My Basa Body

I'm pretty low-key when it comes to beautification. I wear mascara, but I've never really known how to put on any other kind of make-up. And last week I had a partial unibrow because my kids lost my tweezers and I couldn't remember to buy new ones at the store. So, when my aunt Liz called and asked if I would be interested in trying out a few products from the company she works for, I was intrigued. She dropped them off later that day.

It turned out to be Basa Body lotion, soap and an awesome moisture bar. That was super news--I know how to use all of those things--and commonly do! But this lotion is different.

The story drew me in first. A few weeks ago, my aunt Chriss and her husband Louis asked my dad, a general contractor, and my mom to fly over to Kenya to help with a facility they are building to house some of their charitable operations. I knew they had been doing some charity work in Africa, but I never fully understood what it was. I still don't--but the lotion helped put some of the pieces together. Here is the story of Basa Body:

It began with a trip to Kenya where we connected with wonderful, intelligent women working hard to feed their families. We met with the women of Mombasa and visited the first small-scale coconut oil plant called Coast Coconut Farms where they produced pure organic coconut oil by hand. Determined to find a way to assist them in selling their oil and to help them grow their business, we came home and through the help of many good people, created Basa Body (named after the women of Mombasa). It is our hope that by sharing this natural healing lotion with their inspiring story, we can help lift these women of Africa out of poverty.

The idea of helping women take care of their families by using skills and resources they already have is fantastic. And it is awesome lotion. Really. After putting it on, I sort of find myself sniffing my hands all day, because it smells so much like real coconuts.

My parents are in Kenya right now. Jed's parents are on a mission in South Africa and have traveled to many countries all over the continent. The feeling I get from these parents is that these are good, hard-working people in Africa that truly struggle to provide for themselves and their families. My mother-in-law buys things from all kinds of vendors to help in their efforts.

I love the lotion. I seriously do. I use it more than I've ever used any particular lotion. And the moisture stick is heavenly for dry heels and elbows. I've only used one of my soaps so far--but it smells like mint truffle--and who cares if you have a unibrow if you smell like mint truffle?

So forget Bath and Body works this Christmas, and give someone some awesome products from Basa Body. By doing so, you'll be helping African women take care of their families and smelling like a tropical paradise or Sees candy shop. Could there be a better combination?

More info: Basabody.com

What, you want another testimony from someone more famous? (rude)

click here and here.

Wait, what's that? You're a modeling scout and you couldn't help but notice my first picture? Oh my gosh, I have more.

Oh, you!

I'm good with kids too!

my hair can be touseled in so many ways.

did I mention I have great nails?

stop trying to see if I still have a unibrow.

So, Thanksgiving

I've been a lazy blogger lately--it seems holidays make me lazy. A few days before the holiday I sort of give up on important responsibilities and declare it preparation for the holiday. Then, after the holiday, I'm so reluctant to get back to things (housekeeping, eating things other than butter and sugar) that I give myself those couple of extra days on the after-end to keep eating butter and sugar. And don't you dare say my pants don't fit anymore. They just shrunk a tiny bit in the dryer.

But Thanksgiving makes me laugh a little bit. After a few years of cramming two Thanksgiving dinners from both of our local families, we swore we'd run a marathon before doing it again. So, in order to avoid that, we now just eat with one family each year. We like it much better. That way we can talk about one family behind their backs while we're visiting the other. Oh, just joking. (Who am I kidding, our families don't read this.) It seems, we're much more relaxed and enjoy our time with each family separately. But this leads me to one of the reasons Thanksgiving is funny. I am on a very strict schedule imposed by my aunt who made me swear on my marriage that we'd join my family for Thanksgiving on even years. She has arranged it so everyone's in-laws are on the same schedule. So changing the schedule isn't even something we joke about. Jed's family, less nazi-ish and more bohemian about schedules, forgets every year. So next year they'll wonder why we're not joining them for Thanksgiving. And I'll feel guilty for a minute, because that's what I do. Then they might ask me to trade schedules, and I'll remind them of the concentration camp my aunt almost put me in the last time I made that suggestion.

Assigning food it always a bit touchy to isn't it? There are certain recipes that need to be made just right--do we dare give it to aunt so-and-so to try? What if she ruins it? Or how about the sister-in-law that wants to bring her family traditional dish--will it crash the party if she brings that strange salad? Or the mother that insists that she doesn't bring it--by saying "nobody eats it anyway." And is an assignment of a whole lot of butter to someone a sign that she is a bad cook? And what if your grandma uses flour in the gravy but your uncle makes it corn-starchy? And what of your brother's kids who are totally wild and wreck your house? And that brings me to a good point--whose house should we do it at? We can't do it at Uncle John's, he has that dog, and cousin Annie is allergic. We can't do it at Bobby's, his new wife drives everyone crazy.

You think I'm making all of this up, but each one of these scenarios was told to me this very Thanksgiving. So what if I exaggerated a little bit? I just changed the names so Emily wouldn't get in trouble. Ethan doesn't read this right Em?

In the end, we manage to keep trying to work it out--allergies and bad recipes and all-- just so we can be together. It seems to me that fighting to be together must mean that we like each other a whole lot. And that is a blessing to be thankful for.

