Process Analysis

Where did the time go? It seems as though it was only yesterday when I enjoyed hanging out with my friends at sleepovers, flipping through magazines, listening to music, and discussing what we wanted to be when we grew up. As a teenager, I [looked] forward to dances, going to football games, and flirting with the boys. When I was a teenager my relationships with my friends was a very important piece of my life.

Over the years, I have learned that relationships define who all of us are. We need human contact in order to feel as if we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. Parents, friends, and teachers, they all were and are instrumental in making us who we are today. Our experiences with them have taught us what is right and what is wrong, what we like and what we don’t like.

Living in our fast-paced society, rarely do we find the inclination or the time to spend with our friends and loved ones. Does this mean that we lose a part of who we are because of this? I have found this to be true in my life. Without people to bounce my ideas off, or vice versa, I feel as though I am living in a world apart from everyone else.

Occasionally, we will attend events such as the company Christmas party, where we show up, knock down a couple of drinks for courage, and then stay just long enough to have at least three shallow conversations. Or we will attend the family gathering that [we] drag [ourselves] to a couple of times a year to fill up on mom’s cooking and her suggestions on how to live [our lives] better.

It’s interesting that, as a kid, I spent much of my time daydreaming about my future. I would wonder what life would be like as an adult. I knew I would have an exciting life [and] a great career, while being surrounded by people I loved, but what I didn’t realize was how little time I would have to see them.

I reached a point in my life amidst all the hustle and bustle where I longed for those simple, yet meaningful moments of my youth with the people I delight in, moments filled with deep and deliciously silly conversation. I knew I could have that wonderful part of my life back again. I just needed a creative way to make it happen.

The first thought that came to mind was food. Food always seems to bring folks out of the woodwork. The famous architect Frank Lloyd Write once said, “Dining is and always was a great artistic opportunity” (qtd. in Long 38). So I decided to throw a monthly dinner party in order to secure some quality time with my friends and reconnect. I simply decide on a theme, and with music, food, and activities, I can bring that theme to life.

Another idea is to choose your favorite country and make it the theme for your next party. My favorite foreign country is Italy. To create the feeling of being there, I prepare an Italian feast. I have been told that I make mean lasagna and Foccacia bread, so pair that with some lovely music, such as Tony Bennett, Dean Martin, or some folksy Italian favorites, and [I] have set the mood. You can find any type of music you may need at Borders Books or any music super-store. Next, you could offer your guests some red wine to help induce uninhibited conversation. Don’t overdo the wine though because you will want your guests to arrive home safely. For entertainment, play a trivia game or just watch a fun movie set in Italy (or anything that has Italian characters in it).

You can create an evening of nostalgia with costumes, music, movies, or games that pertain to any particular era. For example, since I grew up in the 80’s, a great way to bring back that time would be to have my guests show up in their favorite parachute pants and fluorescent attire for some break-dancing, Devo, and their favorite John Hughes film.

If you do not have the first clue about how to throw a party, or you are not sure what to fix for dinner, you could try something different, such as a mystery dinner party. You can purchase the kit at any game store for about thirty dollars. A mystery dinner is a party that is already planned out for you, with an interesting murder mystery that needs to be solved. It is really almost effortless because the theme is on the box and the kit will contain all of the pertinent information you need for anything from food choice and preparation to preferred guest attire. The script will also be included. Your guests are the characters. Have them show up dressed in clothing appropriate to the era in which the mystery takes place. Guests will love acting out their parts, and at the end of the dinner, each person will have a chance to guess “whodunit” for a prize.

If all of this sounds like too much work, throw a potluck-style party where everyone shows up with their favorite dish, music, game, or movie. There is an old Amish saying that “many hands make light work” (qtd. in Long 29). This type of party also makes for an interesting evening because you can really see the differences in each person’s taste and style. This is great if you haven’t tried anything new lately and may need a boost out of your comfort zone in order to try some new food or music. Marcel Proust states, “Discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes”(qtd. in Long 44).

There are so many other ways you can enjoy your friends, but the most important point is to make the time to enjoy them. In her book, Permission to Party, Jill Murphy Long says, “Taking time to celebrate your life is about being here and now with your family and friends, and quiet moments with ourselves, and this includes ‘Every days.’” I say, embrace the time you have on this earth. Make it meaningful and leave a lasting impression on the people you care about. So what are you waiting for? Invite them over.

Long, Jill Murphy. Permission to Party: Taking Time to Celebrate and Enjoy Life. Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks, 2004.

Just mention the word “kolach” and my three sons will ask one question: “When will it be ready?” Family legacies are often born in the kitchen. I grew up in a multigenerational household: my maternal grandparents were Hungarian immigrants, and my Grandmother didn’t speak English. My fondest memories are of her melt-in-your-mouth baking creations. Coming home from school, I could tell she’d been baking about a block from the house. To me, the aroma of anything baked is heavenly, surpassed only by its taste. My steps quickened as my mouth began to water. Drooling was a regular part of my childhood. There’s just nothing quite like entering a house that smells like a bakery! As I raised my own family, baking kolach involved each child, as soon as they could stand or sit in a chair at the kitchen table. It was an all-day event, often taking up to six hours. Let me first explain how I managed to get the recipe from Grandma.

I’d only been living in my first apartment for a short while. I wanted to make kolach, and had helped Grandma make it hundreds of times. I knew which ingredients to buy, but didn’t know the proportions. The recipe was not written down, it only existed in Grandma’s head. I called Mom and made an appointment to bake with Grandma the next Saturday. Armed with the ingredients - flour, sugar, salt, yeast, Saffola margarine, and canned milk - I arrived early. Grandma just shook her head and laughed. She thought I was nuts! She’d already cleared the kitchen table and placed the wooden cutting board upside down on the sheet-covered table. (You never placed bread dough on the same side of the cutting board used for cutting meats and daily food items.)

First, we turned on the oven to preheat at 350º. Then, we opened the two cans of milk, dumped them into a saucepan, added equal parts of water, and set them on a stove burner turned to the very lowest setting; you only want to warm the milk, not cook it. Next, we dissolved the three packages of dry yeast in a cup of warm water (not hot – that would kill the yeast), added a spoonful of sugar to the mixture, and set it in the center of the stovetop to warm (not on a burner). This is called “proofing the yeast.” Before you use all the rest of the ingredients, it’s a good thing to find out if the yeast is active and working. Yeast is temperamental and affected by room heat, humidity, and drafts from doors and windows. While the yeast is proofing and the milk is warming (keep an eye on it), unwrap the margarine, allowing it to come to room temperature, while combining the rest of the ingredients. Now, understand that only Saffola margarine can be used. Grandma had already tried every kind of shortening available in her search to replicate the ingredients used “back home.” That meant Hungary. She’d tried butter, lard, bacon fat (do you like hockey pucks?), and every other kind of margarine sold. She’d decided that Saffola, and only Saffola, produced the right texture and density for kolach.

