1.) The colors do the wave.

Take I-75 north from Detroit about five hours all the way to Mackinaw City, or drive a shorter stretch somewhere in between. Cross over the Mackinaw Bridge into St. Ignace for the full Michigan experience if you're really ambitious. But whether you're taking a Sunday drive or a weekend trip, the colors of the landscape deepen, become more lush and vivid. Coupled with the east to west shift of the sun, traveling "up north" in Michigan is a truly exquisite experience in October.

2.) It's like an art gallery in a mitten.

Michigan's landscape is among the most unique in all the world. Travel any direction from within the state to find a seemingly ocean sized lake, visit one of its 33 islands, or traverse the network of rivers in the interior. Autumn provides a backdrop for some of the most beautiful and rustic scenes on earth. If you've never looked over Lake Michigan from the heights of Mackinaw Island . . . walked barefoot along the lighthouse dotted sandcoasts of the lakes, jeans rolled up, sweater pulled tight . . . canoed the Au Sable under an aqua sky straight into the mouth of Lake Huron . . . in October . . . there's still time.

3.) Michigan practically invented the cider mill.

​Did  you know that cider mills are a North American thing . . . and even more specifically a New England and Midwest thing . . . and most specifically, a Michigan thing?  And that Michigan's apple production is third in the US behind Washington State and New York? So it's not surprising that a visit to the local cider mill has become a celebratory Autumn highlight of Michigan families every October. There are 16 in Southeastern Michigan alone.

​Parmenter's was my family's favorite when I was growing up. I have vivid memories of donning jackets in early October and riding our bikes down Hine's Drive into rural Northville to visit the big red barn, get caramel apples and cider, and feed the ducks on the Rouge River behind the mill. Parmenter's is famous for their unique pear infused blend of cider. . . . and for the grown-ups The Northville Winery and Brewing Company is just across the parking lot, having evolved from the mill beginning in 1982.  They feature wine tasting, hard cider, and beer . . .

Even so, Plymouth Orchards is our current family favorite (my husband is not much of a drinker). It's where we took our children when they were growing up, and my husband swears by the cider/ cinnamon-sugar doughnut flavor combination as being the best around. I look forward to grabbing a jar of homemade apple butter from the bountiful fall display shelves as we're moving through the line every year. 

Among its more traditional wines, Mackinaw Trail Winery also specializes in berry wines (blueberry, blackberry, raspberry, strawberry), and represents Michigan well with its Spiced Apple and Cherry Sangria brands.

5.) Michigan malls represent Michigan in October like living, colossal post cards. 

If I was a guy, I might have said something about college football season and the rivalry between the University of Michigan and Michigan State . . . but I'm not . . . and I don't care . . . but the malls! The malls!

Okay, so malls -- even in the fall -- are definitely not exclusive to Michigan. But with names like Twelve Oaks and Briarwood, The Orchards, and Arborland . . . they're like virtual autumn festivals . . . with trees seemingly growing right up through the floors (there are leaves everywhere). . . and a virtual frenzy of assault on the senses!

Everything is earth toned and smells like pumpkins and apples. There are velvety, knee-length sweaters marketed in colors like russet and amber gold and burgundy wine . . . and brown suede boots with faux fur at the ankles (I'm biting my knuckles). Mrs. Fields has cranberry spice cookies and Starbucks in the common area has real pumpkin spice latte'. You can smell the Yankee candle shop from way down at Bath & Body Works where they've got little leaf and owl plug ins that diffuse scents like cranberry woods and fireside chat . . . And don't even get me started on the autumn scenes that illuminate through the windows of Pottery Barn or Crate and Barrel . . . 

Malls were made for Michigan in the fall . . . 

So raise your glasses to October . . . and start planning a trip  . . down the street or across the state. It's all beautiful.

Two days ago my daughter texted me from Colorado, crying. It sounds funny to put it that way, but it's one of the acceptable ways people communicate anymore. It's a blessing and a curse, creating an avenue for honesty . . . or one for false courage. I'll come back to that . . . 

