Apologies

I'm days away (5) from running my second marathon.  I've trained all summer, logged an impressive number of miles, killed my poor left toenail, muscled through an ankle injury, and emerged ready and willing to slog through 26.2 miles on Sunday, October 2.  And yet, despite the training, and despite the fact that this is my SECOND marathon (lunacy), I still find myself apologizing for what I still feel must be grudging acceptance of myself as a Runner.

This coversation snippet has occured, verbatim, at least 20 times in the past month:

Person: You're running a marathon?
Me: Yup.
Person: Wow! That's amazing!
Me: Oh...I'm really slow... (bats away the "amazing" with a flick of the wrist and a quick change of subject)

Not once have I ever conceded that it is, in fact, kind of amazing.  Not once have I accepted that someone might be impressed by that endurance.  Instead, I apologize for my speed, I imply by tone and subtle shoulder shrugs that I am not actually a runner but the race people let me pretend. 

I'm not sure what it will take for me to think of myself as A Runner.  One marathon and too-many-half-marathons-to-remember-the-actual-number haven't done it. Long runs of 10-20 miles every Saturday for three months haven't done it.  The retiring of multiple pairs of running shoes and socks haven't done it.  But I have to believe that it's time, more than distance, more than races, that etch the Runner into your psyche. I was such a flagrant non-Runner (read: fat and unhealthy) for so long, I think it takes a while for the noun to stick.  I can run (verb) and acknowledge that I am running.  But to be a Runner, some finite, specific thing, may take a few more years.  Few more marathons, maybe.

What I aspire to:

Person: You're running a marathon?
Me: Yup
Person: Wow! That's amazing!
Me: I think so, too! (catches the "amazing" with a high five)

Ninja Turtle Cobbler

As a kid,when my mom was out of the house and my dad was left to fend for himself in feeding the munchkins, we ate a lot of pizza.  But occassionally, and I remember this mostly as an Arkansas occurrence and not in our later St. Louisan existence, my dad would cook.

Cooking usually meant substantial "help" from my brother and I, although I don't personally have any strong memories of cooking with my dad.  I do remember, however, one occasion when he and my brother created something in the kitchen that my brother named (highlighting his allegiance at that time), "Ninja Turtle Pie."  I believe it was some concoction of hamburger meat, corn, maybe some ketchup and various other unassuming vegetables.  Despite looking a bit gnarly, it tasted good.  And Ninja Turtle Pie remains a highlight in my memory of what can be accomplished in a kitchen.

This past weekend on The Mountain, I built a Ninja Tutle concotion of my own, a peach cobbler scraped together with what remained in our cabin on our last night.  Upon taking the attached picture, I assumed I'd place the cobbler on my food blog, but as I can't remember the measurements of what went into the creation, and as there were a few missteps I wouldn't repeat (note to self: instant grits do not cook as quickly as cornmeal), I thought the picture would simply fade into oblivion.

The cobbler ended up as a success, surprisingly.  The vast majority of the dessert was gobbled up quickly and the remaining edge piece was requested quietly by my Uncle NT, so it made its way into the fridge for what I assume was a midnight snack. I can claim no accolades on this creation, however, because the deliciousness was largely a product of excellent Carolina peaches, which made up for the somewhat overly crunchy top crust and the bottom layer made of crushed wheat thins and brown sugar.

As we were saying our goodbyes the next day, my Aunt Joyce commented on how amazing it was, our yearly gathering of 30+ family members.  We have our share of dysfunction, no doubt, as any family of our breadth and depth would.  But even those familial hiccups seem inconsequential in light of what happens each Labor Day weekend.  The descendants of one couple, wed in the first years of the 1900s, who lived a quiet, unassuming life tucked into East Tennessee, have gathered, and continue to gather, in those same mountains to eat, laugh, argue, pray, hold new babies, miss the missing, and look each other in the eye for long enough to recognize the blood that binds us.  The not-quite-right ingredients, the I-wish-I-hadn't-done-that element of every single day of every single life, matter a lot less when the fruit that binds the ingredients is strong and sweet and powerful.  I think that speaks volumes to the vehement, somewhat ornery love that flowed from my great-grandparents and into our cluster of cabins each year in the mountains they called home.

It was a pretty good cobbler.