The next step was to sift the flour into a huge enameled bowl (brought from the “old country”, or at least Buffalo, New York, where my mother lived as a child.) This was no small feat, as we’re talking about five pounds of flour. Normally in baking, the flour is measured in cups, not pounds. Five pounds of flour equals eight loaves of kolach. That’s a lot of kolach. Actually, that’s a lot of anything, regardless of what you’re baking. All that flour takes a lot of sifting, because that’s what we had to do with the whole five pounds. (This was before the days of pre-sifted flour, and I still sift my flour today - Grandma would be so proud!) I had to change hands frequently with those large hand sifters, because this was also in the days before women went to the gym to work out. Our “workout” happened in the kitchen, and beware the woman who could sift five pounds of flour in one sitting!

Now here’s the tricky part: I needed to be sure and measure the ingredients to document the correct proportions. Too much sugar and the kolach would be too airy and light; too much salt and the yeast wouldn’t allow the dough to rise correctly. Grandma, however, was already on autopilot and she’d put the sugar into the depressed hole in the flour. As she reached for the salt, I hollered “Wait! I need to measure the sugar!” You see, she measured all ingredients by hand, and judged things by whether they “looked right.” She finally understood that I needed to write down the proportions so I could make kolach on my own. Laughing and shaking her head, we discovered you need two cups of sugar and one tablespoon of salt.

By this time the yeast had proofed, and the milk concoction was warm (again, if the temperature was too hot, it would kill the yeast; too cool and the dough would take forever to rise.) We poured the yeast mixture on top of the sugar and salt, then poured the milk mixture on top of everything. Then we started another upper arm exercise: stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon – and only a wooden spoon. That’s not an easy task with five pounds of flour. You had to mix all the ingredients well, until it was a fairly stiff, thick, and sticky dough. Next, all four cubes of Saffola margarine were added and literally squished it into the dough by hand. This was another “roll-up-your-sleeves-and-get-your-hands-messy” part. The muscle building, upper-body exercise continued until all the margarine was mixed in and the dough was uniformly moist throughout. Stage One was completed by sprinkling flour on top of the dough, and covering it with a kitchen towel (but not a terry cloth hand towel, whose fibers would embed in the dough as it rose and expanded). The whole shebang was then placed on top of the stove, already warm from the pre-heated oven, and left to rise. During this delicate process, no unnecessary opening or closing of doors or windows occurred.

Once the kolach had doubled in size, we placed the enormous growth back on the kitchen table, removed the towel, floured my hands, and put a fist directly into the center of the dough. Using the back of our hands, we folded the outer sections into the same, deflated center until all of the dough had been gently but firmly rotated. This was called “punching down the dough,” not to be confused with punching someone out. The dough was floured, covered with the towel, and returned to the warm stovetop for a second rising.

While the dough was doing its thing, we prepared the 5-1/2” x 8” baking pans, greasing them with Crisco. Again, only Crisco could be used; it was the “real thing” here in America. Once the dough had doubled in size (usually about an hour or so), we floured the cutting board surface and poured the dough onto the board. After sprinkling a fair amount of flour on top of the dough (to keep it from sticking to our hands), we started kneading the dough. This involved grasping an outer edge and folding it into the center, then repeating the process until the dough reached a firm and uniform texture. Here’s where the artistic part came in again because feel and look determined the right texture. Too much kneading and the dough became tough, resulting in the much-dreaded “heavy” kolach. Too little kneading and the dough wouldn’t rise evenly, or be too airy in consistency. Excessive gas is not a good thing in bread, either. My childhood apprenticeship at Grandma’s side gave me some experience in how the dough should feel. If you’re courageous enough to risk the possibility of failure, you can experiment. Interestingly, since yeast is considered a living organism, baking with yeast intimidates many people. Once the dough reached just the right texture, we cut it (with a dough cutter or a sharp knife) into eight equal sections. We then kneaded each section about 5-10 times, floured them, and covered them with the faithful cloth, allowing them “to rest” for 10-15 minutes.

After the dough had rested, we took each individual section, kneaded it again lightly (just a few turns), and rolled it out slightly, either with our hands or a floured rolling pin, until it’s the width of the baking pan. We then rolled the dough in on itself, placed it in the baking pan, and, if necessary, tucked the ends under. Folding our fingers together into a semi-fist, we used our middle knuckles to press down and remove any air pockets in the loaf. Since the dough would again rise for a short time, we brushed the top of the dough with a little warm water, using a pastry brush. This kept the top of the loaf from cracking or splitting while it rose a third time. The pans of kolach were then returned to the warm stovetop, covered with the ever-present kitchen towel, and allowed to rise until doubled in size. This took less than an hour, again depending on the warmth of the kitchen. When the dough rose to the top of the pan, the loaves were placed on the middle rack in the oven. If you can’t put all eight loaves in at once, again “punch down” a couple of the loaves, and place them, covered, on the kitchen table where they won’t rise too fast. The loaves in the oven then bake at 375º for about 45 minutes.

Another part of the artistry of baking occurs when the kolach bakes. If the rack is too high in the oven, the tops of the loaves will burn. If the rack is too low in the oven, the bottoms will burn. Hence, the middle rack location for baking. Many ovens actually vary in temperature, so you’ll need to watch the loaves carefully. Tradition says that if the loaf sounds hollow when you “thump” it (after the timer goes off), it’s probably done. If the loaf doesn’t sound hollow, it may not have baked all the way through. Notice I said “probably.” Experience, patience, courage, and the ability to laugh at your mistakes will turn you into a fearless bread maker. I’ve created my share of failures (either the dough didn’t bake thoroughly and the bread was somewhat “wet” in the middle, or the dough baked too long and I’d just produced a year’s supply of hockey pucks.) Even Grandma sometimes laughed at her kolach. We never convinced her that her failures were still incredibly tasty. I remember her throwing out a whole batch only once or twice during my childhood.

The last part of the process is actually the most challenging: keeping the family out of the kitchen until the bread cools enough to be sliced. Bread sliced too soon will cave in on the top and sides; a very frustrating result for the baker who’s just spent six hours in the kitchen. Brush the tops of the loaves with melted butter, while still warm. Once the kolach has cooled sufficiently, slice, spread with butter (not margarine!) and experience ecstasy. Too much ecstatic moaning in the kitchen may cause your neighbors to call the police!

As you can see, this whole process is a rich cultural and family experience. As I raised my sons, I continued the Hungarian legacy of their heritage by involving them in the procedure. The baking days became holiday rituals that brought the whole family together. Each boy was given his very own slab of dough that he could shape into whatever he wanted: braids, balls, or “pull-aparts” (dough rolled out into a snake, then wound around the fingers and placed in the pan on its side). They even had their own miniature baking pans. Flour usually ended up everywhere - on them, on me, and on the floor. What a wonderful family affair, don’t you agree?

The actual recipe follows. Now that you have the history, the story, and the directions, the recipe should make sense. If you have problems, panic, or think you need some moral support, call me. We’ll make an appointment to bake kolach together, and I promise not to speak in Hungarian!