So she had been crying when she said, "Mom, I think it's time to share your story." . . . It's understandable that her emotions would be raw. She's had a particularly difficult time lately. In the midst of the full and busy process of raising a six year old daughter and a two year old son to the extreme, she and my son-in-law recently lost a baby in the early stages of pregnancy. The very next day, a raccoon ravaged the rabbit hutch in their backyard, killing all but one of their four baby bunnies. As a family, their celebration of life turned to mourning in the blink of an eye. It's painful to imagine the fallout of such broken-heartedness playing out, especially in my Brittany, who has chased life so fiercely since before she was born.

And this was what was breaking her heart on that particular day . . . in the midst of chasing life . . . between writing (www.littlemountainmomma.com) and running and growing a family, between 1st grade drop offs and harvesting her garden to share, between caring for the elderly and adoring her spirited little boy, who was conceived on the emotional waves of her first miscarriage . . . that she discovered a tragic and misguided contingency of people celebrating under the hashtag title Shout your Abortion. And it was here that she challenged me, holding my feet to the fire of my own convictions . . . I think it's time to share your story. She called it my Life Story, and she's more than an inspiration for it.

In 1985 I was eighteen years old, about to graduate from high school . . . and pregnant. It's an understatement to say that it didn't exactly fit into my life plan. At the time, I was living on my grandmother's couch. I had left my mother's house a year before, determined to finally escape the poverty and abuse derived from mental illness that I had grown up in, and had since then bounced between my father's ever changing dive apartments and the homes of friends who lived closer to my high school. Lest I paint a picture of hopelessness, I was also smart, ambitious, and determined to break my current family cycle of chaotic instability. I had worked hard to buy myself a car at sixteen, made sure I got to school every day, and in spite of a lack of interest or cooperation on the part of either of my parents, was set on studying journalism in college. The only thing I choose to see myself a victim of today is the perceived invincibility syndrome of the very young and idealistic. I made "one bad decision" and decided to get my head on straight, only to discover it was too late. 

I was six weeks pregnant and sitting in a doctor's office as "every girl and every woman" who had ever experienced an unexpected pregnancy. . .  I was every girl who had ever felt the shock of disbelief because "this doesn't happen to "good girls", every girl who would cut off her hair just to be able to go back and undo one moment of indiscretion or poor decision making, every girl who had ever felt frightened and ashamed and had the fleeting thought somewhere deep in her seared, dulled conscience that "no one ever has to know."  I was every woman who had ever questioned her ability to care for a baby, let alone herself, had ever told herself "this is all about me", who had ever sought to take her life back after feeling used and rejected, disrespected and violated, every woman who thinks "I can make this right . . . later . . . when I'm really ready." I was every woman, every girl on life's spectrum between hopelessly desperate and it's my damned decision because it's my body and it's damned inconvenient right now.

I wish I could say that I never had a single doubt. I wish I could say that never for one single second would I have ever even considered terminating that pregnancy. But there was just about 24 hours between complete denial that I could even BE pregnant and complete acceptance that I was about to become a mother, and honestly, those were the most critical 24 hours of my entire life because there WAS a choice, one offered to me by the world, and I would be lying if I said that the solution that the world offered never crossed my mind. I can say in all truth that I never once uttered the word abortion, but what I did say, in complete desperation and disbelief to the doctor who delivered the news and was droning on insensitively about the blessing of babies and due dates and changes that would soon take place within my body was: I can't have a baby. I don't even live anywhere. He got very quiet, and his friendly demeanor was replaced by disapproval and an unmistakable look of judgment in his eyes. He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a referral for an abortion clinic. He shoved the papers at me and said, "I don't agree with your decision, but I'm obligated to give you this. He left without saying another word, and I'll never forget the feeling of such humiliation and shame put upon me by another human being. Before the day was over, another reaction I received from someone else whose words might have made all the difference was, "If this is your decision, you're on your own." At that point, I hadn't even made a decision, and I did, indeed, feel desperately alone. And here's the irony . . . the very people who protested the most . . . the very people whose intention was to freeze me with judgement and disapproval were the very ones that may have driven me straight to the abortion clinic in isolation. 

