, with some help from the genius Bravetart book, I tweaked it a lot, and it was the best apple pie I’ve ever made. So I did the only rational thing and brought slices of my pie-brag to everyone I saw for a couple days and then I ran out of pie and made another one using the same tweaks and it, too, was the best apple pie I’d ever made, so I did the only rational thing and made a third one and now I think it’s time for us to talk about what I think has made it so much better.

Out of loyalty to the old pie recipe, I wanted to do talk about in a new post because I know there are people who make it yearly and I don’t want to change the way it’s written. But that pie is 12 years old — that pie recipe would be IN MIDDLE SCHOOL right now — it’s okay if it’s not the same person it was in its toddler years and no I’m not projecting, you’re projecting, this is about pie, okay? [WAAAH.]

Here’s what I do a little differently these days (and do skip right to the recipe if you’re not into the Inside Baseball of all it):

Time and temperature changes: Previously, I used the baking instructions from America’s Test Kitchen, which at the time were to heat the oven to 500°F, lower it to 425 after the pie was in, and then, 30 minutes later, reduce it to 375 for the remaining baking time, for about 60 minutes baking time total, which was also rarely enough. I bet you can guess what would actually happen every time I made this: I’d remember to reduce the temperature the first time, never the second, and it also looked overbaked before it was done. Stella Parks recommends baking the pie at a single temperature (400) for a longer period of time (75 minutes), and even gives you a suggested internal temperature if you’re nervous about doneness, and lo, it was perfect, with a crisp bottom crust (despite having no parbaking step) and with caramel-y juices. I haven’t looked back since.

I use more apples and I cut them thinner: One of the most frustrating things that happens when you make a pie is that you put in what seems like a massive amount of fresh fruit but after it slumps, shrinks, and nestles in as it bakes, you’re left with a very flat, if not concave, pie. Parks has a fantastic tip of having you mix your filling and let it macerate for a while so that the apples soften, allowing you to put a lot more in the filling and leading to pie slices stacked to the brim with apples. My original recipe calls for 3.5 pounds of apples; I’m now using between 4.25 and 4.5 pounds. Better to have too much filling (and bake it separately in a dish for the oatmeal or yogurt topping of champions in the coming days) than too little. I also cut the apples more thinly, a scant .25″ thick, which also allows them to nestle in more tightly so they don’t fall as much when baking.

Order of operations: Because we’re going to let the apples macerate a bit, I now prepare them first, and the pie dough second. They don’t mind waiting.

I like a mix of apples — usually: Most apple pie recipes, including my original one, want you to use hyper-specific amounts of hyper-specific kinds of apples, which is rarely what anyone has. I feel strongly that a mix of apples, ideally ones that won’t fall apart when baking, see this awesome page if you want more guidance as to which ones to choose, is the way to get the most nuanced and dynamic apple flavor in a pie. Nobody wants a one-note pie. That said, the orchard we were in had a ton of massive mutsu apples ready, and I made my last few pies with them only. Turns out they’re fantastic baking apples. “Uh, Deb, you just contradicted yourself.” Yes, and I want you, too, to go with the flow.

Flavor changes: Although I started skipping the lemon because we were out of lemons, when I didn’t miss the flavor at all, I never bothered putting it back in. Ditto with the lemon zest, which I found distracting. I also increased the cinnamon and added a little ground ginger (which won’t make it gingery, promise; it just seems to wake the pie up a little). Finally, I started swapping half, then more, of the sugar with brown sugar and I really don’t know why I wasn’t doing this all along. It’s lovely here.

Thickener changes: Over the last few years, as tapioca flour/starch (they’re the same thing) became more easily available (Bob’s Red Mill makes some, so check any store that stocks the brand, or here or here or here), I started using it as a pie thickener and never looked back. It’s clear and unchalky once baked, and doesn’t muffle the filling flavor the way I find some commercial thickening blends do. You’d never really know it’s there, which is basically the dream.