Kolach

5 lbs. flour, sifted by hand
2 Cups sugar
3/4 Tablespoon salt
2 cans evaporated milk diluted with equal parts water
1 lb. Saffola margarine
3 pkg. dry yeast dissolved in 1 Cup warm water
1 teaspoon sugar added into yeast mixture

Bake at 375º for approximately 45 minutes. When slightly cooled, remove loaves from pans and continue cooling on wire racks. When completely cooled, wrap the loaves in plastic wrap and freeze, or eat immediately. Kolach is especially good when toasted and buttered. Enjoy!

To drive from the small coastal town of Florence, Oregon, inland to the campus of Marylhurst University, near Portland, takes roughly three hours. There are two main choices of route, one more direct, one more timely, but-- although it can be done in less time— keeping close to posted speed limits, and with average traffic flow along the way, three hours remains a useful constant.

Time can be a very subjective thing, however; an hour’s drive along the Interstate, for example, may mean covering anywhere from 50 to 80 miles, depending upon the relative weight of the driver’s right foot, while the same hour applied to country roads may mean actual distance covered is less than 20 or 30 miles. In Portland, say, an hour could take you to the mountains, the ocean, or even out of state, while an hour in Los Angeles might barely move you at all!

Taken only in light of the time involved in the trip, then, or the need to move from here to there, a drive is just a drive. But as the philosopher says, it is often not so much the destination as the journey that truly makes the difference. In the case of a commute between Florence and Marylhurst, the journey truly is where the value may be found, and the choices are as varied as the days of the week. Let us begin by dispensing with time as our unit of measurement, then, and use mileage as our guide.

Generally, the distance to be covered between Florence and Marylhurst hovers around 170 miles (these figures are approximate, but will serve our purpose). As will become clear, even mileage may be flexible, as roadways rarely take the most direct course between points, and often the shorter distance may take the longer time.

First, there are two primary highways leading into or out of town. One, flowing eastward towards the valley of the Willamette River and the city of Eugene, is numbered 126, an east-west highway connecting the southern valley with the central coast. The other is Highway 101, a route that runs along the coastline from California to the south up into Washington to the north.

We will start by following the most direct route, for both time and distance. From Florence to Eugene is approximately 60 miles over Highway 126. This two-lane road starts out following the path of the Siuslaw River inland. The valley carved out by the river is long and narrow, although not stifling, with panoramas of hillsides covered with trees, hillsides uncovered by logging, rolling landscapes following the gentle course of the river, and the ever-present boats and fisher-folk on the river itself.

About 16 miles to the east is the little town of Mapleton, known mostly for the large lumber mill located there. At Mapleton the road forks, so to remain on Highway 126 it is necessary to make a right turn, crossing the river and continuing eastward through narrower rifts, tighter curves, and shorter stretches of straight road, sometimes following the river but most times climbing slowly away from it, up into the hills that separate the coastal from the valley region.

A few miles east from Mapleton, roughly 20 miles from Florence, the road goes right into the mountain and out the other side, by way of a tunnel cut through several years ago. For many children, or the child-like behind the wheel, this becomes the mandatory horn-testing area (does anyone really know where the honking-in-the-tunnels tradition began?), so it is always a good idea to have the windows rolled up before entering.

Once clear of the tunnel, which is also the summit of the Coast Range on this highway, the landscape begins slowly to open up, revealing occasional glimpses of sloping foothills, straighter lanes (or, at least, less sharply defined curves), and the greater use of passing lanes.

As it settles into the western edge of the Willamette Valley roughly 30 miles from Florence, the highway becomes largely flat and relatively straight, the speed of traffic tends to pick up, and the first major township is encountered, the small town of Veneta. Although there is, in fact, a post office located in a wide spot in the road called Walton a few miles back, Veneta is the first recognizable commercial center, having a small shopping complex with gasoline and fast food, as well as a real traffic light, located right on the highway. From this point it is about 15 miles to Eugene, the “big city,” home to the University of Oregon. Arriving from the west, the highway junctions with a bypass called the Beltline, which effectively skirts the western and northern edges of the city, providing a smooth transition from west to east to north with minimal traffic issues, rather than crossing through the center of town.

The city of Eugene sits squarely on the main north/south traffic artery for the west coast, Interstate 5, which has its root in the southern tip of California and continues northward through Washington State and into Canada, where it then takes on a new designation. Therefore, from Eugene to Portland, and thus to the Marylhurst campus, “straight and fast” becomes the mantra of travel. Taking the northbound Interstate from the eastbound Beltline, it is approximately 90 miles to I-205, itself a bypass along the southern and eastern edges of the city of Portland. The transition from one to the other is seamless, and from here it becomes a matter of less than 10 miles to the campus itself, most of that on the bypass.

I-205 links I-5 to the suburbs of Portland, including Oregon City to the south and Gresham to the east, while providing a corridor for north-south traffic moving between the Willamette Valley and southern Washington. It completely skirts downtown Portland, crosses two major rivers, the Willamette and the Columbia, and rewards the casual traveler with a marvelous vantage from which to appreciate the beauty too often overlooked within the greater metropolitan area of this region.

From the transition from Interstate 5, it is roughly 7 miles to Oregon City and the Willamette River crossing. On the west side, before the bridge, take the off ramp to Highway 43, turn north, follow this two-lane about 3 miles to the entrance of the campus, and the road-trip is complete.

Whether the issue is speed, access to services, or the use of cruise control, this route provides the easiest of all choices. It is the most direct, point-to-point, has the least amount of traffic controls (such as stoplights), and by allowing a more steady speed to be maintained throughout the majority of the distance, even becomes the most fuel-efficient course.

Next, we will look at the other main road out of Florence, the coastal route of Highway 101 north. The distance from Florence to Marylhurst by way of the coast is actually a bit less than by the inland route, but only in mileage; as measured in time, this route can take as much as four hours, although generally can be made in under that. This difference can be explained in part by the lack of passing lanes (particularly in the first 80 miles, up the coastline), the terrain-hugging nature of the highway (following along the coastline, right near the water), and, perhaps most importantly, because the nature of this roadway is that of tourism, which encourages slow-moving, sight-seeing travelers unfamiliar with the road.

Northbound on Highway 101, known also as the Pacific Coast Highway, the roadway has been built as close to the ocean as is physically possible, or practical. Occasionally following close along the shore, at other times climbing up and around the shoulders of the rocky coastline to follow the high curve above the unreachable inlet, the highway is scenic coast in all of its glory. Coupled with the necklace of bridges built during the early years of motorcar travel, the natural beauty of the Oregon coastline has been remarkably preserved, protected from the ravages of over-development, more, perhaps, by the sheer difficulty of the effort than by any real plan.

Regardless of the reasons, however, this drive can be one of peace and beauty, whether in the fog-shrouded early morning or the sunlit afternoon, in Winter’s angry storm or Summer’s calm, the promise of Spring or the glory of fiery Autumn.

However, the drive is not without its problems; as mentioned before, one of the greater hazards of this choice is the vast number of tourists who travel its length each and every year, many of whom are piloting large, lumbering behemoths of the highway known as the RV, or Motorhome. A vehicle that, by its very nature, is not going to move very quickly down a narrow two-lane of tight turns and irregular elevation will only move more slowly when driven by folks unfamiliar with the route, who may be searching for landmarks, a particular campground, or perhaps just a place to pull over and check the map.