Fortunately, and by the grace of God, I will always be convinced, the words I desperately needed to hear came from a seemingly chance encounter from a most unlikely source: Whatever you decide to do, we will love and support you . . . but remember that this baby is not here by chance. God put it here, and it's really not anyone else's decision at this point. You CAN do this. We'll help you. It was important that I believed every single word, and I did. They nailed it. There were other important words. When in despair, I asked my (then) future husband what we were going to do, and his simple response was, "We're going to have a baby" . . . his mother, my future mother in law, who professed to be a Christian, backed it up when I looked into her eyes for the the first time knowing that she knew and she said, "Honey, we love you" without a trace of judgment, and gathered me in a hug. I believed her.

In August of  1985, I married my baby's father. In December, my beautiful baby girl was born. She had the striking blue eyes of her grandmother and a fascinating amount of energy. She got right down to the business of life, and she (along with her sister) kept me happily busy being a momma. It took me thirteen years from that point to get an undergraduate degree, and several more to get a masters . . . in education - NOT journalism - because teaching was more conducive to raising a family. It's not disloyal for me to say that my life didn't turn out like I'd planned and I'm not disappointed that I didn't put myself first. When I look at my lovely, healthy daughters (who were NOT raised in abject chaos and extreme dysfunction and are BOTH college graduates), when I see my Brittany Leigh, raising her babies and honoring life so completely, I am home and whole and free from any regrets.


I know everybody's story is different. There are beautiful adoption stories and beautiful single mom stories. There are stories of parents' resolve to work together -- to create families and to put them first. . . stories of grandparents stepping in and family and friends stepping up. . .  community and churches coming together to provide support  . . . And there are some commonalities in the success stories . . . 

Words of affirmation. Love. Faith. Family. Community. Grace. Compassion.

BEFORE the abortion clinics.

At the risk of oversimplifying things, would we even be having this abortion debate if these things took precedent over judgement and disapproval and washing our hands of any human compassion or responsibility? And would we still feel compelled to lie about our decisions? Yes, I said it. Because in the Shout Your Abortion movement, I don't believe a word of it. There is no amount of argument to convince me that anyone - ANYONE - is truly happy and proud to have made the decision to abort their child. If I had made a different decision, there is not the slightest bit of doubt in my mind that I would have had another decision to make. . . I could either let that choice destroy me, leave me a shell of a person . . . Or I would have to push it back into the deep recesses of my mind . . . not think about it, compartmentalize it so that I could go on living. And then I could say that it didn't affect me. And I might really think that . . . but I would be lying to myself . . . because if I allowed myself to think about it . . . REALLY think about what I had done without calling it something other than what it really was, it would destroy me. 

I had known girls, friends and acquaintances from high school who had become pregnant. Some of them had had their babies.  Some of them had abortions. I never gave either much thought beyond disdain derived from what would be a perfectly orchestrated life. I would never have made that mistake. But when I did, there were words that I needed to hear. And I eventually did hear those potentially life saving words. You . . . we . . .can make this work . . . I'll be there for you . . . Let's figure this out . . . It's going to be alright . . . Tragically, not everybody does.

I have friends today that have confided in me in quiet, introspective moments, that they have at one time or another made that choice. Their reasons, as previously stated, range from simple inconvenience and bad timing to hopeless desperation. These are not monsters. These are beautiful women with beautiful hearts and beautiful children that I am proud to call my friends. I don't judge them. Until we live in a world that offers fewer "choices" and greater compassion and conviction for love and family and human life, we, as decent human beings, as Christians, are called to love and support one another. 

Shout Your Abortion is a lie borne of a society of dysfunction, discord, and disbelief. It breaks my daughter's heart, and it breaks mine, because she is a Life Story that cannot be ignored or disregarded as a choice . . . she is my child, and my Life Story.