Parley's Self-Portrait

PA-EY!

Hazel drew this picture the other day of our family:

You can see that we're all there, we're all happy--oh except--what's that Julian is saying?

Oh, yes, he is screaming, "Parley!" because that's what he does.

All day long.

"Pa-ey, No!"

[Growling] "Pa-ey!"

"NO PA-EY!"

I remember this stage with my younger brothers. The older of the two, Chuck, would quietly bother the younger Danny, and Danny would scream and scream. It drove us all nuts and we were constantly reprimanding Chuck and demanding that he leave Danny alone. Sometimes he was clearly guilty, but other times, he claimed innocence--promising he wasn't near Danny. But ultimately, being the older of the two, he seemed to get most of the blame.

Now I find myself yelling downstairs to Parley to leave Julian alone. But lately, Parley is clearly offended by my reproaches, swearing he didn't do a thing to Julian. I'm starting to believe him. While sitting and watching a movie together, Julian growled at Parley and screamed his name when anything he didn't like happened to him.

The couch cushion pushed into him a little bit--"Pa-ey! No, Pa-ey!"

Water spilled on him. "PA-EY!"

Poor Parley has even resorted to speaking to Julian in a high baby voice, saying things like, "You can have this car Julian."

Which Julian interrupts, "No Pa-ey! No!"

Now I yell down to Julian a lot. "Leave that Parley alone! Stop screaming at your poor older brother!"

But I'll tell you what, we're all watching what we say around here--you never know what Hazel is going to draw tomorrow.

Happy 4, Parley Boy

I made a smoothie the other day and shared it with Parley. A little later I noticed a patch of red sticky stuff on his forehead. He must've noticed too, because he started to pick at it. A moment later, he had a small speck on his finger--likely a berry remnant.

"A freckle! I didn't know they could come off!" a surprised Parley exclaimed.

"What? Let me see that." I said, looking at the speck of raspberry.

And then, you know what? Parley gave me his precious "freckle". I promptly put it on my nose. I happen to think it is one of the nicest things he could ever have given me--priceless as his freckles are.

Parley Christian, I love you. Happy 4th today!

Breaking the Chains of Love

I don't like chain letters. I'm not sure I know anyone who really does, but somehow, they continue to get passed around. I've been asked to give recipes, dollar bills, dishcloths, children's books, stickers, drugs--have I gone too far? I swear I've been given every chain letter around. And I really do hate them. But the funny thing is, because I can't help but feel guilt in every situation, I sometimes actually consider participating, just so person #3, who I don't know, will get her dishcloths. But in time, my guilt fades, and I ultimately break the chain. That precious, precious chain.

Recently I was given a bag full of mush called Amish Friendship bread. Oh, you've seen it. It is a chain letter in food form. See, because the Amish friendship bread is SO secretive, and only the Amish know how to make it, you can never make the bread again unless some kind friend gives you the starter.

My cute neighbor, who I love dearly, and who makes all kinds of yummy desserts, left me the mush on my doorstep. It really looked like it belonged in a trash can--where I put the last bag of mush someone gave me (and where anyone might logically put any kind of bag of mush they came in contact with). But I left it on my countertop (guilt). The instructions were to mush the bag most days and then on day six you add something and then mush again, and then finally, ten days later you make the bread. So, I mushed it a few days (which gave me the willies), and each time considered throwing it away. Jed insisted it was yummy bread, and we'd come so far--I'd mushed so many times! So there it sat on my countertop, aging, bubbling, begging to be mushed. Finally the day arrived to make the bread. I was supposed to add some stuff and make new starter mushes for my best friends. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't think of a single person who might want my bag of beige goo. I had dreams of my friends running away from me while shouting, "What did I ever do to you?" In the end, my mathematical sister figured out how to make the bread without making starters. Leave it to Katie.

I made the bread. It was really quite good, and my family liked it a lot. But I couldn't eat it. Every time I'd take a bite, I'd remember that nasty, fermenting bag of milk, sugar and flour and whatever other secretive things were in it, and my stomach swore in its wrath to never let me rest again if I continued with the bite. So I fed it to my family, who, after it was gone, wanted more. And me without a starter.

As it turns out, the recipe is not so secretive after all. Just as Jed suspected, Google found it with two clicks. So mush away. But don't you dare bring me a starter--I want the baked loaf.

Julian Sick, Life Closed

Parley Webster Wells

"You know what frizes means mom?" Parley asked.

"No Parley, what does frizes mean?"

"Little pieces of paper you can write on."

After recognizing that this question continued to come up with different words he'd made up, I finally started writing them down.

And here are the rest (in alphabetical order, of course):

Biggie place--A place where there are fluffy haircuts and chickens.

Fulpal--a land for the cars.

Fostenia--a shooter thing.

Gitches--someone who is lost.

Major--string things like fish.

Mucks--tiny little circles that hurt your eyes.

Sleek-up--some zero kids are not sleeping with their mom.

Trigador--a treat that has sugar in it.

Here's hoping his dictionary continues to grow.

Halloween at the House on Elm