It is important to remember, when considering the coastal route, to plan ahead to be behind, as each day will bring with it new conditions, more or less traffic, weather fair or foul; yet, despite all of these seeming discouragements, the rewards may still outweigh distractions.

To the north of Florence sits the seaside town of Yachats (pronounced YA-hots); after climbing and swooping through the 24 miles between them, the final curve brings into focus a sweeping view of shore-hugging cottages and homes, beach front accommodations and open access, while the highway itself passes between a small business district lining both sides of the highway.

What is not visible to the casual traveler, but well known to the frequent guest or regional local, is that this little town has an incredible and thriving art colony, popular Jazz and Big-Band musical life, and more festivals and excuses for celebration than most larger communities. It is truly an amazing place, made all the more so by its seemingly sleepy demeanor.

Continuing up the coast, our next treat for the senses, aside from the ever-changing views of the ocean itself (rumored to be the largest one on the Pacific Coast), is the spectacular Alsea bridge at Waldport, scarcely 5 miles further on. This is the new and improved bridge, designed to reflect the beauty and grace of the original it replaced, while still retaining the essence its history. If there is time, a stop at the interpretive center located at the base of the southern end is well worth the visit.

From Waldport the road begins to become less temperamental, which is to say, smoother and more consistent. It should be noted that, in the most general terms, Oregon’s coastline is less formidable from roughly the mid-coast northward, while the further south one travels the more severe it becomes. Florence is located very nearly at the point of difference between these two conditions.

Newport is the next large coastal city, about 25 miles north of Waldport, roughly 50 miles from Florence. Historically rooted in the fishing and timber industries, recent years have brought a decline in both. In response, the city has expanded and built upon its attraction as a tourist destination, offering a redeveloped Old Town along the harbor, great dining, a variety of watery recreational opportunities, and two different aquariums; located on the Old Town bayfront the Ripley’s corporation (of “Believe It Or Not” fame) has long operated both a museum of the oddball and a waterfront aquarium, but in recent years a newer, larger, and more science-oriented aquarium complex has opened on the south side of the bay, the Oregon Coast Aquarium, near the Hatfield Marine Science Center, operated by Oregon State University.

Less than 15 miles to the north is Depoe Bay, the world’s smallest harbor; barely 13 miles beyond, at the southern entrance into Lincoln City, is the internationally famous ‘D’ River, long listed with the Guinness Book of World Records as the “World’s Shortest River”.

Lincoln City itself is actually made up of several smaller communities, which banded together by agreement in 1965 under one municipal government for reasons of mutual economic benefit, such as tourism and other concerns.

Roughly 75 miles north of Florence, the road to Marylhurst turns inland, leaving Highway 101 north for Highway 18 east into the heart of Yamhill County’s Wine Country and county seat, McMinnville. Along the way the highway crosses over the same coastal range as Highway 126 to the south, but here the road is faster, wider in many places, and the passage itself is a gentler one through the hills.

The mileage is 47 miles, and for the first time along this route, the speed and time are closest. The average speed is between 45 and 55 miles per hour; thus making the trip into the central Willamette Valley a relatively fast one. Once out of the hills, the land levels out quickly, and remains so for the rest of the journey, with shorter stretches between towns, and only a couple of major attractions before coming into what has recently been renamed the Yamhill Valley, in deference to the thriving wine industry.

Wine is a relative newcomer, actually, having supplanted other farming and ranching business over the last twenty years or so. Other recent additions include a federal correctional facility in Sheridan, and the newest neighbor, an Indian gaming casino located within the boundaries of the Grand Ronde tribal lands.

McMinnville, named by early settlers for the Tennessee town from which they came, is the center of government for all of Yamhill County, and home to Linfield College. In recent years it has also enjoyed a renaissance of sorts, not only for its growing wine industry, but because of its attraction as a bedroom community for the city of Portland.

From “Mac,” as it is familiarly known, into Marylhurst involves only one more link, but here, too, there are choices: for our purpose, the shortest by mileage is to take Highway 99W north through Newberg to Tualatin, about 25 miles. Tualatin lies within the greater metro area of Portland, although to the south and west; it is also located on I-5. From here, take I-5 South, without leaving the onramp lane, because this onramp is located barely one quarter-mile north of the junction with I-205, and thus only about 10 miles from the campus.

Two paths, starting and ending at nearly the same points, so incredibly different in their respective journeys. For economy of time, effort, or fuel consumption, think of the journey inland from Florence to Eugene to Portland as the “Business Route,” if you will, while the journey up the coast to Lincoln City, then inland to McMinnville, Tualatin, and Portland is more of the “Scenic” route.

Of course, we have but scratched the surface, as there is the option of coming up through the rich farmlands of the central valley by way of Highway 99W, branching away from Highway 126 on the way to Eugene, or the various options out of Mac such as splitting off eastward from Newberg or choosing to ignore I-205 by taking a more scenic roadway out of Tualatin in through Lake Oswego, located just north of Marylhurst along Highway 43.

In short, the choice of paths along the road to college is manifold, and varied, leaving only one question to be answered by the traveler: is it the destination, or is it, in fact, the journey, that matters the most?

If you were ever to have the opportunity to reside with my family, and you may never want to (especially after you hear about the Food Van), you would need to come equipped with some very specific skills. I, being a veteran in my own home, will pass on pearls of wisdom to you, the prospective friend or family member, that will aid you in thriving--or just surviving--within the confines of the overpopulated, loud-talking, rowdy, overeating jungle that is our family. So, if you have the will, and a thick skin, hop into my Food Van and let’s take a ride.

The first thing you must bring to the proverbial table is an unusual preoccupation with food. All food. Large quantities of food. Even as I am opening my eyes each morning, I am already consuming a donut and a bowl of coffee with cream and Sweet & Low. As I am partaking of this first glorious bite of the day, I am already thinking of what I will make for dinner that night. Every subsequent moment throughout the day is a gastronomic delight, a dream of what fabulous morsels may lay ahead, as I pour over cookbooks and Cooking Light magazines (I have them catalogued from 1997 on), whenever time allows. I like to say that “all food is welcome in my mouth” (I say this even when viewing “Iron Chef”). Our family mantra: It’s all about the food. And we mean it.

At every family gathering, each person brings enough food to feed an army. Last Thanksgiving--our favorite holiday—we consumed two 20 pound turkeys; 15 pounds of mashed potatoes, plus butter and gravy; two 9x13 pans of stuffing, plus the stuffing from the birds; 4 dessert pastries; and countless deviled eggs, cookies, and other small hors d’oevres that, to us, don’t really count as part of the meal, since they are small and inconsequential. Even for lesser holidays, like summer birthdays, we laugh as we all arrive bearing catering-sized platters of meat, sweet goodies, and Pink Fluff, a salad containing Cool Whip and Jello, to be found at any Chuck Wagon restaurant. So passionate are we about our cuisine that we find creative ways to include it in the most unusual places in our everyday lives.