Yesterday I came to the end of a long journey and stepped into the light of a place where another would begin. There was a defining moment offered up by the cosmos by which I should have heard the echo of applauding stars . . . I should have raised my hands to the glory of a path illuminated before me . . . I should have allowed myself the small luxury of that euphoric and magical carpet ride that stops at my door on the rare and beautiful occasion. And metaphorically speaking, all those things were going on. There was a party in my head . . . but the flashing lights were blinding, flying confetti was pelting me in the face, and I was a little dizzy. Actually, I was exhausted. It must have shown in my face, because my traveling companion . . . my friend . . . asked what was wrong. "Let me see," she said. She was referring to the contract I held in my hand delineating the work involved in my new job. "There's nothing wrong," I told her, "It's just that, well . . . I've never lacked faith. It's just that I've never had any patience."

Don't get me wrong -- my character flaws are not the focus of this blog . . . If I had to choose between faith and patience, faith wins hands down. Impatience keeps me awake at night. Impatience keeps me in an almost constant state of anxiety. Impatience makes me edgy and a little arrogant sometimes. But if someone can tell me how to wait patiently when I KNOW phenomenally wonderful and amazing things are about to happen any day, I'd like to hear. Jumping up and down like a nervous, excited chihuahua trying to see what's coming just over the horizon HAS been exhausting, but my faith has never, not once, wavered. 

Today I'm celebrating the grace of God and the wonder of faith in my quiet way, and recalling the bright lights along the road of this journey that began eight months ago . . . 

Eight months ago, after thirteen years, I quit my job as a reading specialist in a chaotic inner city school in order to pursue a writing career. I started a blog. I found some freelance work. I continued writing the book I began many years ago. I found renewed passion in doing something I love. I don't regret it. 

Three months later, my husband lost his job of nineteen years as the building maintenance and groundskeeper for our church. He had outgrown it. It had stopped being good for him, for us, many years before. We see it clearly. The next day he went to work in his brother's shop as a mechanic. He loves the work.

We began a half-hearted search for a new home . . . the house we currently live in came with his job. We raised our children here. He had always been here for them. It's just us now . . . and we've always wanted a place of our own. But first I needed a "real" job . . . 

I still want to write. I need to write. 

I remembered an opportunity that my friend (the aforementioned traveling companion, and my former teaching partner) had told me about months ago . . . way before I quit my job, even . . . You'd be perfect, she said . . . it's great hours, great pay, she said . . . No, I had said then. I want to write.

And I needed to write . . . but I needed a real job.

There were applications involved. Educational conferences. Prerequisites. More applications. Deadlines. Missed deadlines. Opened doors. A phenomenal amount of work involved. On-line modules that amounted to whole college classes full of prep work  . . . all contingent on an actual interview. 

I got the interview. I hate interviews. I sucked at the interview. 

I got the job. 

I still get to write.

Househunting was a learning experience. We learned that a few months of "un" verifiable income was going to be a liability in actually buying a house . . . even after thirty years of collective, uninterrupted work history and stellar credit ratings. Go figure. After months of searching, we found a lovely rental that came with an astronomically high price tag and a passive-aggressive, communicationally challenged realtor. 

We waited for him to get back with us. . . And waited . . . And waited some more. He told us we "had an inordinately high list of needs" and he "hoped a more desirable buyer didn't come along while he was trying to work out the details." . . . somewhere in the process it went from a 12 month rental to a 24 month rental . . . Hmmm . . . 

Meanwhile, a cute rental that would fit all of our needs opened up. It belongs to some very dear friends who are willing to rent it to us month by month for a VERY reasonable price while we work up some verifiable income and look for the perfect home. . . Actually, the rental is so perfect . . . it just might BE the perfect home for us . . . 

Our profound joy and love for them precluded our need to gloat to the realtor. I sent a very professional, very polite response to his last abrupt and cryptic e-mail telling him thanks, but no thanks. I might have been smiling a little.