Previously

One year ago: Chocolate Olive Oil Cake Two years ago: Baked Alaska, Indian-Spiced Cauliflower Soup, and Skillet-Baked Pasta with Five Cheeses Three years ago: Broccoli Cheddar Soup, S’more Cupcakes, and My Old-School Baked Ziti Four years ago: Latke Waffles, The Crispy Egg, Better Chicken Pot Pies Five years ago: Miso Sweet Potato and Broccoli Bowl Six years ago: Spaghetti with Broccoli Cream Pesto and Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls Seven years ago: Cumin Seed Roasted Cauliflower with Yogurt Eight years ago: Single Crust Plum and Apple Pie and Mushroom Lasagna Nine years ago: Quiche Lorraine Ten years ago: Black and White Cookies, Best Challah (Egg Bread) and Mom’s Apple Cake Eleven years ago: Bronx-Worthy Bagels, Peanut Butter Brownies, and Arroz Con Pollo [New!] Twelve years ago: Lemon Cake

And for the other side of the world: Six Months Ago: Fig Newtons 1.5 Years Ago: Cornbread Waffles, Mushroom Tartines, and Almond Horn Cookies 2.5 Years Ago: Spring Chicken Salad Toasts, Caramelized Brown Sugar Oranges with Yogurt, and Potato Pizza, Even Better 3.5 Years Ago: The Consolation Prize (A Mocktail) and Baked Chickpeas with Pita Chips and Yogurt 4.5 Years Ago: Dark Chocolate Coconut Macaroons

Even More Perfect Apple Pie

Servings: 8 to 12

Time: 3 hours, mostly hands-off

Print

This is an update on my 2006 apple pie recipe, with a few new tricks from the fantastic Bravetart cookbook.

Filling

1/2 cup (95 grams) light or dark brown sugar

1/4 cup (50 grams) granulated sugar

1/4 teaspoon fine sea or table salt

2 teaspoons ground cinnnamon

Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste, or about 1/4 teaspoon ground

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

1/8 teaspoon ground cloves

4 1/4 to 4 1/2 pounds baking apples, shown here with mutsu (which is like a mix of Granny Smith and Golden Delicious) but more suggestions here

3 tablespoons tapioca flour or starch

Crust

1 recipe All Butter, Really Flaky Pie Dough, or your favorite recipe, or a storebought dough

1 egg, lightly beaten (optional)

Coarse or raw sugar for sprinkling (optional)

Make filling: Combine sugars, salt, and spices in your absolutely largest bowl. Peel, halve, and core your apples and cut them into thin (scant 1/4-inch) slices, adding them right to the big bowl. Toss to coat the slices as much as possible. Set aside for 1 to 4 hours at room temperature.

Prepare crust: Make your pie dough according to instructions. If you need to chill it for an hour or two before rolling it out, you can do so now. If yours is already chilled and ready to go, roll out the first half on a well-floured counter [more detailed instructions here] to a 14-inch circle and transfer it to 9-inch standard (not deep-dish) pie plate. With scissors or kitchen shears, trim overhang to one inch all around. Refrigerate dish and dough until needed.

For a regular pie lid, roll out the second dough half into the same sized circle, transfer it to a large parchment-lined baking sheet and chill this as well until needed. For a lattice or woven pie lid, you can use the same sized circle, or you can just roll it into a rectangle at least 14″ in one direction, and then as long or wide you can get it in the other. Transfer it to a parchment-lined baking sheet and chill this as well until needed.

Heat oven: To 400°F.

Assemble pie: Stir tapioca starch into apple pie filling. Pour filling into prepared bottom crust and use your hands to pack and heap those softened apples as mounded as you can get them, then add a few more. Pour any juices that have accumulated carefully over apples; do not leave any behind. Either place your second pie dough round over the filling or cut it into strips to lattice the top. [Detailed classic lattice instructions here, or try some of Erin McDowell’s gorgeous iterations.] Trim the top crust or lattice strips to the edge of the pie dish. Fold the overhang from the lower crust over to form a thick rim, and crimp it together with your fingers or a fork to seal it. Brush top crust with egg, then sprinkle with sugar if desired. If your top crust is in one piece, cut a few vents in it with a sharp knife.

Bake pie: Reuse that sheet of parchment paper on the large baking sheet for easier cleanup, then transfer your prepared pie onto it. Bake for 75 minutes, turning once or twice for even color. If your pie is browning too fast, take a large square of foil, mold it over the back of a large bowl into a convex dome, then use that to cover the pie in the oven for the remaining baking time so it doesn’t brown much further. Pie is done when juices are bubbling visibly through the vents or lattice, or when the internal temperature reads 195°F. A tester inserted into the pie shouldn’t hit any overtly crunchy apple pieces.