My Grandma Miller, God rest her soul, was the proud owner of a Food Phone. It was an exquisite example that only a combination of old age, senility, and a love of food could create. She would always answer her rotary phone mid-chew. As she spoke, she would spew tiny particles of said food all over the receiver. The older she became, the less she noticed it. It eventually formed a coral reef-like ring around the mouth piece, with its own eco system, a glorious monument to her unwavering commitment to eating, even when answering the phone. I worship her. I have carried on the Food Phone tradition in my own way.

Many people regard my Food Van with disgust. My husband forced me to “put down” my original 1992 baby blue Food Van after it became rabid--and rancid--with Jolly Ranchers and milkshakes, and especially after the unfortunate 7-month-old-melted- Fudgesicle-in-the-cupholder incident. He did not appreciate the seven years of hard labor (or non-labor) it took to create it. My solace lies now in my new, 2001 shiny, white, clean Dodge Food Van-to-be. It holds a lot of promise for new discoveries in family traditions. To me, it is a virtuous homage to my grandma, with its newly forming french fry crust carpets and sticky Starbucks driver’s side cupholder. Who knows? There may even be a Fudgescicle in its future. I must admit that I cannot take all the credit for the Dodge Food Van. The real thing, on a scale this large, can only be truly achieved using children in sheer numbers. And to survive in my family, you’d better learn patience. Brace yourself for a baby boom on a small, yet significant scale.

My husband and I have four children, and we both come from large, overpopulated families. As my Catholic, German Great-Grandmother Fieger, mother of eleven said, “What could I do? You lof you husband, you get cheeldrens.” While, today, we know the virtues of birth control, my husband and I decided to buck the ordinary 2.1 children per household number, reported in 2000 by the National Center for Health Statistics, and follow, instead, in the multiple family footsteps (“Births”). Of course, we reap the consequences of chaos, mess and indoor noise pollution, among other atrocities. We have learned to tolerate Barney, The Wiggles and, my oldest daughter’s favorite, Buffy the Vampire Slayer all blaring from the TV, even when tiny feet have long since left the room. We now view it as white noise. We have mastered the art of seeking out and destroying unknown odors in the dark recesses of our 14-year-old daughter’s room. (For the smaller children, we play “Name That Smell” or “Lick the Stain” to make it more fun). Multi-tasking is also a must. I can drink a Triple Venti Non-Fat Latte, change a soiled pull up, enjoy Prairie Home Companion on NPR, and negotiate peace for the back seat all while merging onto I-5 and making it on time to dance classes in my Food Van. You may recognize these as highly-specialized Soccer Mom Skills, only to be learned with time and great practice, but take heart. Chances are you will not have to actually fill in for me, but if you do, remember that you are human and in good company. Even Dr. Spock, noted author and child psychologist, after naming a laundry list of ways to discipline a toddler in an excerpt from his book, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care, admits, “All this takes patience, though, and naturally you won’t always have it. No parent ever does.” If, in the midst of trying to fit into my family, you become a frazzled, nervous wreck, pull out your next tool: humor. Without humor, all battles are lost in my house.

The Scots in my family go back to the barbaric13th Century, where our Clan, MacLean, took medieval measures against army after army to hold on to Duart Castle. Our warlike Clan was legendary, and the folklore even includes the specter of a headless horseman. While we no longer don chain mail and wield tools of mass destruction (well, my dad still does...he loves the smell of napalm in the morning), we keep the spirit alive with passion and fabulous, fiery, but good-natured disagreements characterized by delicious barbs of feisty sarcasm. Leave your bleeding heart at the door, and wear, instead, your self-deprecating heart on your sleeve as protection, and arm yourself with your sharpest, most clever wit.

If, while attending any function with us, you find yourself in the midst of a disagreement, remember (say it with me): you are never wrong. Make no apologies. I have only admitted defeat twice in my life: once to keep a job, and once to keep my husband. My father, however, is the proud owner of the “Never Been Wrong” title, 50 years and counting. He remembers every detail from everything he’s ever heard—and always from a reliable source, which he also remembers—from the life cycle of plankton to WWII machine guns to the history of language and ancient religion. He fondly refers to this phenomenon as “The Lintball of His Mind.” If the disagreement you find yourself in includes him and, say, quantum physics or the origin of Mickey Mouse--give up. This is, of course, an exception to the “never wrong” rule, but only a foolish amateur would attempt an argument with a man who has been twice invited to join MENSA and is so handy with his Lintball. This brings up an important point: whatever you say must be said with fire and conviction, and, as mentioned in my father’s case, must be backed up with facts. If you find that your Lintball is out of commission, and you cannot back your opinion, you may want to try my husband’s favorite strategy: The B.S. Factor (not Bachelor of Science). My husband could sell a top of the line treadmill to a blind paraplegic. So honed is his skill, in fact, that most people don’t even know when he’s turned it on. Early in our marriage, everyone at our place of work rumored him to be independently wealthy. In truth, we had to finance a 19” TV, sans remote, from Tom Peterson’s appliance store that year, just so we could have one. If the B.S. Factor eludes you, remember that self-deprecating humor you wore on your sleeve. It is your emergency default strategy, and it will endear you to all who witness it.

I once, upon meeting with my Aunt Vina, whom I had not seen in many years, failed to remember that her mother was also my grandmother. The subject came up, and I proceeded to ask her all sorts of questions about the nature of her mother’s sad passing. By cracking jokes later about my unbelievable faux pas, I was able to avoid exile. There will be times when you will need to combine all these skills: massive eating, longsuffering humor, and clever sparring. This will occur when we feed our multitudes in public places.

When my brother’s future wife once dined out with the family, she was shocked and dismayed at the loud, raucous volume of our voices and laughter, as my 6’1” brother, Joe, using a linen napkin on his head, did his best impression of “Sarah, Plain and Tall,” and my sister recalled her favorite Haiku about midgets in a gunnysack being slung into a lake. This is not even to mention her embarrassment at the look of dismay on the waitress’s face as she calculated the number of wait staff she would have to pull from other tables just to serve our food. This courageous public embarrassment is not restricted to restaurants. My husband once climbed up onto a table at a wedding reception and started doing an impromptu stand-up routine, to the delight of most in attendance. At a 60th wedding anniversary get-together, I openly, casually squirted a baby bottle full of milk into my sister’s face. We laughed until we almost peed our collective pants.

All that said, remember: love food at all costs, tolerate large numbers of small humans with flying diapers and stinky rooms, keep your humor (or lose your sanity), and enjoy public humiliation. And, if you are ever asked by my family to enter, and if you’d want to, you now know how to pull up a porterhouse, talk turkey or just chew the fat, and live to tell about it.

When color seems to be a rare item in a wardrobe, special steps must be taken to preserve the darkness of the clothes. Failure to do so will cause shades of grey to work their way into the once-perfect darkness. If this is not a concern, then dark grey t-shirts should be purchased in the first place. Many people take pride in the brilliance of their darkness. Heaven knows a touch of color would disrupt the absolute perfection that they so valiantly worked for. For those who care about maintaining the intensity of their blacks, read on. Normal treatment for regular clothing is not recommended for these dark items, as it is too harsh for the loving care black dyes require from their owners. Extra precautions must be used to maintain the darkness, or else clothes will begin looking like those 15-year-old Pantera t-shirts found on older metal fans at concerts, and everyone knows old, smelly metalheads are no fun.