I'm still smiling. Sometimes life is just good, and a little courage and a leap of faith are all you need to get a happy ending. Eight months ago I claimed these words . . . and gave them to my husband . . . and waited . . . Thank you to all who have prayed for us and loved us through this. We believe.

September is a bridge of suspension between two of the loveliest Michigan seasons. The focus shifts to back to school and closing up the summer season of pools and boats and wanderlust. In the coming weeks we'll suffer the typical Midwest conflict of emotional decisions . . . do we force the adjustment of the back to school schedule or let the kids stay up just a little later in the lingering summer light (how I remember those days)? . . . Do we plan one more quick trip for the long Labor Day Weekend or responsibly tend to the business of autumn preparation . . . rotating wardrobes and sweeping out the dust of summer and shopping for school supplies? Do we take one more bittersweet dip in the cool blue of the backyard pool . . . or make a pot of soup? 

Right now I'm listening to the rumble of distant thunder outside my office window, so my thoughts turn to the latter. It's a balmy 85 degrees outside,  but, really, it's not so very hard to imagine the comfort of a simmering pot. Just imagine a swirling gust of yellow leaves. . . and spicy chili bubbling on the stove . . . Imagine the pepper-flecked flavor of a thick corn chowder or a hearty get well chicken noodle with a side of cheddar biscuits . . . and frost on the windowpane.

Are you there yet? If you weren't going to get it, you've probably stopped reading by now, because, really . . . it's a blog about soup, for heaven's sake! Not my mode of operation in writing that is typically steeped in profundity. But if you are still with me . . . then you might just get it. Soup is anchored in memory for me, and tied to emotion. My earliest memory of soup is when my grandmother would pluck a can for us to share from her pantry shelf that was a sea of Campbell's red and white. It was just an ordinary can of vegetable beef, but I've never been able to replicate the way she seasoned it, in southern fashion. It tasted like pepper and herbs and mountain sunshine on autumn afternoons. My mother served my brother and I tomato soup (Campbell's again) and grilled cheese sandwiches on the afternoon she announced that she and my father would be divorcing. I'll never forget the wonder of coming home for lunch to find her there when she should have been at work, and suddenly understanding the reason why. Every bite of rich warmth after that moment anesthetized the pain and helped me to breathe. Tomato soup tastes like hope and elusive normal. Since I've become a food snob (that's another blog), I don't eat much Campbell's anymore. I've discovered herbs and Pioneer Woman and that I can make Olive Garden's Zuppa Toscana in my own kitchen. I made it for the bridal party's lunch on the day of my daughter's wedding, and I get a bowl of it with a glass of Merlot every time I meet a friend for lunch there. Zuppa Toscano tastes like friendship and happily ever after.

Last winter, I took my lifelong love affair with soup to a new level with the launch of my annual Soup Project (I've decided to make it annual just this very minute because it sounded really good, but actually I like the idea:). Because soup means love and comfort and just plain good living to me, I decided to bless people who've blessed me with a flavor that just seemed to fit what they've meant to me in my life. My friend Jill (and her family) got vegetable beef because she's steady and sage and just really good . . . and good to me in that lifelong friendship kind of way.  My in laws got a beefy mushroom stroganoff cause they're down to earth and give my children roots and . . . well, cause that's what they asked for. Another close friend got an Asian chicken noodle (the recipe for Tom Kha Gai is below) because she's introduced me to so many different  ethnic foods and brought so much color to my life that it just couldn't be something conventional for her. And also, she was sick. It went kind of like that. Gratitude doesn't really need a reason. And I guess soup doesn't really need a season. If you're interested and you qualify (you know who you are) feel free to put in your order for this year.