To serve: Cool pie for at least one hour at room temperature before cutting into it. However, your filling will not fully thicken until it has fully cooled, ideally in the fridge for a couple hours. You can rewarm slices as you serve them, if desired. Leftovers keep at room temperature for 2 to 3 days, and in the fridge for 1 week.

Source: https://smittenkitchen.com/2018/10/even-more-perfect-apple-pie/

[ixvyupdates]

People Thought She Had Lost Her Mind But She Knew Home Schooling Was Right for Her Babies

I used to be one of those parents, someone who thought home schooling was a fringe movement, driven by overprotective parents with cray-cray ideas who didn’t want their children exposed to new peers and different ideas.

But over the years I’ve come to recognize home schooling as a viable and beneficial choice for families and children who are not thriving in traditional public schools. The most recent estimates suggest that about 2 million students nationwide are home schooled, or more than 3 percent of all school-age children.

Plenty of Great Reasons

Their reasons are as varied as the families who choose home schooling—from reinforcing religious and moral instruction to dissatisfaction with public school climate and academics to addressing special needs or mental health concerns.

Sometimes what it takes to open your mind to is speaking to passionate, persuasive advocates like Latasha Fields.

I recently had the pleasure of speaking at length with Latasha, a Louisiana native, mother of four and an evangelist for home schooling, especially among African-American families. Latasha and her husband are ministers and founders of the Christian Home Educators Support System (CHESS), and Latasha is also an Illinois state coordinator for parentalrights.org.

Even for parents who don’t share Latasha’s religious beliefs, it’s easy to get swept up by Latasha’s enthusiasm for the time she spends with her children and the excitement she exudes about the lessons she customizes for her children.

“I believe each family needs to establish their values,” she said. “It’s all about building the family structure. Even if nothing else happens, we built a strong family bond. The education is unlimited, but the blessing is the relationship.”

Eleven years ago, Latasha said she was called by her faith to pull her oldest daughter out of her traditional public school in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and start teaching her at home. She was pregnant with her second child and had no idea what to do, how to navigate state laws or where to find support.

“In the African-American community, there was no connection to the home schooling community for us,” she said.

But her daughter made the adjustment very easy for her. “She just gravitated to it, she didn’t buck or give us any challenges,” she said.

Latasha said her daughter bought into the switch, but others were harder to convince.

“Her being home with me was something she enjoyed,” she said. “The conflict I encountered was external, it came from other people. There was just no awareness of home schooling in the Black community. People just thought I had lost my mind!”

After the first year, the family opened up a summer camp, and then she started home schooling other children during the school year. She later organized a home schooling co-op.

“I have literally embedded myself into home schooling. This is my life until my 2-year-old turns 18.”

Her daughter, Vetiveah, is now a senior at college and on the Dean’s List. Latasha said her daughter is grateful for the academic discipline and strong study habits she learned at home, which prepared her to succeed in college.

Latasha now home schools her two younger sons, 11-year-old Ronald and 8-year-old LaRon, along with three other students who attend her home school part-time. Her 2-year-old daughter Tahije is also home, playing and soaking up the learning.

Lessons start around 9:30 a.m. every day, and the kids study their core subjects until 12:30 p.m. The rest of the day is devoted to arts, music, physical activity and other outside enrichment.

“I’m very structured. I’ve used the same curriculum since I started, an individualized self-paced curriculum. That’s one of the blessings of home schooling, you can be creative and find the flow that works best for every family.”

She Has Been Able to Respond to Her Kids’ Different Interests

“With my boys, I’ve had to change things up and get creative because my boys are more visual,” she said. “They love science and history, and they want more online lessons and science experiments.”

Latasha now lives in Chicago, and even though home schooling is an increasingly popular option among parents nationwide, she still finds it a tough sell with African-American families.

Sometimes, the barrier is financial—many single moms cannot afford to stay home to teach their children, even if they are unhappy with the academics and environment they find in their neighborhood schools. She shares resources with parents in her local library, and also works with parents in suburbs just west of Chicago.

“We are so indoctrinated to outsource your children. I know it’s really hard, but I tell them, sometimes you cannot see how valuable you are to your babies. It just brings such great pleasure to me.”

For more information about Latasha’s home-schooling advocacy, please see www.homeschool-life.com/il/chessup

Photo by ANGELIQUE RADEMAKERS, Twenty20-licensed.

People Thought She Had Lost Her Mind But She Knew Home Schooling Was Right for Her Babies syndicated from https://sapsnkraguide.wordpress.com