The first precaution to take in order to keep your clothes dark like the night is to never wash black clothes in warm water. Cold water should always be used, as cold is the natural complement to dark attire. Warm water encourages the dyes to leave the fabric, and thus causes fading. The proper usage of cold water can be achieved by hand washing your clothes in cold water, as was done in medieval Europe for the truly gothic effect, or by turning the dial on washing machines to the cold water setting. This last option will work just fine, but that is trendy. You know you want to be more different than that.

Any gentle detergent should do, and it should be observed that Woolite has recently come out with Dark Laundry Woolite, which claims to be designed to maintain the darkness of black clothing. Even the marketing department at Woolite recognizes the importance of the blackest of material “since dark clothes play such an important part in today’s fashion,” according to their website. They believe so strongly in this that they produced a few, long-running commercials illustrating how one celebrity become a dark-clad actress in Hollywood rather than another actress, due to her clothing having been better kept by maintaining a darker black that only Dark Laundry Woolite could supposedly provide. Regardless of whichever detergent is selected, it is important to remember to be gentle to the souls of dark pigments.

Avoid the high temperatures dryers put out, as despite popular belief that hell is a heaven for dark-minded people, it will fade black shirts more quickly. Instead, air dry the clothes, but avoid direct sunlight, as it is rumored to burn anything not heaven bound. Even the owner of the clothes should avoid sunlight, as it darkens the skin, causes skin cancer, and it just is not very befitting of a dark-minded person. Some dry clean only items can actually be hand washed and dried outside, but this is limited to very few items. When in doubt, take the items to the dry cleaner. Laying the clothes flat to dry will generally work too, especially with thinner fabrics. If the hellish heat of the dryer is preferred or must be used as in the case of hooded sweatshirts, then use a lower heat setting to minimize burning the souls of the pigments. Subjecting dark clothing items to the high heat of dryers in normal usage will accelerate fading greatly and send them off to hell.

Once dry, the items should be stored with the same care you would want someone to handle you with in your coffin, once that inevitable day arrives. Leaving the items on the ground will cause creases which will take their toll on the fabric in the long run. Plus, no one truly enjoys having a messy room with clothes lying haphazardly about. Hanging the items in a closet with adequate space around them is the best option. This will allow the clothes to remain mostly wrinkle free and looking so much more stylish. Keeping in mind the unsocial nature of darker creatures, it comes as no surprise that even their very clothes require extraordinary personal space. At the very least, folding the clothes and storing them in a dresser like the local morgue is better than nothing at all.

There are additional precautions that should be followed while wearing the clothes. Avoid allowing scents onto the fabric. Those from perfume, sweat, cologne, smoke, and even foods, especially fried food, taint the darkness of the clothes. It also increases how often they need to be washed. Allowing scents and other smells to escape will prolong the time between washes. Sometimes, air drying clothing that has come in contact with earthly scents is enough and a full washing is not needed. As with most clothes, spilling drinks and food onto them is not recommended. It is not very dark-like to go around with a ketchup stain on the front of your favorite shirt. This is where those horrid table manners from childhood come in handy. Placing a napkin across the lap while eating will prevent tid-bits that escape eternal damnation in your mouth from coming in contact with clothes. If that safeguard is not enough there are bibs available at stores. It is a bit of an extreme safeguard, but some people have extreme difficulty keeping their food on the plate or in their mouth. These are precautions which need to be taken to save the darkness of the dyes in your clothing from earthly objects which might otherwise corrupt their dark beauty.

Guarding dark clothing items from excessively harsh conditions will allow the sullenness and gloom of the dyes to be maintained. This will make for quite the foreboding presence around town, as people will instantly regard the depth of your soul and your profound understanding of the unusual. Or they will consider you to be a confused member of society. Either way, dark dyes will continue to be brilliant if these steps are followed. Take care of the dark clothing items in the wardrobe, and they will take care of you.

If you consider the twenty-four hours there are in a day, and the five days I have to write a paper, it seems as if there is plenty of time for me to finish my work. I cannot, however, seem to think about anything other than the two to three page paper I have to write. My enjoyment of any other activities has temporarily been put on hold because the thought of my paper is constantly nagging me in the back of my head. My paper should only take about an hour to actually write, but there is immense pressure to come up with an acceptable topic, as the deadline slowly creeps nearer.

It is not that I cannot think of a topic. I think of plenty and scribble them all down as they come to me during the day. A few came to mind while I was daydreaming in a class lecture on Roman legends. I could write about swimming, biking, parents, siblings, or traveling, but the pressure is still there because not a single one of the topics I have thought of appeals to me.

Writing an essay should be easy. All I need to do is come up with a topic that excites me, one that is backed up by interest and personal experience. It should be like writing a letter: I tell a story, or argue an opinion, or explain a point of view. Then ideas can flow freely from my brain onto a piece of paper until they begin to form a workable collection of thoughts and opinions.

So, it is not until the very end of a stress-filled day, sitting on the third floor of Olin Library, distractedly reading The Great Cat Massacre for European History, that a good idea begin to formulate in my mind. Not wanting to lose it, I immediately reach for a pen and scribble it down on a piece of paper. I smile to myself, finding it silly that I would be so serious as to brainstorm and scribble down any ideas filtering through my head. I feel like I am a professional writer, carrying around a pad and pen, waiting for enlightening thoughts to turn into magnificent works of literature.

As I continue to read European History, phrases and words to build up my essay keep distracting me from my reading, which is not very exciting to begin with. I eventually realize that staring blankly at the pages of my book and trying to remember what ideas come and go through my head is counter-productive: It is impossible for me to work on two assignments at the same time. I put down The Great Cat Massacre and pick up my pen again.

On a blank sheet of notebook paper, not paying any attention to spelling, punctuation, or grammar, I begin to write. It is not long before I have filled more than half a page, and as I write, more ideas keep coming. Occasionally, I pause for a moment to figure out which direction I want my essay to continue in. Then, it is back to writing.

Often, I stop to shake out my hand, which has been clutching my pen and vigorously scribbling out sentences. I stop once to run down the hall and grab some Fritos from the vending machine to keep me going. After that I have to stop in the restroom to wash my hands because even though I am only working on a rough draft, I do not want any grease spots from my salty chips to stain my precious writing. It is not long though, maybe an hour or two, before I am done writing my paper.

Done in a sense that I now have a sloppy, disordered collection of sentences to cut, paste, and edit into a final draft. However, I can finally set my pen down and feel the heavy gray cloud of pressure float away. I still have four days to rewrite and construct a quality paper.

When I sit down at my computer to type up my essay, I reorganize my thoughts in a more logical structure. Then, I will print out a copy and attack it with red ink. Hopefully, after I have completed this step, I will have a decent paper to share with my professor or a peer for some constructive feedback. I will head back to my paper two or three times to reread and edit until I am satisfied with my final copy. In the fall of my senior year, my high school English teacher taught me that you could never rewrite a paper too many times.