Some other recipes that made it beyond my kitchen last year were Pioneer Woman's Tomato Basil and Potato Kale. A few that I kept to myself, but might be willing to share;) were Chicken Tortilla and Spicy Sausage with tri-color Cheese Tortellini. An unexpected benefit in my whole growing Soup Project was that I got an education in the more obscure ingredients that will take a recipe from good to sublime . . . Rotel and cooking sherry, chicken stock, fish sauce, and herbs . . . Oh, the herbs that keep me busy and surmising just the right amount of water for each . . . and the perfect winter window angle of sunlight . . . If you've ever taken on an indoor herb garden, you know what I'm talking about . . . Last year I only managed NOT to kill the sage and the rosemary . . . indoor gardening tips welcome . . . 

Tom Kha Gai . . . my all time favorite . . .  I discovered it at the Whole Foods soup bar on a random Thursday afternoon lunch hour adventure in the company of some extraordinary people . . . and then made some for them . . . every time I eat it, I think two things . . . OMG it's just soup. . . . how can it be so good?! . . . and how much I miss the simple gift (that went unnamed for too long) of every day and every year with them . . . My variation goes like this . . . 

1 can (14oz) Coconut Milk
1 can (14oz) Chicken Broth
6 quarter slices of fresh ginger peeled and chopped fine or an inch sized chunk peeled and grated
1 stalk fresh lemongrass cut into 1 inch pieces or 2 dried lemongrass herb sticks (simmered and removed) OR a few drops of Doterra Lemongrass Essential Oil
1 pd boneless chicken breasts or thighs shredded
1 cup sliced gourmet mushrooms ( I recommend the Shittake, Cremini, & Oyster combo that I can find at Kroger)
1 tbls fresh lime juice
1 tbls fish sauce
1tsp sugar
1-3 tsp  Thai Chili Paste (season to taste. . . maybe 3 tbls:)
1/4 cup each fresh chopped basil and cilantro leaves
Thai Rice Noodles (gluten free!)
More Green Stuff

Bring all of the ingredients to a boil and then simmer for 30, and then add the rice noodles to boil for 10 more minutes.  

Some tips for the ingredients -- a little extra trouble to find them, as well as the careful preparation is well worth it!  The coconut milk, fish sauce, Thai chili paste, and rice noodles can all be found in the international Asian section of any grocery store.  Now let's talk specifically about the fish sauce.  If you've ever cooked with fish sauce, you know what I'm going to say.  It's like the anomaly of recipes.  You don't really want to use it, or touch it, or really be anywhere near it because of the horrible odor.  You can't imagine how anyone could have ever conceived of incorporating something so putrid into the culinary world.  But once you taste the difference in a recipe with it and without it, you have to add it.  It's just that simple.  My husband is staunchly opposed to me using it, but he feels the same way about the mushrooms, too (horrible and putrid).  He wouldn't prefer the coconut milk or the rice noodles or the green stuff, either.  Actually, he wouldn't come anywhere near this soup, so his opinion shouldn't be factored in here (I have a very simple chicken soup recipe stored in the freezer that I'll bring out just for him next time I make Tom Kha Gai).  Anyway, when adding the fish sauce, take a deep breath and hold it as you screw off the cap, very carefully measure and pour in a tablespoon, and then quickly screw the cap back on tightly (If you get any on your skin, scrub vigorously with lye soap and consider taking the next day off work. . . just kidding about the lye).  Breathe.  Then double ziploc it and store it in the back of the refrigerator until you need it again.  Moving on. . . the lemongrass in fresh form is virtually impossible to find (I even went to Randazzo's).  I imagine it could be found in an authentic Asian market, but I didn't try that.  What I did find was dried form in the spice aisle at Kroger. The label says McCormick Lemongrass, and it looks like cinnamon sticks.  Crush them just a little before adding them to release the flavor, and then remove them after simmering.  It seems like a lot of trouble, but it's an essential, basic ingredient.  Finally, in addition to the herbs, I like a lot of green stuff.  Broccoli is good.  Kale is great.  I happened to have some the last time I made it, and tossed some in, along with a handful of frozen peas.

Seriously, try this soup.  If it wasn't worth all the trouble, at least you've had the fish sauce experience and will have something to talk about at your next dinner party.

PS Look what I discovered after my epic lemongrass search.