I often cut an entire section into several smaller ones, or glue a bunch of sentences together to create a new paragraph, and I always reorder my sentences several times until I am convinced they sound correct and interesting. My final draft could be completely different from my initial writing or it could be very similar. But once I have written all of my thoughts on the paper, it is all there to work with. When I am done, I will have successfully completed my assignment of creating a well-written essay about process analysis that should look just like this.

There is nothing you should fear more than your name in the police blotter of your local newspaper. Odds are, most of you don’t really want to be grounded for the entire second semester of your senior year in high school either. No ditch day, no prom, no hanging out with your friends, and no girlfriends (that’s a lot to give up). Besides, how could you possibly settle for three months of weekend reruns on television? That is exactly why you need to sign up for your high school track team and stop eating nachos for lunch everyday. If you turn yourself into a gazelle, your social life will be at an all-time high. Make the most of your long strides and agile moves before college makes you fifteen pounds heavier. Why not start running from the cops today?

It is my personal goal to not only introduce you to the best party escape methods, but the methods that also tend to be the most adventurous. As a veteran party escapee, my perfect record speaks for itself. Four years of successful sprints have given me all of the experience necessary to introduce you to the correct way to attend and flee high school parties. Whether you’re Michael Johnson or Bozo the Clown, I’m eager to make you the best party runner possible. Take out your notebook, sharpen your pencil, and pay attention. The next three pages could be the most important you will ever read.

It’s important to plan ahead when going to a party. I’m a firm believer that the old saying, “Better safe than sorry,” fits in quite nicely with my objectives. You can never plan ahead too much. Once you become informed of a forthcoming party, take inventory of your wardrobe and set aside the most athletic clothes that you can find. While I’m not suggesting that you throw on the Adidas tear-away pant and windbreaker outfit, I highly recommend wearing something that fits a little better than your baggy jeans. The pair that could hold both you and your best friend probably will not get the job done. There is a time and a place to attempt to look stylish. A loud party without parents is usually not such a place. It’s also important to realize the need for proper footwear. It can be a fatal mistake to wear something other than you best pair of broken in Nikes. Don’t let the warmth of a summer evening tempt you to wear a pair of sandals. Such a mistake would definitely come back to haunt you in the end. You will have a need for speed that can only be satisfied if properly equipped with your best kicks.

It’s also important to consider whether or not a jacket is completely necessary. A jacket can frequently be a huge burden once you get inside a home. You’re immediately pressed with the responsibility of finding a good place to store it[:] [a] spot where beverages will not accidentally spill, feet won’t regularly walk across it, and no one will decide to take a five-finger discount on your new Patagonia. That being said, it makes sense to pass…on the jacket and just wear a sweatshirt or a light sweater instead. While it might get hot, just tough it out. It’s better not to have to worry about collecting your possessions if you find yourself short on time…in a desperate situation. Additionally, do you really want any evidence tying you to the party? How do you explain things to Mom when Mrs. Johnson finds your jacket hidden on their bookshelf the day after the party was busted by the cops? Dress appropriately. It’s the most easily ignored, yet most obvious precaution to take when you go out.

Now that you’ve put on your best and most intelligently selected party wear, you’re pretty much all set to go to the party. Grab a wire cutter, some rope, and chewing gum (to be explained later) and pack into a car with your friends so you can head over to the excitement. Remind your friend to use extreme caution when driving. It can put a damper on an evening when a cop pulls you over and finds eight unbuckled teenagers crammed into a Ford Taurus. Assuming you’ve used some common sense and made it into the neighborhood of your destination, it’s also vital that you use some tact in selecting your parking spot. Obviously, you’re not going to park the car on the street the house is on. Have everyone dropped off at the house, then park a block or two away. You can never park too far away. It’s a lot easier to escape in a car two blocks away than a car that’s parked 100 feet from the front porch. When choosing a street to park on, you must also consider whether or not it’s a good escape route. Obviously, it makes no sense to park on a street that dead-ends. Likewise, it makes no sense to have the car pointing in the wrong direction on a street. Don’t leave the car facing a cul-de-sac. Have the car on a street that allows for easy access to the main roads. If you use some common sense, the driving issues should take care of themselves.

Assuming that you’ve paid any attention to what I’ve said, you should be at the party by now. Upon arrival, there are some key tasks that must be completed before you can enter the residence. Before you make your big entrance, ask one of your more intelligent friends to wait for you to park the car. Once the others have left, slowly walk to the back of the house with your friend. Carefully and covertly make your way to the fence in the backyard. Act vigilantly in case an unfriendly dog is pent up within the fence, but remember, this is an important step that must not be ignored. As you stare at the fence, carefully survey what type of obstacles you are presented with. If the fence is metal, use the wire cutters that you brought with you from the car. If the fence is wooden, make sure it’s something that can be hopped. Either way, take care of arranging things so that the escape can be as flawless as possible. While I’m not necessarily saying that you should damage someone’s property by clipping a hole in his or her fence, you have to consider the risk the homeowner is putting you in. The person throwing the party is taking you into an environment that could put your clean record at risk. It’s only fair to you that all protective measures are taken. If that means cutting a couple of links, so be it.

After you’ve attended to things with the fence, you must examine the backyard to guarantee that there won’t be any branches that could get in your way. If a giant pine tree seems like it might be an obstruction, take the rope that you…intelligently removed from your car and tie the branches in a manner that will get them out of the way.

By now, you’re probably wondering the reason for the chewing gum. Well, I suppose there really isn’t any reason. Chew it. In dire straits, you can always use chewed gum as an adhesive if you find any enemies at the party. There’s no worse joke than placing gum on the bottom of your rival’s shoes. He’d be in quite a sticky situation if he could not flee the party because his shoes were cemented to the floor. Once these responsibilities have been taken care of, you’re ready to go into the party.

Upon acceptance into the house, go ahead and make the rounds as you visit with your friends. However, while visiting, be conscious of your surroundings. Make sure you know how to get to the back porch and that you can leap over the couches. All of the hard work has been taken care of and you’re now ready to have a good time. You should find yourself problem free for the rest of the evening. However, assuming something starts to develop, you’ve prepared yourself for a clean getaway. As soon as you hear the sound of unwelcome company, quickly follow the escape route that you’ve laid out. Sneak out of the home in a surreptitious manner, clear the fence in a single stride, dash to your car, and follow the preplanned route toward a main road that will bring you to safety. Assuming you’ve taken the obligatory steps, nothing can get in your way.

The pre-party steps that I’ve outlined should undoubtedly prepare you for the best parties of your life. Officer Brooks won’t be able to touch you if you’ve taken matters into your own hands. Remember, I’m not endorsing running from the law. I’m simply suggesting how it might be done best. While not doing anything illegal and hanging around to deal with the police officers is always an option, where’s the fun in that? If you want to create some of the most memorable high school evenings possible, you finally have the tools for the job.

That afternoon, I made my decision. I was going to quit. I was going to finally make myself an independent individual. I would have nothing more to do with the substance for as long as I lived. I did not need something propelling me to continue when I was tired or down. I did not need something to lean on every time something went awry in my life. The craving, longing, and yearning feelings had taken me over. I was powerless, defenseless, and helpless. I was propelled by something other that myself. I had no control over my life and I wanted to regain that back; I wanted to have power over my body, not the other way around. So I made my decision. I promised myself I would do it. I would give up the influential, demonic substance that took me by surprise and craftily, without warning, made me addicted.

That day, I gave up gummy bears.

Who would have known? Gummy bears, the fat-free candy that is fed to small kids, enjoyed in movie theatres, placed on ice cream sundaes, and sometimes even covered in chocolate or salty sugar. The small, colorful, chewy, delicious, and ever-so-cute candy seemed innocent and harmless enough. I had no idea when I first ate one what kind of crafty and influential spell they would have over me.

Oh, the taste! The taste of the sweet flavor bursting in my mouth, the juices gushing over my taste buds, satisfying every one of my senses at once, leaving me paralyzed and yearning for more. The chewy consistency that clung to my teeth and caught itself in the small spaces between my molars, driving me to want more. The satisfaction of finally eating one, then two, then five, then eleven, then before you knew it the whole bag was gone, and you were eating another ninety nine cent bag of generic CVS gummy bears. They are the best, though, and I would often make night runs to the ends of the earth to find a bag. The process of finding the right bag was a science, an art, a talent. To find a bag with very few and mostly red was rather difficult, but I had the gift, and I was always successful in my finds. I never waited until I got home to open the bag. The craving for the delectable little bears was always too much, so I had to start into the bag as soon as possible. Very rarely did I make it through the door of the pharmacy without tearing open the package and placing a red one, always a red one, into my watering, thirsting, hungering mouth. The first bear was always the best and immediately satiated my overwhelming desire. But then the craving started, and I had to finish the bag.

I don’t remember how I first became a gummy bear addict, but I finally realized, one day that I had to give them up. The CVS’s in the vicinity were run dry of generic gummy bears and no other brand would cut it. I started to feel withdrawal symptoms. I became very short tempered; even the smallest things seemed to anger me. I had a splitting headache that shot pains back and forth through my head. I became dizzy and nauseous. I started to shake, and before I knew it, my mouth was watering and my taste buds screaming. I couldn’t think straight or focus my attentions on anything. I could only sit, shaking and sweaty, wanting to quell my desire. Right away, I realized that I could no longer let little fruit candies get the best of me. So I made my decision and started my gummy-bear-withdrawal-operation.

The first step in realizing that I had a gummy bear dependency was the moment that I saw myself as an insecure individual, reliant and needy upon gummy bears to keep my sanity. I always kept that mental image of myself, shaky and unstable, unable to talk or focus on anything. I call that moment my self-realization. I examined the person who I had become and asked myself: Do I want to be a person dependent on gummy bears? Do I like the person I have become? Of course, the answers were no. That was the first step. My epiphany.

The next measure I took was to cut myself off from all forms of gummy bears. I did not gradually stop eating them; I went “cold turkey.” I did not allow myself to eat, touch, and certainly not see one type of gummy bears. I removed gummy bear sundaes from my regime. I never looked at different, lesser-quality brands. I avoided chocolate covered gummy bears like the plague and never did I taste a sour gummy bear. I saw all types, brands, and breeds of gummy bears as a potential threat and setback to my treatment program, so I did not allow any part of them to be included in my diet.

After I separated myself from the reliance, the next action was to cope with the withdrawal effects. At first, I felt great after giving up my habit. I felt energized and invigorated. I was independent, free from the harmful and trapping effects of such a tempting treat. I went to school, worked out in the gym, did my work, and saw my friends as if nothing had changed in my life. I was a free woman. However, once the candy had completely left my system, I changed.

Exactly one day after my big decision, I begin to experience the side effects of withdrawal. The nausea and dizzy spells crept up on me like a predator does its prey. The sharp, craving pains cut into my stomach and sent stinging rays into my head. Throbbing noises jumped back and forth inside my brain, making me cringe. My mouth became dry, then watery - my taste buds were screaming. I needed my fix.

I held myself back, though. I told myself to remain calm and be strong. I fought the side effects and gradually let myself become independent. I used several methods to distract my attention of my craving fits. I tried munching on healthy foods, such as carrots and apples. I chewed gum to subdue my chewing desires. I avoided gummy-like substances so that I would not be reminded of my old friends. I played sports, spent time outside, watched TV with a bag of popcorn, and did my homework while munching on crackers. Most importantly, I stayed far away from CVS, where I would be able to find a bag of my favorite snack. I always went into food stores and pharmacies with friends who would not allow me to purchase any item that would threaten my program. I never made midnight runs to the store. I locked myself in my room.

The first test of my will power was two weeks and four days after I quit. An emotional crisis arose. I was overloaded with work and needed to write three papers, study for two tests, and prepare a Spanish oral all for the next day. To top it off, I had lost my cross-country race by a substantial amount of time and had sprained my ankle in a bad trip. It was a rainy day and someone had skidded into my parked car, leaving a large and deep white scratch across the driver’s side of my cute little Blazer. I had also locked my keys in my car and my father had to come bring me an extra set. I nearly had a nervous breakdown that day. My stomach was tied up in knots and my brain was dead from all the work. My head was aching and the pain was excruciating. Advil didn’t stop the throbbing. I knew what I needed.

I drove to the local CVS. I arrived at the pharmacy, stepped out of my car into a puddle, and walked through the door. Dripping wet and winding mechanically through the aisles, I arrived at the shelf that housed my best-worst enemy. I even went so far as to touch the package and feel the squishy candy in my hands. The bag was perfect. The ratio of red to white was ideal and the consistency perfect. It was the best ninety-nine cent bag of CVS generic gummy bears I had ever seen. I turned slightly, walking towards the cashiers with the gummy bears screaming to me. Then I stopped and I realized what I was about to do. I wasn’t going to break down and give up that easily. I was going to fight. I put the gummy bears back, ignoring their imploring pleas, ran back to my car, drove to my house, and went to bed, without ever looking back. I conquered the urge to break, to give up, to lose. I won, and I felt good about myself. The rest of the week was unbelievably easy, knowing that I had the will power to overcome my biggest weakness.

The methods of distracting myself from my old habit worked, and I found myself slowly becoming independent and less needy. One month and three weeks to the date I dropped my bad habit, I was gummy-bear free. My program had worked. I was no longer controlled by overwhelming desires and painful cravings. I could function throughout the day without a small fix. I was able to handle emotional crises by developing other methods of coping: talking to a friend, running, writing. I never thought about the candy. My life was back to normal and I was a secure individual, liberated from the captivating horrors of an addiction. I was so proud of myself, I decided that I needed the reward I had been promising myself once I reached two months. I bought myself a large bag of chocolate covered pretzels.

The chocolate seemed to melt in my mouth and the crunchy pretzels were unbelievably tasty. The bag seemed to disappear and before I knew it, I bought myself another bag, rationalizing the purchase because they were not gummy bears. I smiled at my progress. I didn’t need the gummy bears anymore; I had the chocolate covered pretzels. One week later, I started all over.